A Deeper Shade of Red

     I awoke days later in the Cathedral of Light.  The priests and priestesses that attended to me and nursed my wounds informed me that the usurper of Gnomeregan had vanished, likely obliterated by the massive explosion that rocked the stone and metal caverns of the sprawling underground city.  I could tell they sought to give me solace, but I was uneasy due to the absence of my companions.  They informed me that the druid had used her abilities to transport us to a place called Moonglade, and the Cenarion Circle then delivered us to our respective homes, but as none of the members of the Church knew of our adventure prior to the arrival of my unconscious form, no verification could be made of the well-being of the others.  By the time I was under care, they'd scattered to the four winds.

     I tried to comfort myself in my knowledge of at least two of my companions.  The druid was hardy, and capable.  If she had transported us out, she probably remained in Moonglade with her brethren.  The rogue and warrior had likely returned to Ironforge, spreading the news of our victory to the High Tinker.  That left Strycnosa.  I found my thoughts often wandering to her; the enigma she was.  She was powerful, I could sense the fel energy just beneath the surface.  She toyed with powers my Order is sworn against, but she wielded them in the defense of our lands and people.  I remember the look of glee on her face when she poured the flammable concoction on the bombs, the sparkle in her eyes.  She seemed to revel in destruction, but also she did not commit it recklessly.  Truly an enigma.  And, I say with no small amount of shame, a beautiful one.

     Days passed and my wounds mended, thanks to both my constitution and the warmth of the Light.  Some of the Paladin initiates eagerly approached me hour after hour to spar and train, and I must admit I found it welcome.  I was anxious to get back into the world, find my companions, and continue my journeys.  It wasn't until a week had passed that a missive arrived.  Four messengers, cloaked in black, hoods down, arrived at the steps of the cathedral.

     Archbishop Benedictus, a man I have always respected, but have always felt slightly wary around, welcomed the messengers in.  The leader lowered his hood, but I did not recognize him.  He wore armor similar to our own Order, but it was deep red.  He announced himself as an emissary of the Scarlet Crusade, a faction of Paladins and clergymen who remained in Tirisfal Glades after the plague in an effort to staunch the flow of undead and cleanse the broken lands.  His news was not light.

     He explained of dark things, corruption taking root in the Crusade.  He spoke with a reverence towards his Order, but also a deep fear of what they were becoming.  I listened intently.  The Archbishop seemed only partially interested, but after a short dialogue, relented in sending a small group to investigate.  The messenger asked for only one companion, as his three fellows were also to accompany him.  I immediately volunteered.  I expected some resistance from the Archbishop, I had so recently been wounded and nearly crushed in the debris of Gnomeregan, but he simply smiled and nodded.  The smile should have been warm, but it chilled me to the bone.

     As we left the cathedral and approached the gryphon masters, the emissary gestured to his companions that it was safe to remove their cloaks.  He explained that he wanted to keep the identities of his companions concealed while in the cathedral, as the Scarlet Crusade had spies everywhere.  He was very concerned with secrecy around the members of the Order, and only because his companions had vouched for me was he comfortable taking me along.  As soon as they removed their hoods, my heart leaped and I understood why.

     Tiyara, the druid, smiled at me.  It was a warm smile, the one the Archbishop had failed to produce.  She embraced me as a friend embraces another after a long journey apart, though it'd only been a week.  I was glad to have her with me.  The second figure removed her cloak, and revealed a creature I'd only heard of until now.  Her skin was blue, her hair black as night, and slender tendrils ran from behind her ears down over her shoulders.  She smiled lovingly, and a glyph glowed on her forehead.  She explained that her people, the Draenei, were of a strong affinity with the Light, and that she sensed its strength within me.  Her words gave me great comfort, down into the center of my very soul.  She said her name was Vihara, and that she followed the path of the Elements, still revering the Light, but honoring the spirits of the natural world as well.  I was fond of her immediately.

     When the last figure removed her hood, my heart soared.  It was Strycnosa.

     My resolve bolstered tenfold, my conviction a hundred times.  Whatever challenge awaited us in this Scarlet Monastery, with these companions beside me, there was no chance at all of failure.  We mounted our gryphons and took to the skies, racing across Khaz Modan and the Arathi Highlands, across Hillsbrad Foothills, and finally into Tirisfal Glades.  The lands became more and more dead and decrepit as we traveled, and I felt a pain in my soul as we neared our destination, a place so unholy, so vile, that the Light itself seemed scarred; what little was left.

     Then I saw it.  The spires of the monastery, rising above the dying trees and graying lands.  This place was wounded, and the Light within it had been battered, but we had arrived.  With us, would come retribution.

What's in a Gnome?

The victory over the Defias Brotherhood had brought the people of Stormwind a great sense of relief, with the added effect of establishing a reputation for my deeds in the eyes of the Alliance leadership.  I had little time to rest on my laurels, as merely a few days after the defeat of Bazil Thredd, I received a letter from an Ironforge diplomat.

The letter had requested my aid in a campaign to venture into the lost city of Gnomeregan, the subterranean metropolis that had been home to the Gnomish race until its invasion by vicious troggs, and subsequent irradiation that was ill-advised by a would-be usurper.  High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, the appointed leader of Gnomish politics, or what could be best called as such, had placed a call for adventurers to enter the fallen city and eliminate the despot.

