Resistance - 2 (Patreon)

"Circle around, warriors!" Varok roared at his warriors as he knocked aside the demon's claws, then was forced to jump to avoid the crushing cleaver wielded by the lumbering and rotting mockery of an ogre. His wolf, brave companion that it was, latched its fangs onto the monstrosity before being crushed underfoot. "Do not allow them to approach the sleepers’ isle! Our blood wins us honour this day!"

"You speak true in part." The demon hissed viciously. "Your blood will be spilled–" Nets thrown by the still-free riders caught upon the demon's wings as it advanced. "Meddling gnats! Your use ended decades ago!"

Baring his teeth with grim satisfaction Varok leapt, his axe raised high overhead to come down upon the distracted demon. As his blackrock axe, the last remnant of Draenor he carried, bit through the demon's armour and cleaved into its shoulder viciously, he was struck from the side.

"Bad orc! Playtime mine, not Ter'dar!" The abomination cried petulantly.

Landing hard Varok grunted in pain. "Seems it's your blood that spills, demon." He spat, eyeing up his foes once more. Fel flames licked at the demon's claws and cut away the nets momentarily trapping it, but the wound was great and oozed with green blood.

He had fought greater foes once. Joined his clan in hunting the Gronn and Magnaron until none remained. Yet there was struggle in fighting two at once. And as more undead descended upon his riders, the stone monsters in the sky and countless shambling human corpses, he was left to fight alone once more.

With furious eyes the demon stepped away, watching his axe warily. "Mannoroth may have failed, yet–"

Not wasting the opportunity presented to him, Varok moved. The slow blow, unfitting for even the dullest ogre, was simple to dodge and allowed him to cleave deep into the gaping maw the abomination sported in its gut – blood and viscera spilled freely.

Skin stained with rotten filth but his foe not yet defeated, he turned his axe upon the exposed legs of the monster. No creature was truly protected from behind. Vulnerable.

Two hammering blows struck true, sinew and shards of bone joining the gore littering the blackened and sickly floor of the forest.

"Just die!" The demon yelled, and Varok was forced to parry once more. The shaft of his axe interposed between him and the claws of the demon that dripped with sickly green Fel flames, a single scratch a wound that would not heal without the blessing of the Ancestors. He knew that agony and poison well.

Off to the side, the crippled abomination turned. "Worse than Gul'dan's monsters." He spat into the demon's eye. At least they died when one tore them in half.

"The deathknights." The demon grinned. "Of course, what a fitting end for one like–"

Releasing one hand from his axe – muscles straining to hold it in place – Varok punched the demon in its wounded shoulder, eliciting a screech of pain and freeing him to retreat. "Heh. Pathetic." A true warrior would have weathered the pain so that their clan could kill him.

Easily sidestepping the abomination's lumbering blow, Varok heard a great horn split the air. The forest itself bent towards the sound.

"The horn has sounded, and I have come as promised!" A deep and angry voice rippled through the trees. "I smell the stench of decay and corruption in our land. That angers me greatly. Come forth, you defenders of old! Crush these invaders as you did in ages past!"

Before Varok's eyes, the forest came alive. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of trees uprooting themselves and crashing into the undead – and a torrent of roots splitting the earth to tear at the demon before him.

Seeing it all, Varok snorted in disbelief. Now he understood why the prophet had ordered that they wake the Storm's Rage. "A fitting end," he turned the demon's words back upon them, walking forward and bringing his axe down upon its head, "for a defiler."

-oOoOo-

"This noble beast fought well in defence of my resting place." Malfurion said, standing over a great wolf who had all but given his life to fight the corruption that plagued the isle. "As he suffered to protect our forests, let the forests themselves pay the debt we owe." Raising a hand he drew upon the power of Ashenvale, the forests giving willingly at his request.

Life surged through the stricken wolf, mending wounds and restoring what was lost. Scars faded, and eyes that grew dull ignited with light once more.

"Rise, noble one, and uphold the legacy of Goldrinn once more." Resting a hand upon the wolf's head he helped it stand, smiling as it sniffed at him curiously. Turning to the wolf's companion, a green-skinned warrior clad in red, he maintained his smile. "And you, outlander. To whom might I address my thanks?"

