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| - The forest was alive. It moved like a seething carpet of maggots, heaving and convulsing. War machines rose up like apocalyptic monoliths, creaking ominously, a mournful, braying keen. Forges illuminated parts of this roiling mass, points of fiery, hateful light. The air swirled and moaned as sorcerous power was drawn irresistibly to pulsating, purple glows, making the air resonate with nauseating menace. Trees came crashing to the ground, groaning their anguish, hewn asunder by hungry axes to fuel ravenous fires. A tumult of voices struck out at nervous ears. Angry, hateful voices that called for blood. And the drums. Oh the drums.
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| abstract
| - The forest was alive. It moved like a seething carpet of maggots, heaving and convulsing. War machines rose up like apocalyptic monoliths, creaking ominously, a mournful, braying keen. Forges illuminated parts of this roiling mass, points of fiery, hateful light. The air swirled and moaned as sorcerous power was drawn irresistibly to pulsating, purple glows, making the air resonate with nauseating menace. Trees came crashing to the ground, groaning their anguish, hewn asunder by hungry axes to fuel ravenous fires. A tumult of voices struck out at nervous ears. Angry, hateful voices that called for blood. And the drums. Oh the drums. Exarch Maaldir stood stock still, his pale eyes wide, too nervous even to shake. Atop the Terrace of Light he was positioned. He could see the whole thing. Shattrath City was sprawled out before him, like an elegant cobweb. Hasty fortifications prevented the Horde from spilling out into the Lower City, but no one was under any illusions that they would hold. They were here to die. A diversion. A trick, even. The Orcs needed to believe that the Draenei were done, and that this was a last stand. Maaldir nearly wept right there and then. Children. Children had volunteered to stay behind. It had to look genuine. And now this. He closed his eyes and shuddered, his lips fumbling over a silent prayer. Light deliver us from this evil and send it back to the abyss. Save our children and our loved ones. S-strike with righteous fury at the ones who would do harm against the f-faithful. In the name of the three v-virtues , Light be praised. A terrible roar echoed over the city. Ogres from the mountains had come. His courage quailed. He looked to the Vindicator next to him. The poor sod had pissed himself. Turning his back to the nightmarish scene before him, Exarch Maaldir doubled over and vomited out what little he had eaten that day. He straightened up at once and felt better immediately. If he was going to die, so be it. He’d do it with dignity, and so would his men. He turned around with renewed courage. “Vindicators! Hear me!” Maaldir, roared. His eyes were set with fierce conviction and his teeth were bared in righteous anger. He thrust his mace high into the air, and it shone like a holy beacon. “Each and every one of you are heroes! True champions of the Holy Light! Where you walk, judgement shall follow! Wherever you fix your gaze, retribution shall be swift! The Light is our guiding beacon! With it we shall never falter! Death to the Horde! Death to the Horde!” Maaldir worked himself into a zealous frenzy. By the time he had finished his morale rousing speech, spittle was flying from his furiously working mouth, and his features were mottled with rage. On either side of him, stretched a long, long line of Vindicators. His fanaticism was infectious. Every one of them took up his chant, and it echoed over the city in response to the mindless howls and bellows of the Horde. Let them come, he thought. Let them come.
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