Dawn Of Darkness

[Renetet]

Ok, some first things before we get to the story proper. This is a story that I'm still writing. As I finish the various parts, I'll post them here. Just a warning now, that some of the subsequent parts will contain some descriptive violence, as well as somewhat gruesome descriptions of certain settings. This part is clean, but I will post a warning on each one for this reason. And now, without further ado, the story.





Dawn of Darkness: The Prophecy Foretold

Bound forever, in the prison eternal,
Bound forever, by the forces infernal,
The Bringer of Strife,
The Devourer of Life,
Is bound forever, in the prison eternal.

Arturus Kelhara rolled the ancient parchment back into a roll, and laid it gently on the dais beside him. Arturus was High Priest of his religious order, known as the Order of the One Light. Dedicated to his marrow to uphold the principles of honor and justice, Arturus was a steadfast believer in the Holy Light. A tall man, with greying hair, Arturus was approaching middle age. At 56 years, he had lived through much of the turmoil of the past half century. Now, as Head of the Order, he surveyed his visitor, the man who brought this so ancient piece of parchment to him. The wizened traveller looked nearly as ancient as the parchment. His skin looked like well worn leather, his hands had the look of a man who had spent a great deal of his time working the land, and his clothes were worn from exposure to the elements. Dusty and disheveled, the man looked around at the gleaming cathedral of the Order of the One Light. Massive pillars of red stone held up the impossibly high ceiling, lost to sight amid the gleaming metal walkways of the cathedral. The windows all depicted various battles of the Light against the Dark, including the Battle at Mount Hyjal. The Cathedral was a part of the mountain, one of many in the Stone Talon Range. Though harpies periodically raided the Cathedral, the Order’s soldiers had kept them at bay. The Cathedral was a massive cavern, hollowed by years of work. Though the depths of the Cathedral were still perilous, the upper levels were safe. Arturus was now on the uppermost level, the Cathedral proper, to meet with his most unusual guest. After several minutes of observation, Arturus finally spoke.
“Where did you acquire this parchment?” he asked of the stranger.
“Well, me an’ me lads, we uncovered this old tomb down on the Flats, ya see. So we was pokin’ about the ruins o’ the tomb when we finds this chamber full of ol’ parchments and stuff. So we grabs a few an’ brings ‘em back home with us. When we found that there one, we figger’d that you might be able to make some sense of it. In me eye's, reads like telling the future, an' that'd agree with the stuff we found in that there tomb.”
Arturus nodded. “Well, my good man, there are very few prophecies that actually turn out to be true. Most are simply village legends, or hoaxes, or careful guesswork. Few people are actually able to ‘see’ the events of the future. I know the tomb you speak of, and rest assured, it was well searched in the past and we never found any such parchment rooms. I’m rather afraid you’ve been prey to an elaborate hoax.”
The farmer looked crestfallen. “Well’n, I guess this here gem does me no good. You might as well take it, I guess,” the farmer said sullenly. From within a pocket on his worn clothes, the farmer produced a bundle of rags. Intrigued, Arturus took the bundle from the farmer. He thanked the farmer and sent him on his way. Arturus began unraveling the rags surrounding the gem. Arturus wondered why the farmer had wrapped so small an object in so many rags, but then felt the reason. As the layers were undone, they became colder and colder. Soon, the rags were completely frozen pieces of cloth, sometimes shattering like glass when touched. Arturus’ hands were soon numb, and he realized that it was clearly not going to be an easy task. Arturus began to cast a spell to warm the gem and thaw it. The spell rapidly thawed the rags and allowed them to be unraveled, and soon, Arturus was gazing at an obsidian shard.
The shard was about the size of a man’s fist. Smooth and well cut, it would be worth a fortune on the common markets. Intricate carvings and symbols covered it, but Arturus could make nothing of these engravings. Arturus’ hands throbbed painfully where they had gone numb. He attempted a warming spell to thaw them, but to no avail. He made a note to see the Healer the next morning. Arturus returned his attention to the shard. The inside seemed to be filled with a writhing smoke cloud, and he could not discern the depths of it. The gems interior seemed vast and dark. The hour was late, and Arturus was exhausted from a long day’s work and analysis. He went to sleep that night but he was troubled. Though the tomb boasted no rooms like the old man spoke of, the parchment was written in ancient text, not Common. And what of the mysterious carved gem? What was its role in all of this? Arturus knew full well the possible repercussions of ignoring the prophecies. It had lead to the complete destruction of Lordaeron, his homeland. Passion flared within Arturus, and he vowed to learn all he could about this prophecy, and if it was a hoax, who was behind it.

