An icy rain beat down upon Brittlepond, cold and unrelenting as it descended from the cloud-covered skies above. The spitting and splashing flooded Beaudriyah’s nose, but her senses never faltered.

She stretched out with her mind, reaching into the darkness and lancing through the trees beyond.

They are coming. The time for action is upon us.

The white-haired sorceress turned and headed back through the town’s cobbled streets, past thatched roofs and little wooden cottages.

She’d had a hundred thousand homes in her century-spanning lifetime, but Brittlepond was where she’d truly become a woman. She’d made friends, real, proper friends that she cared about, and she’d felt the mantle of responsibility upon her shoulders.

Brittlepond was everything to Beaudriyah Runegaze, and now the Cult of the Damned was coming to take it from her.

Those maggot-ridden bastards won’t get their hands on the eye.

The sorceress moved quickly through the downpour, as the rain turned her hair to wet straw and soaked through her clothes. It wasn’t long before she reached the chapel.

“Miss Runegaze!” Father Gorum stood atop the chapel’s crooked stone steps, beneath an archway which shielded him from the rain “it isn’t right to be out in such dreadful weather! Come inside and warm yourself by the fire.”

“Those days are passed us now, father.” Beaudriyah said with a hint of sadness cutting into her voice.

The priest’s face fell.

“It's true then? What the runner spoke of?”

“I can feel them.” The white-haired woman shut her eyes, and when she did she saw a horde of shambling corpses limping across her mind’s eye, twisted and broken as the shuffled through the woods.

The priest beckoned her inside with a wordless wave of his hand, wasting no time in leading her through the quaint little chapel and down the winding stairwell which led into the cramped chamber below.

It looked more like a cave than a room, with its jagged walls and rough floor. At the far end of the chamber there sat a small steel box, resting without motion upon an altar which was carved from the same dirty grey rock as the rest of the room.

“Good luck, Miss Runegaze,” Father Gorum said solemnly “you do what you must.” and with that, he turned and vanished back up the stairwell.

Beaudriyah rushed to the other side of the chamber. There was no room for hesitation now. She knelt down before the altar, and pressed one hand flatly across the roof of the box.

”Death is close…”

Her hand shot backwards, recoiling in an instant at the touch of the horrors which lay within the small steel prison. The Eye was inside; There was no denying that.

Moving swiftly, Beaudriyah grabbed hold of the box, and quickly slid it into the satchel which hung tightly around her waist.

”All souls can be devoured”

She could feel the room going cold around her, as though a chill current had suddenly swept through the chamber. Beaudriyah knew she was alone, yet somehow she could feel something terrible breathing down the back of her neck.

The sorceress fought through it, forcing herself to plunge through the mad babblings which flooded her head. She reached into her satchel, and pulled out a smooth white stone with a rune carved into its surface. When she pressed her hands against it, a different voice filled her head.

Beaudriyah? Is that you, girl?

Master Frostworth! Thank the light they haven’t reached you.

Algar Frostworth was a friend of hers; a fellow mage who resided on the not-so-distant isle of Fenris.

The light doesn't have any say here. Not anymore. It's just us against the gods-forsaken darkness.

I have the Eye, Algar, but the Cult grow nearer and nearer with every passing moment.

You need to get out of there, girl. Take the Eye, and anyone who might help you on you quest, and bring it to Fenris. The Magistrate is building an army. There are settlers flocking here from all the nearby towns. If anyone stands a chance of beating back the Cult, it’s the people of Fenris Isle.

Alright. Time is of the essence. I’ll speak to you again once I’m safe.

Take care of yourself, girl.

She slipped the stone back into her satchel, and made her way back up into the chapel.

Father Gorum was nowhere to be seen.

---

The army of the damned crept out of the forest, slipping through the darkness as they pulled closer and closer towards Brittlepond. The alarm rung out, a brass bell clamoring from its tower on high, but it was already too late.

Madness swept through the streets.

The rotting husks of men, with sunken black eyes and flesh like shredded paper, lurched through the rain, snarling and snapping and killing.

“Steel yourselves, guardsmen!” Captain Dawnbridge bellowed, battling to be heard above the bloody frenzy of the slaughter.

The living dead came shrieking towards them, blood and entrails dripping from their unhinged mouths.

Ghouls set upon men women and children without distinction, tearing through the town and and leaping upon anything which they could sink their foul talons into. Weeping and sobbing and shrieking filled the air, whilst blood stained the dirt.

A merchant ran screaming into the night, only to be set upon by a pack of ravenous corpses. A young maid, her brother clutching at her skirts tried to sneak out through a back alley, but found a hungry ghoul waiting for her, with death in its eyes. An old beggar was lost in the chaos which ensued, and torn apart by the claws of those which had once been his kinsmen. His last desperate screams were drowned out by the sounds of battle.

“FOR KING TERENAS! FOR LORDAERON!” The cry went up, as the town guards and the undead horrors smashed into each other. Steel cleaved through the shambling ghouls like scythes through corn. The guardsmen cut down wave upon wave, yet still they came; ripping apart flesh and cracking bone.

The town guards raised their shields in a futile attempt to block the frenzy, but the corpse-men were as unrelenting and unstoppable as the tides themselves.

“This is pointless!” Wailed a guard from beneath his visor, as the lifeblood of his comrades splattered against his shield“They’re going to tear us to bloody pieces!” He dropped his shield with a yelp, turning to run back through the streets.

“Stand and fight you wretch! Or forever be remembered as the green boy who pissed his britches and fled the field at the first sign of danger!” Dawnbridge roared, taking his eyes away from the attackers for just a second. As he looked backwards, a ghoul came bounding towards him like a rabid bloodhound, weaving his way through the man’s defenses and sinking his rotten fangs into the soft of his neck.

The Captain came crashing down with blood bubbling in his open mouth. The beast clambered on top of him and the world went black.