My training as a paladin and my history in the Alliance were in concert; justice must be done and freedom must prevail over oppression.  My response to the summons was mustered in less than a heartbeat, and before I knew it, I was approaching the Deeprun Tram.

The Deeprun Tram is a marvel of Dwarven construction and Gnomish ingenuity.  A massive, self-propelled train that connects the cities of Ironforge and Stormwind via a long underground tunnel, even passing beneath a lake at some point.  After finishing the ride, I exited the tram and entered Tinker Town, the surrogate home of the Gnomes hosted graciously by the Dwarves of the mountain city.

High Tinker Mekkatorque met me immediately as I exited, and introduced me to the other adventurers who had answered the call.  I was pleased to see the Night Elf, Tiyara, had also responded.  She met me with a warm smile and a nod.  Beside her was a Gnome, a roguish type, sporting a pair of daggers, each nearly as large as the arm that held it.  Beside him was a Dwarf, clearly trained in the arts of war, full plate armor and a massive double-bladed bearded axe hoisted on his shoulders.  I turned to meet the fifth and final member of the party, and my face betrayed both my surprise and my elation.

It was the warlock, Strycnosa.

I must admit I’d become accustomed to her face, despite the darkness that seemed to linger around it; she was quite beautiful.  Though by no means does being a paladin necessitate being chaste, I had to fight hard at times to keep my thoughts from wandering when they lingered in her presence.

We were given our objectives by the Gnomish leader: short, concise, simple.  Enter the city, battle through whatever defenses the usurper had erected, find Mekgineer Thermaplugg, and eliminate him.  I had come to learn that the simpler a task sounded, the less it would be in practice.

I was not proved wrong.

As we entered the gates to the city, we were met with a green miasma, like a haze of choking mist.  The gnome assured us that limited exposure would not harm us, so long as we were in and out quickly.  Despite his familiarity, I was skeptical of the words, but sufficiently faithful in the Light that we would come to no long-term, serious harm.

A long elevator descended into the heart of the mountain, taking us into the depths of Gnomeregan’s halls, where we exited and searched the echoing corridors.  The mist seemed to thicken down here, taking on more of a malignant, verdant hue.  Then, we found our destination.

A massive pit of refuse and wash-off sprawled before us.  Debris and discarded inventions and parts scattered the ground, causing us to take caution when advancing, slowing our pace.  Strycnosa made more than one snide comments about the housekeeping habits of the Gnomes, which our rogue seemed to take no offense to, but rather join in with a quip or two when he deemed his response appropriate to the humor.

Our levity was short lived.

Tiyara gasped, as she was pulled beneath a pile of garbage by an unseen assailant.  We rushed to her location, in time to see a massive, pulsing, formation of ooze emerge.  Within its depths we could see Tiyara’s frozen form, face locked in shock as she floated in the viscous body of the creature. 

Without hesitation, my sword unsheathed.  I sliced a deep cut into the side of the creature, and used my shield to pry the opening further.  In concert, the Dwarf reached in and grabbed the druid’s arm, pulling hard to free her from the oozing prison.  With a sickening pop, she was wrenched from the vile hold, and gasped as air once again rushed into her lungs. 

The rogue doubled back and began to chip portions of slime away from the bulk of the beast, while the warlock merely began to chant.  We carried on for several seconds, cutting away what little substance we could, dodging the flailing tendrils and overwhelming bulk of the creature as it bounced between us, trying to determine who was the larger threat.  It seemed fruitless, as each wound we produced was soon absorbed back into the hellish aberration.

Then the warlock ceased chanting.

Without warning, the beast emitted a shriek, causing us all to pause and grab our ears.  Even the druid, who had not fully regained her senses, gripped her long ears in an attempt to block out the sound.  Fortunately, it was only for a moment, as the beast glowed from within as if its very core was set aflame.  This proved to be a fitting analogy, as the entire form of the creature erupted in the fiercest, hottest flames I’d ever seen.

The thing could have been made completely of lamp oil, as it burned bright and fast, until only a charred spot on the floor remained.  Helping Tiyara recover with a prayer, we moved on.

The presence of guards was minimal, so many of the inhabitants that remained were so addled by the radiation sickness, that we passed by unnoticed and unmolested.  Despite an encounter with a particularly vicious trogg and its basilisk pet at the site of a cave-in, we managed to make good time and progress.

That is, until we arrived at the hangar.  War machines lined the walls, staged for some grand invasion.  Aircraft, tanks, vehicles, it was as if the war for Gnomeregan never ended, and now threatened to spill out into Azeroth.  Thermaplugg was clearly mad, and a force this size could only indicate that he plotted to take Ironforge next. 

Refusing to allow this, we moved to a central platform in the circular chamber for a better survey of the forces, when a large, mechanical, spider-like contraption ambushed us.  The Dwarf was pinned under one of the metal legs, and the rogue batted aside by another.  Strycnosa was stunned by a jolt of lightning and fell to her knees in a daze.

I gritted my teeth and met the gaze of the machine’s pilot, a cackling leper gnome.  His eyes were wild, insane, and flooded with murderous intent.  I charged, putting the full force of my strength and momentum behind my shield as I battered the leg that pinned the Dwarf.  It buckled under the blow, freeing the warrior, but one of the others quickly compensated, keeping the device upright.  I was unable to react quickly enough to prevent the rear leg from bashing me in the side, knocking me off my offensive course, and sending a jolt of pain through my entire body.