As first light broke, Arturus was preparing for a long journey. Unable to discern much of the parchment, or the carved gem, he was heading for the only known stronghold which held knowledge of demonic magics and lore – Orgrimmar. Arturus knew that the orc Warchief Thrall had founded a great city there, named after his fallen friend Orgrim, and that the new nation of Durotar, was well under way. Though distrusting of outlanders, the orcs had retained contact with the Tauren of Thunder Bluff. Arturus’ path would take him to the Thunder Bluff villages, and from there, along the caravan routes that would lead to the city of Orgrimmar. Once there, he would consult the orcs demonic libraries, which were preserved only to aid the orcs in fighting the various Warlock cults still loyal to the Legion. Arturus didn’t care how long it would take, he would scour the library of Orgrimmar until his skin shriveled, he would find out all he could of this prophecy. He decided to leave behind the Gem and bring only the parchment, deciding that he would be more likely to gain insight from the parchment than the gem. He also knew what value that gem was, and didn't want it stolen in mid journey. Arturus knew well the dangers of the open passes, and decided a small escort was in order. He brought with him 4 warriors, seasoned veterans used to the dangers of the passes, and living off the land as would be necessary during the trip. He looked about at his small party, riding horseback, and prayed they wouldn’t be attacked by harpies. Vicious beasts, the women of the peaks are. Arturus gave the signal and the gates of the Cathedral opened. The small band headed out, riding over the rugged hills and rocks of the Stone Talon Ridge. Just before he disappeared over the ridge, Arturus looked back upon the mighty Cathedral, its red rock spires reaching high into the dusty sky.

Little did he know, it would be the last time he would see it, in all it’s glory…

[to be continued...]

[Bullroarer]

THe classic nosey scientist/wizard digging too deep into the well of knowledge, I can't wait to see how it unfolds.

[Inquisistor7]

Pretty good. There were a couple of grammatical mistakes, and if you could, please make spaces between paragraphs (it makes it easier to read). The first part of a story is meant to draw the reader in and interest him, and this chapter did just that.

[Renetet]

Yes, I am sorry about the other post and lack of spaces. I copied the whole thing from Word and it didn't seem to recognize tabs well. This one I've done by hand so hope it works. Oh, and this one contains allusions to violent events so if even thinking of violence upsets you, read no further.








Dawn of Darkness: The Lord of Strife


Arturus woke to the sounds of the creaking caravan, making its winding way along the road to Orgrimmar from Thunder Bluff. Arturus had successfully navigated the perilous path of the Stone Talon Range, and across the Flats to the Thunder Bluff villages. There, he had sent his companions back to the Cathedral, and hooked up with a caravan of Tauren traders heading for Durotar. Despite his lack of an escort, Arturus knew he was in the presence of capable warriors. No harpy would dare attack an Orgrimmar caravan, for fear of the reprisal from the orcish Horde. Arturus pulled the parchment once more from his pack, but could make little more of the prophecy itself. He turned his attention to the various pictures and inscriptions near borders. They depicted a great black form, a shrouded figure whose cloak was swirling as if caught in a high wind. There were a number of demonic runes that Arturus could not make out, and, what appeared to be a drawn rip in the parchment. Arturus desperately wanted to know about the secrets of this scroll. He thought eagerly of the orcish libraries ahead, and took comfort in the fact that he would soon be able to decipher the mysterious scroll, and begin making sense of the prophecy…



Meanwhile….in the blackness of the Abyss, the Lord of Strife senses a change in the balance of power…