The undead rushed forwards in full force, sweeping over what little defense the townspeople could muster. Death itself had come to Lordaeron, and there was nothing the people of Brittlepond could do to stop it.

---

The rain kept pouring, and the undead kept coming. It seemed that for every droplet which fell from the sky, a new rotten abomination came lurching out of the night.

With the few guardsmen which Brittlepond boasted lying in mangled pieces on the ground, it was up the villagers to fend for themselves. The undead were closing in from all sides now, sweeping around the town in a putrid swarm of untamed savagery. The people who had once called Brittlepond home tried to flee through any crack in the ghoul’s defenses that they might find, but death seemed almost certain.

“Come on, you nether-spawn!” Alistair Roet roared at the top of his lungs, banging the flat of his sword against his wooden shield as he tried to lure the attacking undead away from the steady stream of fleeing villagers “Come and take a bite out of this!”

The Ghouls snapped their heads to the side, and came lurching towards him, their crooked feet beatings against the ground as they shot forwards.

You can do this.

Alistair raised his shield and darted forwards with his sword, slicing straight through the head of one of the rampaging dead men. It let out a throaty groan as black ichor poured forth from the wound, then stumbled and fell to the ground.

You can do this!

Another ghoul came snarling and snapping down on him, trying to rip his shield free with all its supernatural strength. Alistair slammed his shield into it at full force, sending it stumbling back into the pack of frenzied monsters that were slowly closing in on him. He swept forwards with his sword, slicing through the air in a steely arch; cleaving the rotten corpse men in twain.

YOU CAN DO THIS!

A bloodthirsty rabble of savage dead men came hurtling towards him, tearing across the ground like rabid hounds. Alistair's eyes darted frantically from one to the other, as the sheer number of ghouls dawned on him.

Balls.

The undead rushed up to meet him, the stench of rot and blood thick on their breath. There was so many of them; far too many for one man to handle.

Alistair swung wildly with his sword, splitting straight through one of the necrotic monstrosities, yet no sooner had one fallen than another sprung up to take its place. He cut down another, and another, and another, but his strength was failing fast, and the tide of death showed no sign of slowing.

Putrid icor stained his armour and weapons, whilst the icy touch of the rain number his hands, making it harder and harder to grip his sword. He could feel the will to fight swiftly draining out of him, as his breath became ragged, and his heart thumped and thundered in his ears like a war drum.

There are too bloody many of them!

They swarmed over him, knocking his sword free from his hands and forcing him to the ground. He hit the floor with a hard thud, rain water splashing over him.

Alistair reached out for his blade, but it had be knocked away in the confusion, leaving him at the mercy of the ghouls as they tore down on him.

I’m sorry father. I failed you.

He gazed up into the dead eyes of the festering horrors which clambered over him, ready for the final blow.

SHRRRRRRRK!

The point of a blade, honed to a lethal sharpness, burst through the mouth of the ghoul which was hunched over Alistair, snuffing the life out of it in an instant. He felt the pressure rise off of his chest as something pulled the ghoul free, watching its limp corpse clutter to the ground.

“Is the best you wretches can do?!” snarled a gruff voice “My grandmother fights better than you,and she’s dead!”

The Ghouls turned their attention away from Alistair, flocking to the figure who had saved his life just moments earlier.

“You call yourselves monsters?! You aren’t fit to haunt a child!”

Alistair's saviour cut and cleaved through the undead with slow, forceful movements. He did not fight with grace, but the calculated practicality of a man who had seen countless battles. Whenever one of the ghouls got close enough to land a hit on him, the figure would run them through, before turning his attention to another of the rotten creatures.

It wasn’t long before a pile of twisted bodies lay at his feet.

The figure stomped over to Allistair, offering him his hand and then hoisting him up onto his feet.

His saviour was a large man, with broad shoulders and a thick form. He was dressed from head-to-toe in silver and red platemail, and had a flowing bead of thick grey hair.

“Old man Winston?” Alistair peered at him through a haze of disbelief.

“You wait til you hit seventy, you blonde bastard!” Winston snapped.

“Sorry…” He muttered, still very much in shock.

“What’s yer name, son?” The old man asked him in his deep, booming voice.

Alistair gave him a puzzled look “Its me, Allistair! You’ve lived next door to me since I was a boy!”

“Lad,” Winston began “I’ve been shit-faced for the past decade. My memory ain’t what it used to be. Lucky for you, my sword arm still is.”

Whilst parts of his armour were ill-fitting, and his skin looked like beaten leather. Alistair had to admit that Old man Winston still had the undeniable air of a warrior to him. Age might have withered his body, but he was still as big and muscular as any of Brittlepond’s guardsmen had been.

“Winston! Allistair!”

Beaudriyah Runegaze slipped into view, her long cloak flapping behind her as she came rushing down the street towards them.

“Miss Runegaze,” Winston bowed his head respectfully “Glad to see yer still with us.”

“Oh, so he remembers her…” Allistair muttered sourly.

“Those few fighters which remain have gotten who they can out of harm’s way,” Beaudriyah explained, more than a little out of breath “They’re as safe as they’re going to be. It's time to rally the Stalwart.”

Winston reached down to his belt, where there hung a horn carved from the sharp point of a ram. The old man pressed the horn against his withered lips, and blew with all his might.

A deep bellow rumbled forth, calling the guardians of Brittlepond to arms.

As the young maid ran into the alleyway to be confronted by the Ghoul, her brother clutching her skirts, she suddenly screamed in terror. An explosion of fire wreathed the alleyway in flame, and the maid uncovered her eyes to see the ghoul scorched and dead. Behind its smoldering remains was a dashing young man with his palm out, in darkly colored robes she would think befit a noble. In truth they were his standard Dalaran robes, and they had seen better days. So had the young man.