"Varok Saurfang. Warrior of the Horde." After a moment of meeting Malfurion's gaze, Varok nodded. "An orc."

For a moment something pricked at his mind, an ancient dream of another who wielded an axe against demons. But no, though he might see similarities to those dire days, this being was alike no other he had seen.

Only time could tell if they held more in common with those ancient heroes who had fought beside him and Tyrande against the Legion. "Well met, Warrior Saurfang. I am Malfurion Stormrage, and I thank you on behalf of the wilds for your aid this day."

"It was my duty, Shaman."

Nodding to the orcish warrior, Malfurion drew himself up to his full height and surveyed the land. He had thwarted the invaders here, yet so much more of his homeland cried out in agony and horror at the destruction wrought upon it. The one who had woken him had done so rightly, and he must–

"Tyrande." He breathed, watching as her most gracious form rode towards him. The glow about her eyes, the radiance of her skin, just as he had remembered... "It has been a thousand years since I last looked upon you, Tyrande." He said with most heartfelt regret; were that the Dream could know peace and he could spend his time in the waking world forever more. "I thought of you every moment I roamed through the Emerald Dream."

As her eyes fell upon him, it was clear his long absence had not diminished her love for him either. "My heart rejoices to see you again, Furion. But I would not have awakened you unless the need was urgent."

"Alas, it will ever be so. Our duties are many." Stepping beside her, he gestured out across the decaying rot the undead monstrosities had left behind. "Though Aessina informed me of the dangers that approach, I could not wake myself without due preparation. I am glad you came, Tyrande."

"And I am glad as well, Furion." She placed a hand upon his chest above his beating heart, a moment of connection shared between them.

Were that such a moment could last forever. "The Burning Legion has come again. And Archimonde will make his way to Hyjal Summit to attack–"

"We know." Saurfang interrupted. "It was foretold. The humans know more; Proudmore knows more." He shrugged languidly before throwing his axe over his shoulder. "What of the other shamans, in the southern barrows, Priestess?"

Shaman, the word was spoken with due reverence. Malfurion could taste its meaning in the whispers of the trees, a connection to the world itself, the elements, and the spirits... he would not deny it fit him and his kin.

Yet still, it was inaccurate. "We are druids, Warrior Saurfang. And those to the south..." His mind's eye remembered the Dream more clearly than the waking world, but still, he knew the barrow dens. "Dor'Danil, the resting place of the Druids of the Saber. Yes, Ashamane's disciples would aid us greatly – but we must make haste northward, lest Archimonde and his armies reach Hyjal ahead of us."

The Talon would lie upon their path, and passing through the Barrow Deeps to reach those of the Claw would be essential for the fight ahead. Those of the Grove and Antler were too far to be reached...

"We can scarcely afford the time it would take. Reaching Cenarius' Horn took longer than I had hoped." Tyrande, her voice dark with worry. "We must press onward."

Saurfang snorted. "It was your order that saw Elder Bloodhoof lead the armies south to the barrows. Would you abandon them?"

Bloodhoof? That was a tauren name, he had not spoken with one of their kind since the disaster in Mashan'she... too long, perhaps. "If our allies move for Dor'Danil then we shall go join them. We shall need every soul willing to stand at our side to best the Legion once more."

They had won once, long ago, nearly at the cost of the very world itself. To deny even a single blade, spear, fang, or even spell, in their defence would be utter folly.

-oOoOo-

Ansessa wasn't sure what she was doing anymore. She had first followed the strange intruders without striking them down out of curiosity and boredom, but now she almost longed for a return to that quieter time. The forest had changed, the air tense, a feeling of wrongness echoing through the trees that she could feel.

Even in the trails the Mother Wisp left for them, she could feel the pain her home suffered. And here she was, guiding outsiders to strange hidden valleys under the orders of Jarod Shadowsong himself. Even Captain Raene Wolfrunner, legend that she was, had backed up his command – see that the outsiders completed the tasks they had been given by the Silver Tongue swiftly and without delay.

If she hadn't realised that all four of her travelling companions could see the same trails she could, she would have thought there was meaning. But despite their insistence otherwise, she knew better; she wasn't a child.