The winds of the Abyss howled continuously, voices screaming foulness that would bring madness to the common mortal denizen. In the blackness of the Abyss, it is here that the failures of the Legion are kept bound. It was here, 10,000 years ago, that Argantes, the Lord of Strife, was bound within the Chaos Citadel. Archimonde, second in command of the Legion, punished Argantes for his failure. Argantes was tasked with overseeing the ritual that was to bring Sargeras, the Destroyer into the world of Azeroth. However, the disruption of the ritual caused by Furion Stormrage and Tyrande Whisperwind, made the spell go awry. The Well of Eternity exploded, and the Great Sundering occurred. For his failure, Argantes was imprisoned within his Chaos Citadel, imprisoned there for all of eternity…

But clearly, something had upset the balance of power in the Nether. Argantes was aware that the Legion had launched its second invasion, and that it too, had failed. Argantes learned as well, much to his delight, that Archimonde, his jailer, was among the fatalities on the world. Argantes could feel the change as clearly as the wind upon his form. Normally kept in a state of paralysis, the Lord of Strife could now use his senses and move more easily. Within days, Argantes was regularly leaving his jail chamber, and roaming the Citadel. However, Argantes was not free. The binding that Archimonde had placed on him would still allow him to be imprisoned. The means to do so still resided within the mortal realm, safe from Argantes reach. Then came the day, when the rift was revealed.

Demons may not simply pass into the world. Such an act required external aid, either through a powerful summoning, or the use of a gate. However, natural gates do exist, that allow demons to pass from the Nether plane to the Mortal world. Such gates are rare, and disappear as quickly as they come. And now, after an eternity caged in the Abyss, Argantes was watching the prisons barrier. A small tear had appeared, not quite large enough for a finger tip to pass through. As Argantes watched, the tear grew larger, and brighter. Soon, it was fully the size of the Lord of Strife, and he approached it. He felt the sensation of being stretched forward, elongating and whirling forward, the light blinding him…

Argantes blinked and surveyed his new surroundings. He could hear nothing, but quickly discerned that he was underground. A quick glance told him that he was not anywhere in the Abyss, but had entered the Mortal realm. He grinned wickedly to himself, realizing that his chance for freedom, his chance to be rid of his imprisonment was at long last, at hand. He realized he was in a tomb, buried under the earth. Argantes eyes pierced the gloom like it was the brightest of day. He recognized the tomb as the place where Archimonde himself placed the binding upon Argantes and cast him into the closed. There would be no returning to the Abyss. He looked about himself, and realized with much pleasure that he was fully prepared for the task at hand. His black sword hung at his side, cruel barbs and spikes covering the entire blade. He was shrouded in a cloak, and as he donned it, it swirled about himself continually. Argantes was pleased, for with his disguise, he could pass among the mortals of this world, and free himself from the imprisonment he had endured. But how?

Argantes searched the tomb hastily, and found what he needed. It was a ruby basin, covered in runes and writing. It was a scrying pool, which would allow a demon, or one possessed of a demonic power to discern their plight. However, it showed only images the user, and it required great cunning and cleverness to use…as well as the blood of an innocent. The basin was empty, dried blood caked to its bowl. Argantes drew his blade, and looked at it, taking in the sharp, tearing barbs, and imagining their effect upon weak, mortal flesh. As if of one mind, the sword’s blade glowed blood-red in the gloom. Argantes was pleased with his fortunes. He had been given the chance to free himself from his torment. He would not pass it up. Argantes made his way to the entrance of the tomb, and cast a quick look about. He was high upon a mountain bluff, and looking upon a great plain. He spotted the lights of what appeared to be a small village, off in the distance at the edge of the horizon. He began to make his way down the mountainside.

[to be continued...]

[Inquisistor7]

Interesting. The only complaints I have pertain to grammar and style. First of all, there are still quite a few grammatical errors. Second of all, try not to repeat the same words and phrases too much in a given paragraph (unless necessary).

[Renetet]

This Chapter contains violence.





Dawn of Darkness: The Shadow in the Night


Arturus stood swaying on the wagon of the merchant train as they drew near to the city of Orgrimmar. Finally, he thought to himself, I will be able to unravel this mystery and see what our path will be. He couldn’t explain it to himself, but he had a distinct feeling lately that something was very amiss. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something dark lay just over the horizon, but all there was to see were the endless miles of red sand that made up the Barrens each time. He looked off into the nothingness of the arid wasteland, wishing he could see what could be so wrong out there in the wilderness.