Nathoric grimaced from the heat, and wiped the dirt and sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. "Abominations" he breathed in disgust, and pointed towards the door at their left. "Get inside, quickly!" he ordered her. She didn't need to be asked twice, even lifting her younger brother up and lugging him inside. As they passed him, he could see more clearly towards the mouth of the alley, and the ghouls streaming across the town, ravaging the last remnants of the footmen. Just my luck. I left the cooking pot and fell into the fire. I'll never make to Andorhall at this rate. Still, there was something about this town that tugged at his mage sight. Something elusive... If he lived he'd investigate further.

He began preparing his most devastating spells as he moved forward toward the fray, ready to burst out of the alley with fire and frost and arcane magic. In truth he wasn't that powerful of a mage, even if his magical repertoire and power had increased significantly from surviving through the destruction of the Capital city and its outer lying villages. When he had traveled earlier, he'd only met small packs of Ghouls either licking their wounds or in the midst of combat with ragged humans. The force he saw streaming past him was a wave of enemies unlike any he'd yet seen. Still, he had survived so far.

The screams of the dying was still mingled with the yells of combat, though they were now much much quieter. Was only one man still alive? No, two men. A younger man and an older, more boisterous fellow. Not about to ask questions, he stepped out into the wider streets. Arcane first, he ordered himself. Purple tendrils of energy arced out of his fingers and struck ghoul after ghoul, knocking down and damaging more than killing them, though 5 lay dead to his satisfaction. Dammit, not enough. He quickly slammed his palms together in a clap, yelling out an arcane word of power in unison. Another explosion of fire rolled over the damaged Ghouls in a wave, and he didn't stick around to fight the rest of the horde, making his way over to the two men and the... quite attractive woman. Where had she come from? He sensed something about her he could not quite put his finger on.

"Well met." he said, and realized just how tired he was from his magic and travels when even speaking out of combat made him want to fall over and catch his breath. "Is there a position we can defend ourselves in or is this it?"

Taranis rode as fast as he dared in the storm, soaked and numb from the sheets of frigid rain that kept pouring down. But his pace was still slow; the dirt road had turned to mud, and he knew from experience that riding hard in the dark could throw a man off his horse to his death. The thought of setting up camp flashed through the veteran Paladin's mind once or twice, which he discarded just as quickly. At first he was still panicking, physically unable to stop his flight if he wanted to, and later he justified pressing on by the need to warn as many towns as possible of the oncoming tide of death. It was no doubt a useless goal, his slow pace having allowed himself to fall behind the vanguard of the undead wave, silent, shambling figures sometimes visible through the trees, but he clung to it regardless.

He did his best not to think about what had happened in the past day. The horrors that he had witnessed in Lordaeron were without description: it was as if the vile cultists took sadistic pleasure in turning the bastion of civilization into a living hell. After hours of riding, the primal fear had ebbed away, his reluctance to think back now due to shame- shame at having fled like a coward as his brothers died and untold numbers of innocents suffered worse than death. He had been a soldier for twenty years, and seen butchery on an industrial scale in the wars against the orcs. How could he have lost his nerve? The thought haunted him.

It was from this self-deprecating thought that he was jostled when his horse suddenly whinnied and tried to stop, throwing him roughly into the mud. When he snapped back to attention, he found himself laying down in the freezing mud, too winded to move. Astonishingly, he survived, no doubt having unconsciously shielded himself as he fell by the grace of the Light. His horse was not so lucky, Taranis having not noticed its heart-wrenching screeches at first. Through sheer force of will, he pushed himself into a sitting position, his hand still pressed against the mud as he didn't trust himself to stay balanced.

The poor beast had fallen down and slid on its side in the mud when it tried to stop, he could see. It was a tangle of broken bones and heaving muscles, desperately trying to struggle. And though at first all seemed quiet except for its screams, he could hear faint noises of battle which he recognized all too well- no doubt that was what had frightened his steed. He had to get out, now. He grimaced as he realized that he was devoid of magical energy, having expended himself in cutting himself out of Lordaeron. Praying to the Light none of his injuries were debilitating, he forced himself forward, crawling to the trapped animal.

He realized with a jolt that its braying would attract any nearby undead like moth to a flame. Compassion and pragmatism uniting for once, he wasted no time in pulling out a knife (having groped around for it first in his dazed state), and driving into the horse's throat, slicing it open as best he could. Suffice it to say, the screaming stopped in short order. He was now soaked in horse blood, but between the rain and the mud it didn't seem to make the situation any worse than it already was. Momentarily safe, he took a minute to attempt to carefully stand up, succeeding in his third try. He felt like hell, and no doubt looked worse, but only staying still meant death, so he pressed forward towards the noise of battle, intent on redeeming his cowardice by a righteous death in battle against the dead.



The battle was raging in a small town, as it turned out. The undead were swarming into it from the woods to the east, and Taranis could tell at a glance at a line of destroyed barricades that the fight was already all but lost. He looked up at the sky, and cursed the torrent of rain that kept falling.

What a miserable day to die. He gritted his teeth, leaned against a dead tree, and pulled out his sword. His shield still hung on his back, his damaged left arm being mauled too badly to be much use, just dangling at his side. Still he pressed on, into the town streets.

He confirmed his hypothesis immediately, dragging himself over a pile of corpses that seemed depressingly full of guardsmen. All semblance of organization had fallen apart, the street ahead a chaotic, tangled mess of the living and the dead, with more dead every second. Trotting as fast as he could, he raised his sword, and brought it down into the shoulder of a shuffling zombie. He instantly realized that experience had lead him astray once again; the wound, which would have been fatal to any mortal, didn't even seem to bother the undead, which just turned around and lunged at him.

Instinct took over, and Taranis let go of his blade, tackling the undead with his armored shoulder. He caught a glimpse of its snapped jaw as they fell together onto the street. It rose almost immediately, only to be knocked down his a swift boot kick from the Paladin. He dragged himself up, and stamped down on the undead with his foot, holding it in place while he pulled out his sword and delivered a coup de grace through the thing's skull.