The rogue was steadying from the blow, and Strycnosa was catching her breath.  We were routed by the ambush, but were recovering.  The leper gnome saw this and aimed to keep us suppressed, moving forward again for a renewed assault.  As lightning charged in the focus on the front of the spider-tank, the warrior brought his axe down hard into the center.

A blinding flash emitted and the group was blown back.  The force of the shockwave disoriented us anew, but prevented a deadly release of electricity from the contraption.  The leper gnome simply cackled, as we realized in horror that there was a second focus on the tank, undamaged, and currently charging.

At that moment, vines sprung to life from the cracks in the stone and steel floor, bursting like saplings weary of a long winter, and coiling around the legs of the machine.  The leper gnome’s laughter faltered.  Thick, fast, and deadly, the vines grew and coiled, pulling and squeezing, crumpling metal beneath them like paper, and ripping legs from the sockets, sparks and oil showering from the stubs.  Soon enough the entire mass of steel had been smothered, when the vines constricted and compressed.

The leper gnome was now silenced.

Breathing heavily, we regained our balance and stood, looking to the weary druid.  We each nodded, to which she responded with a weak smile.  We rested a moment, and continued on.  The halls stretched for what seemed an eternity from there, with a few straggled patrols and wandering troggs in the halls, until we made a startling discovery.

Dark Iron agents. 

The rogue offshoots of a mistrusted Dwarven clan, it would appear that the Dark Iron had been conspiring with, or at least aiding the Mekgineer in his delusional conquest of the shattered city.  They were quickly dealt with, much to the glee of our Dwarven companion, but the implication their presence provided was far more threatening.

We placed those thoughts aside, however, as we approached an enormous hangar door.  The Mekgineer’s chambers. 

As we entered, Thermaplugg noticed us immediately and entered a frenzy.  Atop his own spider-like battle tank, albeit a significantly more threatening and capable one, he howled madly and charged its weapon systems.

The battle was fast, but manageable.  Dodging blades and limbs, deflecting or avoiding the arcing electricity, his movements seemed more fueled by instinct and emotion over any real strategy or tactics.  It seemed that would this keep up, we would surely win.  The Mekgineer, however, had a trick up his proverbial sleeve.

With a maddened shout, he activated some kind of defense mechanism that began to release bombs from giant valves in the walls.  Bombs that walked on mechanical legs towards their target.  The fight descended into chaos.  It became much more challenging to dodge Thermaplugg’s attacks when we also needed to remain aware of the explosives that now wandered maliciously around the area.

The druid bound what few she could with her nature magic, the vines holding strong until the bomb simply exploded where it stood.  The warlock seemed to have a fair amount of luck as well, melting the steel floor where they walked, slowing their steps, or detonating them outright when they were nowhere near a viable target.  Even the rogue managed to disable a few, sneaking around their field of perception and skillfully disarming them.

It was all the warrior and I could do, however, to maintain the attention of Thermaplugg, to free our allies to take care of the explosives.  It was a battle of attrition at this point, one we were doomed to lose if we couldn’t put Thermaplugg down before the bombs became too numerous and overwhelmed us.

The warrior chopped away at the tank’s armor as best he could, and I kept the Mekgineer’s attention focused with a series of jabs and thrusts as his cockpit, but too little progress was being made.  Then, I had a plan.  A stupid plan that would require a great deal of luck, but fortune favors the bold.

I backpedaled from the reach of the tank, his rage-filled eyes following my every step.  Turning, I broke into a full run.  As if reading my mind, the rogue and the druid began moving their conquered bomb robots together, creating a pile of sorts.  I taunted the driver of the battle tank, using words my trainers in the cathedral would scold me for, and leapt over the pile of bombs.  I smirked, as if seeing my mind, I saw Strycnosa pouring a vial of a yellow-brown liquid on the vials, that seemed to emit fumes that distorted vision as you gazed through them.  She grinned mischievously and scampered off behind one of the bomb-dispensing pillars.

Thermaplugg roared, chasing after me, intending to burst through the defacto barrier of explosives.  The Dwarf smirked, seeing my plan, and raised his axe high in the air, at least comparatively high to his stout stature.  Bringing it down hard, the blade cut deep into the steel plating on the floor.  Such was the force behind the blow, that the rock and flint beneath the floor rose to the surface and traveled towards the tank, riding a shockwave of concussive force.  It rumbled the ground beneath the tank, and caused the legs to stumble and waver, halting the Mekgineer’s advance.

Seeing my opportunity, I dove back and hurled my shield at the debris that flew up from the shockwave, now deep within the cloud of fume and haze from Strycnosa’s concoction.  The shield met the flint, and that momentary clang was all it took for the steel to make a spark.  A tiny spark.  Followed by a violent blast.  A deafening boom.  A blinding flash.

And everything went black.

The Dark Heart of the Defias

My return to Stormwind after my adventures in the Deadmines was bittersweet.  Though I was happy to return to civilization, the wilderness and harsh environs of Westfall and the areas beneath it were no gentle host, I was saddened to see many of the comrades I had made during the short journey go their separate ways.  Such is the life of adventure, I suppose.  An exciting road, but often a lonely one.

I left my musings at the tavern in Old Town, when I heard a commotion behind me.  Some guardsmen were arguing over an altercation in the canals between the Trade and Mage districts.  The conversation caught my ear, so I resolved to investigate.  Paying for my ale, I left the tavern and made my way for the canals. 