They were keeping her around for some purpose. Maybe just as little as an extra mount to speed their passage, but they didn't need her any more than she understood why they did what they did. Each of the three had begun to take the time to teach her, Shan'do Longtooth most of all, demonstrating how they connected to the wilds and spirits of the world in their own ways.

Her heart resonated most strongly with Shan'do Longtooth. His... witchcraft so similar to Father's druidism that she couldn't help but want to understand it.

Would he be proud or horrified that she did not shy away from the lessons any longer? That she called the witch Shan'do without hesitation? Or would some other madness that they unleashed upon her life without care separate them before such a time as she was ready to present what she had learned to Father?

Descending into the valley where the wind howled like a wolf, Anessa felt as though that last thought seemed the most likely.

"Here we are at last!" Nari yelled over the wind as he jumped out of the saddle bags. The fox, a creature she had never even heard of before, remained even more of an enigma to her than Shan'do Longtooth's motives and the purpose of their journey. "Well, it's certainly a fitting place. Cold, dreary, and sad, in a valley that wails like a wolf in heat."

"Ain't nothing like it, aye." Caedan grunted from atop his gryphon. "Ye think Wise-Ear be wantin' tae join in?"

A high-pitched growl from a too-small wolf was the first answer he received, then a clunk as the orcish shaman batted the side of his head lightly.

"Oi! Was just a joke."

"Wise-ear's mate passed many years ago." Drek'thar explained.

Following Nari's lead, Shan'do Longtooth descended to the forest floor and walked towards the shrine at the end of the valley. "Howling wolves put me on edge." He said. "Let us be done with this place quickly."

"Plenty of howling wolves in our future." Nari curled his tails close to himself unhappily.

As they approached the shrine conversation fell away, something... dangerous in the air. The howling only grew greater, gaining more voices and subtleties to the threatening chorus. Though the fox had joked that it sounded like wolves in heat... to Anessa's ears it sounded like a call to battle, rage and hatred.

She did not like this place, yet she refused to back down within her own forests. So long as the outsiders stood unafraid, she would also.

Finally reaching the shrine Shan'do Longtooth flung open the doors and revealed the contents of the ancient resting place. "My, it is a wild-looking thing isn't it." He said; and Anessa had to agree, though it was more than that. It was graceful and savage in a beautiful symphony. The touch of the Goddess shining from within the scythe's shaft and the fang dripping with the savagery of nature.

"It's vicious is what it is." Nari hissed. "Now stop admiring it and grab it so we can go."

Humming some song to himself, Shan'do Longtooth snatched the scythe from its resting place, and the howling suddenly stilled. For a brief moment, Anessa thought something was terribly wrong... then Nari scrambled up Shan'do Longtooth's back, hanging from his shoulder, and wrapped up the scythe in his tails, and the tension bled from the air.

"How wonderful. More elven mistakes we have to deal with." Nari grumbled tiredly.

"Let's get going lads, preferably before someone comes looking to figure out what that was." Caedan shouted at them. And, with a scythe held tightly by fox and witch, they were away.

Once more Anessa was left with more questions than answers. What even was that scythe?

-oOoOo-

Despite the detour southward to collect the bulk of the outsider's forces, and the delays incurred due to their clumsy and careless passage through the forests, Tyrande could not deny their utility any longer. The thunderous roar of the earthen's artillery, be it the cannon or the hissing tanks, as they unleashed their fury upon the floating hulk of stone and ghastly magic that drifted over the forest brought a smile to her lips.

"Press forward!" Furion yelled, staff sweeping to the side and directing the forest to move out of their path. "Take the battle to the enemy before they ready themselves!"

With bellowing war cries to match the roar of the artillery, the orcs and tauren charged into the fray with a fury.  Humans in steel armour followed, shields raised and matched by Arcane spells which wrought chaos upon the undead ranks.

The defilement of their forests delayed if for but a moment.

Winterspring Valley would still be hard struck by the poison of the demons and undead, too close to the eastern shores to be left alone, but so long as they destroyed the necropolis that sought to establish itself here and serve as a rallying beacon for the invaders, it could be saved. The corruption had not seeped into the very soil yet.

But that was not her battle. "This way, sisters." Tyrande beckoned, leaving her love behind to fight. Her task lay elsewhere – while the slower forces destroyed the invaders she would strike ahead, to Starfall Village and Ban'Thallow Barrow Den. "There is no time to waste."