Though tired, Taranis had no time to rest, hearing the rustle of yet another fiend behind him. He spun around, and was stunned to find nothing, before looking down. In front of him was the still moving corpse of a child. It couldn't have been more than eight when it had died. Briefly, absurdly, he wondered where it had died, whether it had come from the capital. He tried to snap himself out of his stupour, to strike it down, but he couldn't. Memories resurfaced, of piles of small corpses in Alterac. He remembered how a little boy, about the same age as this undead had been, had tried to attack him with a knife when he was storming the city with the rest of the alliance expedition, punishing the people for their king's treachery. He'd cleaved that boy in half, without even thinking.

Why was he thinking these thoughts now? His life was in mortal danger, he had to move! But he couldn't, he seemed paralyzed. Time seemed to stand still.

A deep, booming horn was sounded, the sound reverberating through his body and mind. He blinked, and started bringing his sword arm up, but he wasn't quick enough, the boy... the undead jumping at him, snarling inhumanly. Its talon tore at his neck, and as he fell backwards from the impact, he saw his own blood spray forward. Oh.

His last conscious sight was of the child undead being run through, and someone stepping over Taranis to finish it off. Then everything went black.

The deep bellow of a not-so-distant trumpet rang through the rafters of Tilson's room. Dust danced through the air, settling upon his disheveled form, as it lay upon an unwashed straw mattress. With a congested snort, the retired knight awoke.

"Augh blazes", he groaned to himself, slowly rolling out of bed. "What madman blows a trumpet at this hour?"

Slowly lowering his feet to the ground, Tilson clasped his forehead in severe discomfort. The countless flagons of strong drink, from earlier in the day, clung just as heavily on his mind as they were on his breath. Shambling to his feet, he made his way over to the bedroom's window, looking to judge the time of day. It was indeed late into the night, and the rain was merciless.

"Ugh, what's wrong?" inquired a feminine voice, from beneath the bed's blankets.

"Some loon, making a ruckus in the town square." Tilson responded. "I've half a mind to go straighten him out."

The maiden chuckled at the idea, gesturing that he should come back to bed instead. Responding with a playful smirk, Tilson accepted, drunkenly making his way back to the bed. As he hoisted himself back upon the bed, a shrill shriek rang trough the bedroom door. With a look of severe disappointment, Tilson again left his comfortable perch.

"Dear", the woman exclaimed worriedly.

"Aye, just a moment. I'll be right back." Tilson reassured his companion, clumsily slipping his pants on. Making his way toward the door, he grabbed his sword from off the dresser, and slung its belt across his chest.

Tilson burst through the door, into a dark, calm hallway. Pausing to listen for movement, he heard rustling and scraping coming from the staircase. With one hand around his scabbard, and the other around the grip of his sword, he slowly made his way down the steps. As he reached the bottom step, entering into the tavern's bar, a scene of pure horror was laid before him. The innkeeper, Mistress Hilde, lay dead, disemboweled upon the counter. Slouched over here was a hideous, half-rotted corpse, one hand plunged deep into the victim's abdomen. In a fearful rage, Tilson drew his sword and began swinging wildly at the creature. Piece by piece, it fell to the floor, dead once again, leaving a scene of unspeakable gore. Tilson lurched, vomiting where he stood.
As he wallowed in his sickened state, more scratching met his ears, as another bloodthirsty corpse shambled through the front door. Shaking himself awake, Tilson charged at the beast, and smashed it to the floor with one hearty strike. Quickly, he turned and ran for the staircase. Barging back into his room, he began rummaging through his closet, attempting to assemble his old set of armour.

"What happened?" the maiden inquired. "Is that... blood on your sword?"

"The undead are here, Gunna! I'm going to slay the bastards! Now, I need you to lock the door behind me, and slide the dresser against it, if you can. Do you understand?"

"I-... ye-... yes.", she responded, swiftly going white in the face. "Don't die, okay?"

"Not a damn chance", Tilson bellowed, tightening the straps on his vambraces.

When fully equipped, looking like a traditional Lordaeron knight once again, Sir Stonehelm marched out of the bedroom. He paused for a moment, to hear Gunna lock the door behind him, and then broke into full sprint. He thundered toward the front door, tossing tables and chairs aside as he ran. Bursting through the open doorway, into the blistering rain, he saw the raging battle. Only a couple remained alive, as the endless hordes of undead flowed into them. A sense of duty ignited within Tilson, like a jolt of lightening, and he charged forward to their aid.

"For Lordaeron!", he roared instinctually.

“The town square seems as good a place for a fight as any,” Winston greeted the dark haired youth with a gruff nod, whilst scratching away at one of the kinks in his plate mail “It’ll be harder for them to sneak up on us in a big open space.”

“There’s nothing to stop them coming at us from all sides.” Alistair noted.

“Gotta keep this old brain sharp somehow.” Winston chuckled lightly.

“Anyone who is getting saved has been saved by now,” Beaudriyah said with a hint of iciness “Our priority has to be meeting up with the resistance at Fenris.”

She opened up her satchel, giving the group a brief view of the metal box which contained the Eye of Chaos.

“And getting this to safety.”

“Eh, I never wanted to live forever, anyway.” Winston shrugged his huge shoulders.

“Look alive, folks!” Alistair gave an urgent nod, as a steady stream of undead began to spill into the town square.

No sooner had he spoken, than a stout man with a build to rival Winston came charging out into the courtyard, slamming into the corpse-men and beating a fair few of them back.

“There’s no time for this!” Beaudriyah called out “We’ve got to get out of here, now!”

Not waiting to see if the newcomers followed, the sorceress went bolting up a side passage, with her companions behind her.

They came rushing out into a small nook of the village, where the rot-ridden corpse of a child was clambering on top of a bearded soldier, who seemed to be drifting out of consciousness.

“Have at ye, ya shit!” Winston bellowed, forcing the sharp of his blade through the carcass creature’s mouth. The sword burst forth in an explosion of dark ichor, and the former undead went tumbling to the ground, landing softly on the cobbles.