When I arrived at the location in question, I immediately saw the cause for concern.  The Stormwind Stockades, a prison beneath the canals of the city, was in disarray.  Barricades had been hastily erected, facing inward, guards were posted at every entrance, but seeming to be vigilant of threats from within, rather than from without.  Interested, I questioned the local commander.

The moment the man informed me of the trouble, my fears were realized.  There had been a riot.  The guards had been overpowered, and the multitude of criminals within the stockade were now in control of its corridors.  I asked for more details about the instigators, anxious to sate my deeper fears, but was met with an answer that only fanned the flames of my apprehension.

The Defias.

My will was fortified, my nerves steeled, I saw this as my responsibility.  After all, it had been my blade that cut the Defias kingpin’s head from his shoulders.  My action that had saved the kingdom, but doomed the stockade.  My victory, that sparked this failure.

The guard captain offered me the assistance of two of his guardsmen, which I accepted after some reluctance; I felt this was my fight, but a small party would have a greater chance of success than a lone Paladin.  I stepped towards the entrance, ready to engage, when a familiar voice cooed from behind me.  It was a soft voice, a sweet voice.  But it held within it a sarcasm and power I was still unaccustomed to. 

I had to hide my smirk as I turned to face the Warlock.  Strycnosa, had been her name.

Despite the odds between my order and hers, I had a great respect for this one.  She commanded the very powers I have sworn to fight, but she did so with great resolve and a thirst of justice.  Perhaps there was truth to what some said about fighting fire with fire, I only prayed that trusting her would not burn all of us.

Admittedly, I was happy to see her again.  She had been a valuable asset in the Deadmines, a capable fighter, and, truth be told, was not uneasy on the eyes.  I asked her if she intended to venture forth, to which she responded that a man within the stockade named Dextren Ward was convicted of selling corpses to a necromancer in Duskwood.  Her order had business with this man, as secrets he obtained from his transactions would benefit their research, as well as the offering of his hand to the authorities would provide much-needed respite for their rather sullied reputation.  I offered to accompany her, fighting together as we had in Westfall, to which she obliged.

As we neared the gated entrance, another voice called to us, an unfamiliar one.  I turned, and met the gaze of a female Night Elf.  She was beautiful and enigmatic, and war plain leather garments adorned with leaves and natural things.  She introduced herself as Tiyara, a druid of the Cenarion Circle.

Tiyara told us that she had befriended a group of Dwarves in Menethil Harbor, meeting with them frequently during journeys from Darnassus to Stormwind, and had recently been saddened to hear that an inmate of the Stockade, Kam Deepfury, had been responsible for the death of several of their kin as a result of an attack on the Thandol Span bridges.  She asked to accompany us, pledging her abilities as a healer to our cause, which Strycnosa and I graciously accepted.

Our party formed, we sallied forth.  The halls were littered with debris from the battle and the bodies of the fallen.  The animals within hadn’t even attempted to tend to them, a sickening display of their depravity.  I gave the rites to as many as I could, but it wasn’t long before we were noticed and assailed.

Defias thugs, dozens of them, rushed forward.  I raised my shield and taunted them, drawing their attention to myself.  The guardsmen attacked capably, and Strycnosa’s fel magic tore them apart.  Tiyara chanted, gracing us with the blessings of nature, fueling our attacks with greater strength, our spells with greater potency.  We had laid the patrol low, but remained on guard.  A decision, it seemed, that served us well, as a roaring cry echoed through the stone walls.

I turned, and saw a massive Blackrock Orc charging at us.  His sights were fixed on Tiyara, but I quickly intervened with a smashing blow to his chest with the bulk of my shield.  He stumbled back, but regained his footing faster than a creature such as he should be capable.  Raising my defenses, I parried and blocked each rapid assault as best I could.  The beast was ferocious, its rage and tenacity unending as blow after blow hammered my shield.  The Light gave me fortitude, however, and I stood strong.

During the exchange, the two guardsmen managed to position themselves on either side of the Orc’s flank.  Delivering swift slashes to his hamstrings, they crippled his ability to move.  Another fierce bash with my shield sent him sprawling back onto the floor.  I lowered my weapons, ready to apprehend the creature, when its flesh swelled and festered before my eyes.  The Warlock, it would seem, was not intent to take prisoners.

Initially I intended to berate her for killing a defeated prisoner, but more important matters presented themselves, as a stout, dark-skinned Dwarf emerged from one of the side rooms, investigating the sounds of battle that no-doubt echoed through the halls moments before.  Tiyara’s gaze hardened.  This was clearly Kam Deepfury.

The Dwarf charged, his own shield raised.  We traded blow after blow, but his ability to defend mirrored my own.  The stalemate continued, his martial prowess capable of deflecting not only my blows, but the blows of both guardsmen as well.  He showed no sign of tiring, and his hard, Dwarven skin seemed to shrug off even Strycnosa’s dark magic.  Worse still, the Dwarf’s rage seemed to embolden his own attacks, as the more we assailed, the stronger he became. 

Then, a blinding light cascaded from the ceiling.  I am unsure of what, exactly, the source of the light was.  It was not the Holy Light I know with my heart, but was not either the light of the sun.  It was silver, cold, and beautiful, pure and cleansing.  It was as if a beam of light had poured from the moon itself and enveloped the Dwarf in its embrace.  The light seared his flesh and brought him low, his corpse collapsing in a heap before us.  I turned to Tiyara, unblinking and surprised, who merely smirked and enigmatically informed me that even those who follow Cenarius may still call upon the gifts of Elune.