Once more Saurfang and his wolf riders would join her, though this time alongside Lionheart and his knights as well. What they lacked in grace and skill to navigate the forests, they made up for in tenacity.

Their presence meant that their passage did not go unnoticed. Even with the clamour of battle waging behind them they were beset by small straggling forces as they pressed on, but they were easily dealt with. Blasts of overpowering Light from Lionheart swiftly dispatched the undead abominations and his soldiers fell upon them with a vicious fury that matched even that of the orcs.

Tyrande could see the hollowness of loss they each bore. No doubt those that they slew here, the wandering undead formed from fallen humans, had once been their kin.

Though their failure to protect their homeland now beset hers, she would not begrudge them for it. The Legion's strengths were many and varied – once the demon's sights had been laid upon them what hope for survival had they had?

Instead, she would make use of their arms in battle, sate their desire for revenge in the defence of her homeland.

-oOoOo-

Starfall was not as she remembered it, but there was little time to note the differences when the reason behind the changes stood so arrogantly in the open. The sight made her feel foolish – why would their foul kind not emerge from the dark recesses of the forests to serve their once masters once more? That her kin, that the very ancients themselves, suffered under their corruptive touch because they were unprepared only weighed upon her more.

"Priestess. What are they?" Saurfang asked darkly, looking down upon the satyr as they performed their profane rituals to defile the ancient protectors of the barrow den.

"My fallen kin from long ago." She answered coldly. "Those that chose to join the demons when they last came for our world." Yet, for once when it came to the satyr's vile acts, she could see the Fel rituals they sought to enact.

It was too late to save most from their fate, but not all, should they move swiftly enough.

Oh so rarely, once in a dozen years, one of their kind slipped from the dark depths of the forests and sought redemption under Elune's gaze. Offering themselves to the judgement of the goddess and risking death at the hands of the sentinels for the crimes they committed as part of their dark tribes. Rare were those that held true, earned the faith offered, yet they existed.

It was enough to stay their hand from culling each and every last one of them. To not spend day and night hunting them down like the monsters they were. But such mercy could no longer be spared.

"Kill them." She ordered, slipping from Ash'alah's back to stand on the very edge of the rise with her bow held above her head. "Kill them all; none who bear Xavius' curse can be spared any longer."

Without a word of question, her sentinels moved. The humans and orcs hesitated a moment a moment longer before they began their charge but did so without protest. Even for those who had none of the blessings of Elune the foulness the satyr exuded was palpable.

"Elune, grant your judgement upon those who have abandoned your grace." Tyrande prayed quietly, drawing a single silver arrow upon her bow. "Andu-falah-dor!"

As the charge of knights and wolf riders crashed into the surprised satyr, stars fell from the sky. Their judgement plain. Agonising screams of pain, torn from throats suited only to beguile and torment, rang clearly through the air as demons died.

With their vile rituals thwarted, many of the ancient protectors of the barrow den lifted themselves to strike at their corruptors – yet not all. With sorrow Tyrande watched as Elune's Light fell upon one proud sage of ancient wisdom, burning their boughs, crushing their branches, and marking them for death.

Calls from her huntresses to bring down the corrupted ancient reached her ears, and the bellowing cries of the orcs followed. Axes and great chopping blades cut at its bark as its fellows held it in place.

And as it fell, spewing twisted mockeries of its ancient knowledge in vile chants, the battle came to a close and with it the falling stars of Elune's judgement. Yet, though her wrath was quenched, her goddess' power did not yet fade; great Light lingered within her and Tyrande knew what she must do. There was enough. Enough for one precious soul who had yet been spared.

"Come, Ash'alah." She said with grim determination. She would grant redemption to one of those afflicted with Xavius' curse before they were too far gone and the others would have to be... ended.

-oOoOo-

Varok knelt beside a crying child, his eyes wide and his breath burning in his lungs. He had thrown himself between the child and the falling blow of the Priestess' magic solely on instinct, yet he knew in his heart when he had done it.