“He’s out cold, but he’s still alive.” Alistair observed, kneeling down to get a closer look at the fallen soldier.

“If he can fight then he’s useful to us,” Beaudriyah said bluntly “Can you lift him, Winston?”

“Thought your northerners were supposed to be tough…” The old man grumbled, heaving the soldier’s limp body up onto his shoulder with a slight grunt of protest.

“Right,” Beaudriyah took a moment to compose herself “If we move quickly then we can make it out of here before-”

“I WILL BREAK YOUR BONES, LITTLE MORSELS!!!”

The monster’s voice thundered over Brittlepond, as it came lumbering towards the party, with a herd of ghouls snapping at its heels. It towered above the rest of the undead, seemingly having been sewn together from the corpses of a dozen dead men.The creature waddled slowly towards them, the intestines which spilled out of its open stomach quivering and dripping putrid blood onto the ground, whilst its three arms thrashed about above its squat head.

“I’ve not come this far to die now!” Beaudriyah roared, channeling a burst of arcane flame between either hand.

Winston propped the fallen soldier down against the side of a house, raising his shield in preparation of the oncoming rabble.

“If we’re gonna die, let's at least make it worth something! FOR STROMGARDE!”

As they spoke, Nathoric placed his hands together, his robed sleeves linking into one another as if they were sewn together from the start. His sharp, dark eyes considered their precarious surroundings, and he listened halfheartedly. “Anyone who is getting saved has been saved by now,” he heard the sorceress say, and his sharp mind immediately went thought to the woman and young boy he had saved not minutes before. His eyes whipped to the building that he had led them into, and not only was the building afire, but he could see ghouls and their illuminations within. His heart grew more sombre, and he shook his head. What was the point? he inquired to himself, exasperated.

Suddenly he felt a heavy presence, as if the gravity around him had suddenly doubled under the thick weight of magic. “And getting this to safety.” was what she woman said next, and he looked at the container she was carrying. "What is that?" he asked. He meant no offense, but the stress from the past few days (weeks?) had taken its toll on him, and it sounded like a demand. Not very wise, however. This woman was more powerful than him, if his mage sight was correct. He would get no answer yet.

Everything happened quickly after that. The new warrior hacking his way toward them, and the bold stoicism of the elder soldier and the younger bantering. It was good for his morale, to his surprise. That and, at least someone had survived. They could use all the help they could get. He decided then and there that he would help them. Whatever mystical fate had led him here, he was meant to be here. He hoped.

“I WILL BREAK YOUR BONES, LITTLE MORSELS!!!” a new threat boomed. What the hell? This new abomination that approached them shook Nathoric to his very core. He could feel the fell energies surrounding it. Calm yourself. You need to focus. "Yes" he breathed, and then began chanting softly to himself. The air grew very cold around both he and the elder warrior Winston, and suddenly the man was coated in icey armor. "That should help" he declared, and raised his palm at the huge creature. With a word of power, it looked like a violet bomb exploded right upon its chest, staggering it and sending fleshy fragments flying. It didn't kill it however, and Nathoric suddenly fell to his knees from the exertion. He could feel his life force being tugged from all the energy he had used. He grimaced and clutched his chest, pausing. "I did all I could. If we survive a few more minutes perhaps I could cast another spell, but it seems this is all I can do. Now all I have is my good looks," he jested.

Stonehelm plowed his way forward, mowing through the oncoming swarm of bodies like they were overgrown grass. Without a shield, he was free to grip his bastard sword with both hands, swinging with such force that he could cleave through two ghouls at a time. With a ferocious swing to his left, two shamblers collapsed in a pile of their own limbs. A tenacious strike to the right, and another two had their legs knocked out from under them. They toppled onto the ground, only to be trodden over by the next wave of rotted adversaries. As Tilson struck down that next wave, he glanced over to his fellow warriors. To his utter disgust, he saw a robed maiden, a sorceress no doubt, swiftly leading the group away from battle.

"What!", Stonehelm exclaimed in disbelief. "You damned cowar-"

*CLANG!*

Distracted, Tilson had let his guard down, and was stricken in the head by one of the ghouls. The collision rang through his helmet, echoing in the proud soldier's ears, and he stumbled backward. Of course, Tilson knew he had no time to gather his senses, so he opted to charge head-first at his attacker. Thrusting his armoured forehead into the creature's skull, he heard a satisfying crunch, as the ghoul fell backward, dead.

Stonehelm took a couple more swings, offing another pair of deathly assailants, and resumed his pursuit of the other fighters. Charging through the feeble-bodied corpses, he swung around a corner to see them stooping over a fallen soldier, and lifting him from the ground. Perhaps they weren't such cowards after all. As he made his way up to them, Tilson was met by imposing quake of a familiar voice.

"I WILL BREAK YOUR BONES, LITTLE MORSELS!!!"

"An abomination?" Tilson proclaimed in disbelief, as the obese monstrosity waddled into the town. "This is one sight I had hoped I might never see again."

The knight took a defensive sparring stance, with his empty left hand behind his back, and slowly approached the wretched behemoth. As the two mages bombarded the beast with spells, more hideous ghouls scampered around the giant's feet, rushing toward the party. Tilson lept forward, striking the first of them down as they approached, hoping to keep the path clear for his new comrades continue their assault.

"Cheers, lad!" Winston called back over his shoulder, as his plate mail was thickened by a surge of arcane ice, strengthening it against the claws of the undead marauders.

"Back to the nether with you!" Beaudriyah bellowed, sending a pillar of smouldering flame lancing down upon the lumbering abomination. The shrieking explosion of fire ripped through its body, charring flesh and organs, and sending the hulking monstrosity crashing down ontop of the ghouls who lurked about it.

Casting such a spell was beyond taxing, something akin to sprinting four-hundred meters with a fully-armoured knight on your back, and exhaustion hit the sorceress like a gauntlet-clad fist.

"Winston...Alistair.." She wheezed "Get us out of here."

"Yes, my lady!"