With her task complete, we expected Tiyara to depart, but she vowed to see our quest through by our sides; a heartening pledge.  I silently prayed to the Light for this blessing, and we moved on to a large room at the end of the corridor.  Within the room a stench wafted that stung my nostrils.  It was the smell of death and decay.  Strycnosa glared.

Dextren Ward, the cruel and callous man who had stolen corpses from the Raven Hill Cemetery to sell to the necromancer Morbent Fel, was picking at the bodies of the fallen; Stormwind Guard and Defias alike.  With a shout, I charged.  Ward was fast, far faster than many I’d faced, but his blows were escapable.  He was focused, but undisciplined.  The battle was shorter than the previous two, but no less taxing.  In the end, it was the Warlock herself that finished Ward off, summoning a cadre of imps that overwhelmed him, tearing flesh in flaming chunks. 

The brutality of his death was unnerving, a fact that displayed on the Warlock’s face, despite her attempts to hide it.  I was admittedly relieved to see that the savagery of her minions was known to her; she did not seem the cold and heartless wretch many assumed all Warlocks to be.  She silently knelt beside his corpse, severed his hand from his wrist with her dagger, and dispelled the imps.

We exited the room and charged down the long hall, dispatching small groups of rioters and patrollers as we moved.  Coming to a large, circular room, we were halted.  A massive, two-headed Ogre stood in the center of the round chamber, picking its teeth with the blade of a past fallen enemy.  I shuddered to think of what refuse it was cleaning from its crooked, yellowed maw.  One of the ogre’s heads shifted, smelling the air, and shouted a warning to the other.  No sooner had we been discovered, than he attacked.

Defending against this monster was taxing.  I focused on evading and parrying, rather than direct blocking, as I was certain the thing’s strength was such that a direct blow would crush the bones of my arm beneath the shield.  I was woefully confirmed when a thundering fist caught the edge of my shield and forced me to stagger, while the other came directly down in the center, exactly where my arm was looped within the straps.

I heard my bones snap.  The pain exploded my vision in red and white stars, and I faltered.  Dropping the shield from my now-useless arm, I backpedaled out of reach of the Ogre’s massive arms.  He lunged forth, both heads snarling, four eyes wide with rage and bloodlust.  I used his momentum against him, sliding to the side and bringing my sword down to his knees, thrusting the tip into the joint of one leg.  The Ogre roared and crashed to the ground.  The guardsmen capitalized, each bringing a sword up high, and bringing them down fiercely at the nape of each head.  The Ogre’s body twitched as both heads rolled across the floor, separated from the quivering hulk that was the rest of its body.

I dropped to a knee and grabbed my shattered, arm, the pain excruciating.  Tiyara stepped forward and gently placed her hands on the flesh, a warm, green glow emitting from her palms.  I felt the bones mend, the warmth soothing the pain, and gazed with amazement as my fingers once again responded.  I thanked the Druid, and retrieved my shield.

It was time to finish this. 

I called a challenge to Bazil Thredd, the lieutenant of Edwin VanCleef who had orchestrated this riot.  The ambitious man who thought to take up VanCleef’s charge, to seize leadership of the Defias, and carry on the attack on Stormwind in Edwin’s name.  The call was immediately answered.

Thredd entered the chamber, adorned in the signature black leather armor of the Defias rogues, a wicked blade in each hand.  The look in his eyes was fanatical, single-minded and murderous.  I expected a monologue, some villainous rant to justify his actions, condemn us.  To my surprise, however, no such speech came, only a vicious assault.

His swords were like lightning, it was all I could do to remain out of reach.  He had me entirely on the defensive, unable to land a blow of my own, so focused was I on evading or deflecting those deadly blades.  Wound after wound compiled, Tiyara taxing herself to keep them closed, and so relentless were his strikes, so quick were his movements, that not even the guardsmen could find purchase in any of their swings.  Thredd was so swift, even the Warlocks spells failed to find their mark; there were times when the demonic fires came closer to singing me than their intended target.

Finally, however, opportunity presented itself.  An imp, no doubt summoned by Strycnosa during the fight, slipped between Thredd’s legs unnoticed.  It sank its foul teeth into the calf of the Defias lieutenant, staggering the rogue if only for a moment.

But that moment was all I required.

I swung my sword in a sideways arc, the blade biting into the leather and flesh of his torso.  I brought my knee up hard into his abdomen, and swiftly slammed the front of my helmet into his brow.  Stunned, bleeding, and off-balance, Bazil Thredd stumbled back.  Pressing the attack, I swept my shield across his knees, feeling the limbs crumple under the blow.  He fell to the ground hard, landing on his back, the red bandana covering his mouth stained a deeper crimson from the blood that spurted from his mouth.  I raised my sword high, and brought it down.

I prayed that this strike would do what VanCleef’s death had not.  I prayed that my sword had finally pierced the dark heart of the Defias Brotherhood.

In any consolation, it had at least pierced the dark heart of Bazil Thredd.

Journey into the Deadmines

My discoveries in Northshire Valley have brought forth a startling revelation and a solemn purpose in me.  This Defias Brotherhood is indeed a dire threat to Stormwind and its people; a coiled viper, poised to strike. Its ranks permeate the downtrodden populace, corrupting the minds of the people like a venom, promising perverse "justice" for those displaced by the wars.

