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.