The two warriors moved as one, cutting and cleaving through the rotten rabble, until only their lifeless corpses remained.

"I'll grab sleeping beauty over there," Winston gave the gruff one a little nod "You give the lady a hand."

---

The group made camp in the forest, some miles from the ruins of Brittlepond.

After an hour or so of picking about the woodland, a fire was blazing, and a leg of un-tainted meat was gently roasting on a spit, flames softly licking at its tender flesh.

"I saw some mental goings-on back in my day," Winston grunted, un-fastening the straps of his helmet and placing it down by his feet "But that was something else."

"You're getting soft in your old age, you piss-head." Allistair teased with a worn out smirk.

"I'll deck you one if you're not careful, you blonde priss." Winston chuckled, tiredness clear on his face.

"Friend," Beaudriyah sat down next to Sir Tilson, regarding him with a soft smile "the one we found in the town looks to be bleeding out. Is there anything -at all- you could do to aid him? I'm afraid that my skills might not be-"

"Well, look what we have here, lads!"

They appeared seemingly all at once, slipping out of the darkness, from behind the trunks of trees, and sliding into view.

Some were big, some small, but all were armour-clad and wielding weapons which they looked eager to use.

"Lord Giltplume will pay nicely for some clean flesh." Sneered one of the bandits, his face obscured by an orange bandanna.

"Come smooth-like," Commanded another, pointing his cross-bow at Tilson "There's no need for us to start spilling blood without reason."

"There's too bloody many of them..." Allistair hissed beneath his breath, his eyes darting frantically from
figure-to-figure.

One of the bandits nodded at Taranis.

"Your friend will be dead by morning. We have clean bandages and decent supplies at our camp. Lay down your weapons and I'll see what I can do about getting him patched up. No one do anything stupid, now. These are your lives you're gambling with."

Tilson rose to his feet. Thankfully, he hadn't bothered to take off the majority of his armour, save for his helm, which sat by the fire. He set his eyes upon the uninvited guests, with a ferocious stare.

"What charitable bandits you are." Stonehelm sneered, tightening his grip around his sword's hilt. "Are you going to wash our hair and polish our shoes while you rob us too?"

A bandit opened his mouth, ready to retort with an additional threat, only to have Stonehelm shout him down.

"LET ME BE CLEAR!", the grizzled knight bellowed. "We are currently on the run from a swarm of undead! They are coming this way, posthaste! Now unless you have enough bolts, enough arrows, enough knives, to dispatch a thousand bloodthirsty ghouls, I suggest you give yourselves the best chance of survival, and leave NOW!"

The bandit that had his crossbow aimed at Stonehelm prepared to shoot, planting the butt of contraption into his shoulder, and resting his finger firmly over the trigger. In response, the jaded soldier puffed his chest up, and took a striking stance, ready to draw his blade and strike at a moment's notice.

"AND BEFORE YOU CONSIDER SHOOTING THAT TOY", the raving veteran boomed, "know that I've used that model of crossbow myself, IN TRAINING, and I know that it hasn't enough draw weight to pierce my skull, let alone my armour! SO IF YOU INTEND TO SHOOT, MAKE DAMN SURE YOU DON'T MISS. BECAUSE YOU'LL ONLY GET ONE SHOT BEFORE YOUR HEAD ROLLS ON THE GROUND!!!"

Turning one last time, ready to fight but hoping that it won't be necessary, Tilson growled menacingly at the bandit that had shown compassion.

"And as for our lives, mine ended with my king. If I can drag a dozen thieves into the grave with me, my passing will be all the sweeter. If you too, wish to sacrifice your life, so that your comrades may steal the gold from your pockets... Well I just hope you've made peace with the Twisting Nether first."

“FOR KING TERENAS! FOR LORDAERON!”

The cry seemed to echo in Tavian's helm as she surged forward with the rest of the town guard. At that very moment Tavian had never been more terrified in all her life. She forced her feet to move, her shield raised as she had been taught, her sword ready. The onrushing undead, a tame name for the disgusting and bowl loosening swarm that hurried towards her, appeared like some unending carpet of moving blackness.

The guards moved forward purposefully, shield to shield, as they had been taught. The empty street giving them the time and space they needed to prepare. It was just like training, if you ignored the onrushing horde and the fact that they all clutched steel weapons rather than wooden training staves.

"Braces yourselves!!" Captain Dawnbridge, a handsome man to whom she had given some attention an evening or two ago, gave the order and she slid her right leg back, left shoulder bracing against her shield. She could barely see the creatures that poured from the wood through her visor, it was so narrow. She could hear heavy breathing on either side of her, the muttered prayers, the curses, and a sudden sharp smell told her someone had pissed themselves.

The ghouls were close now, close enough to pick out individuals and Tavian felt her own bladder release at the sight, the urine running down her leg and pooling in her boots. She was scared and at the moment wanted nothing more than to be at home with her sisters, shovelling cow shit and playing with kittens. But it was to late now.

The ghouls hit the line of guardsman with complete disregard for injury and the line shook, but held. Tavern screamed her war cry, it sounded like the scream of a child to her own ears, and hacked at the nearest ghoul. She was not nearly as strong as her male comrades but she was fast and had excellent sense of technique, or so her instructor had told her.

To her surprise the ghoul crumpled under her blow, its head split open, and slid to the ground. She didn't have time to think though as a second one lunged for her. She slammed her shield forward, the heavy front smashing into the ghouls face and sending it back a pace, then its head rolled as she slashed her sword with a quick sweep of her arm. She could do this! She felt a surge of elation as she killed a third ghoul with a savage blow to the head.

“This is pointless!” Came a pathetic cry from her left and in an instant the man who should have been protecting her side had thrown down his sword and fled. The hole that he had left in the line was filled immediately by a slavering ghoul. Tavian killed it with a lightning fast chop to the neck but another bounded at her before they could close up the line. She aimed a blow at the ghoul but it leapt past her without hesitation and threw itself onto Captain Dawnbridge. He gave an awful scream and then blood burst from his lips. Their eyes made contact for a brief second and then the ghoul dragged him down.