My investigation into the Brotherhood has led me from Goldshire to the region of Westfall.  A long-standing community of tradesmen and farmers, the citizens of these plains had always been a sturdy and resolute lot.  The largest still-active settlement, Sentinel Hill, stood as a beacon of resilience in a land constantly besieged by gnolls, bandits, murlocs, and nature itself.

During the journey to Westfall, I had taken time to reflect on my role as a Paladin, and while combat was natural to our Order, I came to respect the acts of defiance and defense over the crusades of righteous retribution.  I resolved to be a stalwart defender, standing to protect my allies and distract the mightiest of foes, so that my companions might have opportunities to strike, or escape unharmed should the fight turn dire.  Such acts of self-sacrifice are the pinnacle of what it means to bear the title Paladin.

Outfitting myself with a sword and shield from the local smith, I met with Gryan Stoutmantle, a warrior of some renown and loyalist to the crown.  I assisted him and his fellows with tasks around the region: slaying gnolls and murlocs, securing provisions, even bloodying a few bandits to help thin their ever-growing numbers.  It was during this task, that I made my first real discovery. 

Tracking a Defias messenger on the pathways across the plains, I ran across a missive that shined a revealing light on the Defias base of operations: Moonbrook.  A deserted shell of a town near the base of the southern mountain ranges, it was now being used to house personnel and supplies for the Brotherhood.  The disheveled and run-down buildings and forgotten structures now housed thugs and transients, leering eyes and suspicious glares.  As I searched the hamlet, the most damning evidence was uncovered.


Far beneath the houses and mountains lied the dark and twisted tunnels of an abandoned mine.  The deep and cavernous corridors stretched into an underground lake that fed into the Great Sea.  It was this discovery that revealed the dark truth of the Defias Brotherhood's schemes.

I entered the mines with a small retinue of volunteers and like-minded heroes, each established in their own right, that had gathered at Gryan's request.  A Gnomish mage, a Dwarven rogue, and a Night Elf priest greeted me at the entrance to the largest building; the place we had come to find out held the entrance to the sinister caverns.  We had been informed of a fifth adventurer, a dark-haired female human--the only description we were given--who we were to rendezvous with at the designated meeting point on the outskirts of the Defias operations in the mine.

As we neared the designated point, we heard the sounds of a battle echoing through the jagged stone walls.  Charging in prepared for combat, we beheld a surprising reveal.  A demonic Voidwalker was locked in combat with a small squad of Defias brigands, and a hellish rain of fire and brimstone cascaded down upon them from the ceiling, seemingly summoned from the burning hells themselves.  I quickly realized to my chagrin, that the source of the demonic magic was indeed our contact. 

The thieves had fallen before we could even enter the fray, and the voidwalker turned to us, bracing like a beast about to pounce.  Strycnosa, as she announced herself to our party, was a warlock.  I gritted my teeth and suppressed my prejudices out of necessity for the task at hand, and approached.  She told is, in great detail, of our mission, the forces we could expect, and her plan of attack.  Her cunning and tactical capability were both impressive and alarming.  I silently prayed that this ally would never become an adversary, as despite her clear martial prowess, her command over the blackest of arts rivaled my own synergy with the Holy Light.

Our infiltration was successful with little complication.  We engaged a few patrols here and there, until we came to a large, circular room flanked by a giant steel door.  The door was not unguarded, and a large, imposing ogre stood watch over the chamber.  We had yet to be noticed, as I hefted my sword and shield, and glanced to our healer with a nod.  When the gesture was returned, I charged.  I locked in close combat with the brute, and kept his attention fixed on myself as my companions released a torrent of magic and blades until the ruffian fell. 

The Night Elf tended to the wounds we sustained in combat by invoking her patron, a Night Elf deity named Elune.  I reflected for a moment on the parallels between the loving embrace of her Elune, and my own devotion and relationship with the Holy Light.  We then quickly moved on.

The tunnels wound and twisted, until we found ourselves in a large chamber filled with trunks of unprocessed lumber.  The sounds of buzz saws and axes echoed through the air, drowning out the sound of our approach.  We were soon discovered by the room's inhabitants, however, and a horde of goblins descended upon us.  We engaged the rabble, quickly felling the creatures, but our victory was short-lived.

A Shredder, a horrible amalgamation of goblin iron, spinning saws, oil and steam, charged from the rear of the chamber.  I parried a large saw with my shield, and drove my sword into the joint of one of the contraption's legs.  As the hulking figure stumbled forward, the mage willed fire into the saw's tips, melting the jagged edges and rendering the weapon useless.  The rogue appeared from nowhere, shoving his daggers into the back of the pilot, causing the entire device to collapse into a heap without direction.  We caught our breath, and pushed forward.

Through the next door, we found a large room with a winding ramp downward, the path circling a giant smelting pot hanging from the ceiling.  Goblins lined the path, falling to our blows as we charged down below.  At the base, the largest, cruelest goblin I'd ever seen sneered at us with yellowed teeth; some from years of neglect, some from caps of crudely molded gold.  This was clearly the leader of the smelting operations.  We engaged in a short battle with the smithy, until he too fell before us.  Following through on our momentum, we again moved on.