Before him lay a child cursed by a dark ritual, as his own people had been. Dranosh, his own child, would have suffered a curse so similar if his mate had not begged him to spare him. But it was not simply that. Horns which curled at the head, cloven hooves where there ought to be feet, a tail dangling limply behind her, and wide glowing eyes that shone with terror. All too familiar, a sight burned into his mind, screams that echoed in his nightmares, a scent that would never fade.

The crunching of bones as he walked the Path of Glory to bring those same horrors unto a new world without questioning why.

His back was aflame. Scorched and tore asunder. He knew not if he would live to see the day's end, yet he would do it again a thousand times over. "Never. Again." He growled through gritted teeth against the pain he felt. Reaching down, slowly and carefully, he took the cursed child's hand and helped them stand. "Little one. Are you well?"

"You would sacrifice yourself for a child, orc?" Duke Lionheart asked sceptically.

"No child is guilty, paladin." Varok spat furiously – pausing only as he saw the human's expression. It was not scepticism, it was surprise. Surprise and respect. "I have seen too many children suffer for crimes not their own."

Too many. Too many dead by his hand, screaming for mercy none would grant. Never again would he allow such a thing to come to pass.

"Priestess Tyrande bid that we kill them all." One of the elves said, bow drawn and aimed at another of those that had been held within the demonic ritual circles. An adult woman, her mouth stretching with a silent scream of horror as she clutched at her horns. Her long tufted tail lashed freely.

"Should you perform that act, you will find a new foe this day." Duke Lionheart said without a hint of hesitation. "We have slain the monsters who inflicted themselves upon this village, saved the inhabitants, but now you wish to slay them also? I cannot uphold my oaths to the order without standing between you and the innocent. In that, I suspect, I am not alone."

Lips quivering, the cursed elf child clung to Varok's leg, claw-like nails biting into skin and drawing blood. If there was any doubt in his heart, it vanished in that moment. "You are not."

"Though there are those that have earned redemption, but it is a rare thing." The Priestess said as she descended, still glowing with power. "Elune has seen fit to spare them and grant her power to save one. Who here is most deserving? Who here believes themselves worthy of Elune's blessing?"

"The children." Varok spoke quickly. "All of the children. Or is your goddess truly willing to murder her own?"

Arrogant eyes filled with a Goddess' might fell upon him, but he did not flinch. "Our forests are beset by the undead. Our home defiled by the Legion. She has granted me the wherewithal to spare whom I may, but no more." Her eyes closed and her head lowered. "We can afford no more."

"All curses can be broken." Duke Lionheart levelled his blade at the sentinel who held the cursed woman at arrowpoint. "Speaker Aderic spoke at length of his people's plans to break another ancient elven curse. Given time, given their success with the worgen–" The word, though Varok knew it not, elicited gasps amongst the elves. "–they may turn their attention to those afflicted here. Those guilty have died, and I shall not allow you to slay the innocent while hope remains."

"What hope." The cursed woman wailed. "I've been cursed into defiling the land with every breath!"

Varok's ears were filled with the creaking of wood and the rustling of leaves. "Not satyr." One of the great trees, crowned with golden leaves, spoke as it held its staff over one of the cursed. "Incomplete, the ritual lies unfinished. Fel flows through you... for now." Ancient eyes bore down upon Varok. "Like this one once suffered. Yet no longer."

"Are you certain, wise one?" Tyrande asked, and received a slow nod in return. Turning unto the cursed, she looked at them with new eyes. "We cannot allow you to roam free. The risk of the curse maturing remains too great."

"Then I shall take responsibility for them." Varok spoke with conviction. "None shall fall to the curse so long as I live. We will allow no others to become slaves to the demons."

As the archer lowered her bow Lionheart lowered his sword. "Then it is settled." He said. "High Priestess Tyrande, please, allow me to aid you in offering redemption; no matter how meagre, all that I have this day is yours. Let us break this curse from all we can this day and grant hope to the hopeless for the days to come."

"With pleasure, Lionheart." She said with no indication she saw it as such. But nonetheless, she took the girl child's hand as he urged her to the priestess and the paladin the other.

And with both aglow with Light that once more reminded him of the Draenei, those he had slaughtered before even taking up the cursed cup, they undid the foul magic of the demons. Never could he assuage his guilt from what had happened in the past, yet for this one night he could face his nightmares without shame.