In that instant Tavain was hit between the shoulder blades by something soft and squishy and she went down in a tangle of sword, shield and armour. Whatever was on top of her didn't move and some instinct told her to lay perfectly still as ghouls continued to rush past her, overwhelming the few guardsmen who were trying to retreat up the street. Her breathing sounded harsh inside her helmet and she had to force back a gagging sob, fighting with all her self-preservation to remain still.

How long she lay there she could not say. The sounds of battle raged on, far longer than she had expected. Her neck hurt from the angle she lay at, her leg was twisted awkwardly beneath whatever was on top of her and she was intensely aware of the smell of her own sweat and urine as it mixed with smell of the dead all around her. She could hear what sounded like explosions, a Mage perhaps, somewhere in the town, putting up a last desperate fight. She wanted so badly to move but dared not for the time being. But when would the time be right? It wasn't like the ghouls would go to bed or anything. Just as she made up her mind to move, something began to move through the pile of corpses around her and froze.

“I WILL BREAK YOUR BONES, LITTLE MORSELS!!!

She had no idea what sort of creature was nearby but that voice alone was enough to convince her that moving was unwise. She shut her eyes and prayed, she could hear more ghouls coming closer, shuffling through the bodies of her fallen comrades. A sudden purple flash, the smell of burnt meat, and the roar of whatever was nearby almost made her cry out and she bit down on her tongue to keep herself from doing so. She could taste blood suddenly. She had bitten down to hard.

Moments later a brilliant flash and intense heat washed over her and the stink of burnt flesh became almost impossibly strong as something exploded, splattering charred meat everywhere. A heavy crash told her that whatever had been hit was down. She couldn't hear any more ghouls. It was now or never.

She slid her arms beneath her shoulders and heaved her body upwards. A dead ghoul tumbled off her back and she lurched to her feet. A surprised ghoul, half pinned under the burnt pile of meat that once been some fleshy creature, tried to reach out to her but she stumbled out of its reach. Her right ankle was on fire and she whimpered as she put weight on it. A glance down the streets showed what looked like survivors moving backward, cutting their way through the undead mass. For the moment she was important to the undead.

Any fool could see she was about to be left alone in the town and that did not sit well with her. She hobbled across the dead, shouldered open the door of a nearby house and tumbled inside. Pushing the door shut with her good foot and glancing around the room. It was empty. A staircase climbed up one wall and she hobbled painfully up it, finding herself in a bedroom with a low ceiling. A trapdoor, presumably to an attic was above her, a ladder dangling from it. She managed to climb it, one foot at a time, and found herself in a small, long space that stretched over the house. She pushed the ladder down, it clattered to the floor and lay still. She closed the trapdoor and dragged herself as far down the attic as she could, until she was pushed up against the stone chimney.

There, alone in the darkness, no sword, shield, or helmet, covered in her own urine and someone else's blood, she began to cry softly.

The young mage had marveled at the sheer mystical might of Beaudriyah when he witnessed her take down the abomination. He would garner to say she was as powerful as some of his most adept teachers back in Dalaran. It wasn't good to dwell on such things now, and he did his best to keep up with Winston and Alistair as they ran for it. It seemed cruel fate that the companions would find a hospital place to set camp, only to be discovered by bandits.

Diplomacy was key here, he knew. In fact he surprised himself. Usually he would begin talking first, but he had almost attacked without inhibition when they showed up. He was also surprised that he could attack at all. Perhaps he was becoming stronger than he realized in the art of magic. Of course one couldn't exercise magic like a muscle, but one could become stronger and able to wield more of the arcane from taxing themselves. It was dangerous, but he'd had to do it these past few weeks and it was beginning to show. Still...

Before he could begin to negotiate, Tilson started spewing out threats and orders. Nathoric shot him a warning glance, but the young mage knew he wouldn't heed such a small gesture even if he saw it. He seemed to be out for blood. "Perhaps we should accompany them to their camp." Nathoric said to Tilson, loud enough for the bandits to hear. He had one hand within his robe, and he whispered a small incantation as his fingers performed the signs necessary for his next spell.

He pulled his hand out of his robe sleeve and patted Tilson on the head reassuringly. Of course, it wasn't a true pat upon the head. Information briefly surged into the soldier's mind. It wasn't transferred with words per say, but if it could, it would appear as something akin to 'They know not I and the lady are mages it seems. If they can bandage our friend, and give some protection against the horde until we need them no longer, it seems prudent to join them for now.'

The fire was bright, the smell of cooking thick in her nostrils, the sheets of the bed rough but cozy against her skin as she squirmed deeper into them with a sigh of contentment. The pillow was so soft, her blonde hair fanned out across, gleaming in the firelight. It was perfect. She rolled over and found herself staring at the back of a mans head, not something she was unused to but she frowned, why was he in her bed, had she invited him? She gave him a nudge and he grunted.

"Get up lazybones, it's past daylight, my mum will be right angry if she finds you here." Tavian was annoyed that she even had to tell him. Normally she never allowed a man to sleep over, her mother was insistent she not make a display of herself to her younger sisters.

The man shifted and rolled over and she found herself staring into the face of Captain Dawnbridge, or what is it him? The face looked the same but the eyes looked dead, empty of life, and she was suddenly aware that the bedsheets were stained red. She recoiled in horror as his mouth moved but no sound came out, only a gurgle. She screamed and tried to roll out of the bed but she became entangled in the sheets as they pulled away from the Captain and she could see now that his throat was gone, nothing but a bloody hole.

She tried to scream but no sound came as he pawed angrily towards her, grasping at her face. She kicked frantically to escape the bedsheets, managing to put her upper body beyond his reach, her naked breasts covered in blood that seemed to be everywhere now. Then he had her ankle and before she could kick it free he bit down and pain lanced up her calf. She opened her mouth to scream for help.