The next chamber led us to a huge metal door, which seemed impassable.  That is, until the warlock had an inspired idea.  Re-purposing a large, conveniently placed cannon, we packed the powder and loaded a ball, aiming the weapon at the door.  An ear-shattering boom resonated through the tunnels as the iron and wood of the door splintered and fell.  While it had allowed us passage, it had alerted the rest of the Brotherhood to our activities.  But even the shock of the blast was nothing compared to what we witnessed next.

A humongous, fully-loaded juggernaut ship sat anchored in the lake beneath the mines.  Packed to the brim with pirates and cannons, we then truly understood the grave threat the Defias posed.  They sought to sail the Great Sea to the shores of Stormwind, and lay siege to the city.  This could not be allowed.  We steeled ourselves and charged.

Pirate after pirate fell, our fury propelled by patriotism, valor and righteousness, until a lumbering figure charged down the boarding ramp from the great ship.  A humongous, black-maned Tauren raised a great axe, and swung at the priest.  I quickly intercepted the blow with my sword, allowing the startled Night Elf to clamber to safety.  Bashing the brute with my shield, I followed through with a swift kick to his abdomen.  Knocked back, the Tauren snorted and dropped the axe.  He roared, and stomped the ground.  A shockwave emitted from his hoof, and dazed my companions and I momentarily; long enough for the beast to claim a large maul-like hammer from a chest of supplies nearby.

Clearing my head, I engaged once again.  The mage and rogue had been occupied by two Defias thieves that had attempted to flank us, and the healer was fixated on keeping us mended and alive.  I went blow for blow with the Tauren, but he was vastly stronger than I, and I wearied quickly.  In my fatigue, I was dealt a blow to the legs with the shaft of the hammer, and fell to my knees.  Dazed, I struggled to raise my shield, but it was batted aside.  The Tauren grinned madly and raised his maul to deliver the deathblow, and then something that chills me to this day occurred.

The Tauren's face went from triumph to horror, as his fur began to singe, and his skin began to blister.  He roared in both agony and fury as the boils blistered and popped, and his great frame fell backward.  The look of fury and terror was frozen on his face as he slammed into the ground, the very life drained from his eyes.  Strycnosa stood behind him, grinning, fidgeting with some small, violet, crystalline shard.  I resolved to be grateful for the moment, and inquire later, as I rose back to my feet and caught my second wind.

We climbed the decks of the ship, still felling pirate after pirate, even dispatching a formidable goblin that claimed to be the captain of the vessel that attempted to rally the survivors against us.  We were resolute, however, and made our way to the bridge.

And there it was that we came face to face with the man behind the entire plot.  The Defias kingpin:  Edwin VanCleef.

Our research had told us that VanCleef was a popular leader of a guild of stonemasons, that had been cheated out of fair recompense for their work to restore Stormwind after the initial Orcish invasion.  Neither side was blameless.  The masons had demanded a king's ransom for their services, but the corrupt nobles gave them barely pennies.  Displaced and betrayed, VanCleef established the Brotherhood to exact a brutal revenge on the city, even the innocent citizens were to blame in his crusade for vengeance.

VanCleef was also well-trained and experienced in the arts of subterfuge and assassination, as his life prior to becoming a mason was that of an elite agent of SI:7, Stormwind's intelligence-gathering and clandestine operations organization.  I braced myself for a tough fight, and VanCleef heartily delivered.

His blades were like the northern wind, swift and biting, never relenting.  My focus was on defense more than anything, and though he was outnumbered five to one, he managed to evade and parry most of our blows.  Even the magic slung by the mage and the warlock seemed to roll off of his frame, as if the shadows themselves were defending him.  The fight raged on for what seemed an eternity, its longevity exacting a clear toll on the reserves of our group; even the healer appeared taxed.

Finally, be it luck or skill, the rogue delivered a blow to VanCleef's flank, and the kingpin grunted in pain, hesitating mid-strike.  It was all the opening I needed.  I brought my sword into VanCleef's side, blade biting into flesh, and shoved my shield into his breastbone.  The wind knocked out of him, and his side bleeding, he staggered back.  Bolts of arcane energy hit him like a barrage as he stumbled, and his skin began to crack and blister; a result of more demonic curses, no doubt.  The rogue flung a fan of knives that dug deep into his flesh as he continued to careen towards the ships rail.

I charged once more, the Light itself fueling my fury, as I swung my blade clean, separating shoulder from neck.  VanCleef's head dropped to the deck, and with a swift kick, I sent his headless corpse over the rail into the water below.  We froze for a moment, still locked in combat stances, breathing heavily, as we took in the magnitude of our accomplishment.

Edwin VanCleef was dead.  The Defias Brotherhood had been routed.  Stormwind was safe.

At least, I thought, for a time.

A Single Step

Thanks be to the Light!  My training has finally ended, and I have been bestowed with the title of Paladin at last.  I have faced trials of fortitude, strength, and faith, and surpassed all of the challenges laid before me.  I yearn to enter the great world of Azeroth and beyond, and bear forth the Light; a vessel of healing and defense to the weak, and an agent of righteous retribution to the wicked and corrupt.

I had recently learned of troubles in the vineyards of Northshire Abbey.  Packs of wolves had been harassing the citizens, bands of kobolds had been infesting the nearby gold mine, and bandits were pillaging the grape harvest.  I saw no better opportunity to begin my journey than this distressed valley.  I set out for Northshire at first light.