Tavian sat upright in the cold sweat, smacking her head on the low roof of the attic and giving a low moan in protest. Her ankle, which had only seconds before been in Captain Dawnbridges mouth, was jammed at a weird angle against the roof beams and she whimpered as she pulled it free. The bed, the fire, the warmth, it was all gone. She was still clad in her armour, her leggings damp and her boots squishy and it took a moment to remember the bowel loosening terror of the undead attack. She ached everywhere, never had she been in so much pain in her life. She wanted to scream out her frustration, but knowing that was unwise, she punched the roof instead. It was an equally unwise idea and she regretted it at once as pain shot down her arm. At least she still had her greaves on.

For a long moment she lay there nursing her hand and ankle, wondering what to do next, when she heard the sudden thud of something move below the house. She cautiously shifted her weight, using her fingers to pry a hole in the thatch roof so that she could see outside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the seedily bright moonlight. Nothing moved in her line of sight. She could hear nothing, see nothing, it was almost as if the attack had been a bad dream. But then she realized that the dark shapes on the ground were not bushes, they were bodies, hundreds of them, splayed out as far as she could see. She felt her stomach tighten and the urge to throw up assailed her.

Another thud from almost directly beneath her made her swallow her rising bile and then, the sound of water being splashed, and then the sound of something she knew only to well and it made her heart pound with relief. The sound of a horse drinking water, the deep gulps of a desperate and panicked animal. If the horse was there, the undead were gone, and if she could catch it, she could escape.

Frantically she began to crawl down the length of the attic, hissing in pain every time she put pressure on her ankle, but she had to admit it did not hurt as much as it had however long ago it had been when she made her way up into the attic. As the trap door loomed up before her she didn't even think to check the space, she just grabbed the edge and swung her legs down into the darkness, held it for a moment then dropped to the ground.

Pain shot up her leg but it was bearable now and with a brief curse, and a small whimper, she went for the stairs. The door was still closed as she had left it and it took all her will power to not simply rip it open without checking. She cracked it slowly, glancing in every direction all at once so that her head spun. Nothing moved.

She hobbled out of the door, stumbling over corpses as she went, pausing only to pick up a sword and shield as she went. The sword was to big for her and the shield far heavier than her usual one but it didn't matter now, something was better than nothing. The sword she forced into her belt over her bloodied tabard and the shield she slung on her back as she came around the side of the house, and walked right into the horse coming the other way.

It was hard to say who was more surprised but Tavian recovered first, seizing hold of the trailing reins. The horse whinnied and jerked backwards, dragging her forwards so that she put all her weight onto her bad ankle. She stumbled and nearly let go, only managing to hold on with a supreme force of will. Thankfully it seemed the horse was just as tired as she, it shuddered to a halt after a few paces and then stared at her.

Two pairs of frightened eyes looked at each across the night blackened grass, Tavians breathing heavy in her own ears as the horse stretched out its nose towards her and gave her a heavy sniff. It's ears flared back but she spoke quickly.

"Easy boy. I mean you no harm. I just need a ride out of here."

The sound of a human voice seemed to have a calming effect on the horse and it snorted, pawing the ground for a moment, its ears swivelling all around it, listening, possibly knowing where the undead were and how far away. Tavian slowly climbed to her feet and reached out a hand to pat the horses neck. It resisted for a moment and then seemed to melt into her in its own approximation of her relief. The empty saddle on its back was bloodied but no clue as to who its rider might have been remained.

Tavian tested the strength of the saddle and then, in one practiced movement, she swung herself into the saddle. It felt good to be in one again, she hadn't ridden since leaving the farm. She shield banged against her back as she adjusted the stirrups, whoever had been on this horse before her had certainly been taller than her. The horse waited patiently, munching at the grass nearly invisible in the shadow of the house she had hidden in.

Settled at last she turned the horses head in the direction she had seen the survivors fleeing. There was a chance she might run into the undead but to ride back in the direction from which they had come was to invite certain death. She gave her knees a squeeze the horse broke into a trot. She didn't know where to go, but anywhere was better than the dead village of Brittlepond.

"Westlake," The leader of the group nodded at the crossbow wielding bandit "if the old man starts yelling again then loose one between his eyes."

He took another step out of the shadows, striding towards the party, with his comrades standing stalwart behind him.

"You think we don't know about the corpse-men? Bloody Nether, this plague is the best thing to happen to us! These roads haven't been so full of life in years."

The bandit chuckled darkly to himself.

"I don't like repeating myself, but I'm in a good mood today; so I'll make an exception."

The bandit's fingers glided down to his belt, where a pair of sheathed knives sat.

"You come with us. We heal your friend. You refuse then we take you by force. The woman will be violated, and those of you who resist will end up in a ditch. There really isn't a two ways about this. Choose your next words VERY carefully."

The muscular knight, now quivering with rage in response to the bandit's threats, opened his mouth to respond. What came out was a muffled "ayergghhnnf...", as the thunderous man stumbled over his words, before quickly shutting his mouth again.

Stonehelm, as thick-headed as he was, knew he couldn't fend off a virtual army of bloodthirsty bandits all by himself, and he had no command over the others. Taking the young mage's 'words' into consideration, as well as the tenacity of the bandit leader, the ferocious soldier paused. Every reflex in his brain told him to draw his sword, and behead the bandit leader while he was close, but he held himself together.

Stiff as a statue, Tilson turned his head to the female mage. She seemed to be the presumptive leader of the group, so the decision would have to be hers. The veteran locked his eyes on her like an attack-dog waiting for a signal, biting down on his tongue until he could taste blood.

Nathoric gave one last look at Stonehelm, weighing him within his thoughts to sense his motives. Fortunately for the entire party, he calmed down with a will. That was very good, the mage thought. Understatement. He turned to the bandit leader and gave a small bow. "I accept your terms, and don't believe anyone else in my troop will disagree or make trouble." he said.