My reception by the local Marshal was well received.  He seemed elated to have assistance with the sudden threats that had plagued his watch.  He introduced me to the local citizenry and assigned to me my first task: culling the booming population of increasingly-aggressive wolves.  It took no time at all to isolate a few of the mangy beasts from their packs, and my warhammer made short work of them.  I also harvested a fair amount of meat from the creatures to provide the local traders and craftsmen with materials for producing rations and jerky for the beleaguered guards.  With my first task complete, I returned to the Marshal.

So grateful was the Marshal for my assistance, he gave me passage into the heart of the Abbey, where a wizened and disciplined elder Paladin had taken position.  As I passed through the hallowed halls, I marveled at the craftsmanship of the old, stone walls and magnificent painted glass windows.  My footsteps echoed through the halls, as the tall ceilings loomed overhead.  I paused to reflect on both the skill of the men that carved these walls, and the majesty of the Holy Light that inspired them.

I met with the esteemed Paladin and paid my respects to his station.  We communed together with the Light, and he imparted upon me new and improved techniques of our order.  I thanked him for his time and assistance, and returned to the front of the Abbey.

The Marshal signaled me as I returned. and asked if I would be willing to continue to assist with his troubles. I, of course, obliged.  The guards had reported a startling increase in the kobold infestation within the nearby gold mine, and my help with investigating the issue was requested.  I quickly made my way to the rear of the valley and positioned myself outside of the mine's entrance.  The burning smell of campfires and crude forges stung my senses as I approached the threshold.

I heard the chattering of kobold voices, and the plinking and clanging of shoddy mining picks against stone and ore.  I ventured through the cavernous opening and deep into the halls of the mine, steeling myself.  I softly said a prayer to the light, and felt its holy strength flowing into my weapon, imbuing it with righteous power.  The chattering grew louder, in broken Common.  I could decipher plans to encroach on the people of the valley, usurping the resources and displacing those they did not kill in the assault.  I had heard all I needed to.  I struck.

My weapon was a blur, the kobolds were caught unprepared.  I struck two down before the rabble even realized they were under attack, and two more yet before any defense could be mustered.  The beasts charged, flailing madly and shouting in their guttural tongues.  They fought wildly, but were crude and undisciplined.  I easily parried their flurry of strikes, and retaliated in kind.  After nearly a dozen had fallen, the mob scattered into the depths and recesses of the mine.  Confident that any plans of an organized attack had been thoroughly quelled, I returned to the Marshal to deliver the good news.

It was not, unfortunately, reciprocated in kind.

During my time in the mines, the bandits east of the river had made a bold move on the vineyards.  They had swept through with such speed and ferocity that the Northsire guards were driven back to the Abbey's perimeter grounds.  My task was twofold: subdue a number of the thugs, claiming their red bandannas as a message to the rest, then retrieve as much of the pilfered grape harvest as possible.

I swiftly made my way across the small river and took a position near the fenced fields.  I spotted a group of bandits gathering around a large bucket of grapes, muttering unflattering remarks about the poor steward of the harvest, a young Ms. Millie Osworth, as they rummaged through her stolen crops.  I charged, bringing the hammer across the back of the bandit closest to the fence.  He crumpled to the ground, quickly gathering the attention of his comrades.  The bandits were fierce, and much more capable fighters than the kobolds, but the Light was with me, and my strikes landed true. 

The skirmish had ended quickly, and I retrieved the bandannas, stuffing them into the leather pouch on my hip.  I then proceeded to hoist the barrel of grapes up from the ground and turned back towards the Abbey.  I repeated this process a half a dozen more times, until a grateful Ms. Osworth informed me that I had recovered enough for her needs. 

During my task, the Marshal had sent a scout to observe the bandit activity to the north and east of the vineyards, and had obtained valuable information towards stemming the flow of their violence and aggression.  He had identified their leader.  I assured him that the request need not even be made, and headed towards the camp of Garrick Padfoot; the leader of this particular group of bandits, who we had come to discover were part of a group called the Defias Brotherhood. 

Seeking to alleviate the people of Northshire from their troubles, I approached Padfoot's tent and issued a challenge.  The bandit sneered, and unceremoniously charged.  His attacks were swift and unpredictable, his skill far greater than those he supervised.  A dagger bit into my arm, and another into my leg.  I raised my defenses, unprepared for the ferocity and capability of this foe.  Pain surged through me, though I remained stalwart, knowing the Light would see this through. 

As if to answer my prayers, a warm glow began to emanate from my wounds.  The flesh mended, and the bleeding stopped.  I thanked the Light for its healing embrace, and used the moment of surprise my healing evoked in my enemy to shove the head of my hammer into his stomach while his guard was down.  He stumbled back, and one of the daggers fell to the grass.  Following through with a lateral strike, I felt bones shatter beneath my weapon as the other dagger flew from his grip.  With a final blow, I ended the threat that Garrick Padfoot and his Defias Brotherhood compatriots posed to the small valley and the citizens within.

Returning to the Marshal, I happily delivered the news.  Ecstatic, the Marshal wrote me a commendation and  advised me to report to his counterpart in a small town down the road to the southwest, Goldshire, for further reward.  I thanked the Marshal, and began to make my way down the road.  As I approached the gates to Elwynn Forest, I turned and glanced over my shoulder at the Abbey.

I smiled pensively.  This was but the first step on my journey; but what a grand journey it should be.