A few hours later, Arturus was walking towards the Library of Orgrimmar, ignoring the glances that he, as a human paladin, was getting. Outlanders were rare in the city, and to see so prominent a stranger drew much intrigue. Though he was aware of the attention, Arturus ignored it, focused so completely upon his desire that he nearly ignored the orc standing guard at the entrance.
“Arturus? Arturus the Pure? Here in Orgrimmar?” the orc inquired, sounding surprised.
Arturus doubled back, and looked into the grizzled face of Morag Wolfsan, head Shaman and Keeper of Lore at the Orgrimmar Library. Morag Wolfsan was well known to the Order, for his efforts at keeping supplies of quality weapons, armor, and fine ale available were much appreciated.
“Morag Wolfsan, we meet again. It’s good to see you my friend,” Arturus said.
“The spirits rejoice to see you as well, but you walk like a man of single intent. What brings you to the Library?” Morag asked.
“This,” Arturus said, drawing out the parchment scroll, “was brought to the Order’s attention. We suspect it’s a hoax but –“Arturus stopped at the look on Morag’s face as he scanned the parchment. Morag paused and looked up at Arturus, his expression grim.
“Come,” he said. “We have much work to do.”




“I tell you, there’s something in the forest!” Farmer Angus yelled, bringing his mug of ale down on the bar for good measure.
“You’ve been seeing all sorts of things in the forest!” Farmer Roddy remarked, bringing laughter from the assembled crowd at the Quills Inn. “Shapes and shadows, hearing noises, sounds like you’ve lost it to me!”
“I found footprints, and I’ll be damned to think they belonged to any man or beast around here!” Angus persisted. “An’ just two days ago, Jeannie and Ernie both say they saw a figure on the hill out by their farm! What say you to that?” Angus’ supporters roared in approval.
“Until I see some hard proof of this creature’s existence, I say you’re a liar!” Roddy retorted.
“Well then, we’ll just head into the forest and get it! And you all, you can come too, and we’ll prove the whole lot of you wrong!” Angus shouted to his now chanting supporters. They began setting their plans for the following full moon, when the light would be brightest at night.

Argantes listened from the darkness outside the tavern. As the raucous laughter died down and the men began their plans to capture “the creature”, Argantes walked away into the darkness. So, he thought, the plan worked perfectly. He had made the footprints, made sure the farmer saw them, and even went as far as to allow the couple on the outskirts to see him, silhouetted against the sinking moon, trusting their curiosity would lead them to their deaths. Such are the ways of the mortal races, Argantes thought. Always tampering with what they don’t understand. Always disturbing what is best left alone. Their foolishness would cost them more than their lives. Soon, Argantes would have the blood he needed to activate the scrying pool. And soon, he would have his chance after all these centuries, to feed on the souls of the innocent.




“Nothing, so far I can find nothing,” Morag sighed. His search for clues on the prophecy had been long and tiring, sifting through ages upon ages of demonic lore and volume after volume of useless information. He recognized immediately that the prophecy was not a hoax. It fit perfectly with the ancient prophecies made by those of Night Elves. Indeed, the prophecy was true, but what did it foretell? Who was the Bringer of Strife, and where was this prison? More and more questions chased themselves through Morag’s mind, and he had no answers.
“Ha! This looks promising,” Arturus exclaimed. He had come across a page about a demon called Argantes. It pertained to a great demon in the days of the first invasion of the Burning Legion, and of his failure, which resulted in his imprisonment for eternity in the darkness of the Abyss. Morag ran through the passage quickly, and then hurried off down one of the many rows of tomes. He returned some minutes later, muttering under his breath. He flipped through page after page, and then stopped. As he read, his expression became more and more dire. When he finally looked up, he was completely silent.
“What is it? What does it say?” Arturus asked, concerned.
“We must see the Ruling Council. This is worse than I could imagine. I only hope we are not too late.”




The group of torches weaved their way through the dense underbrush of the forest. Dogs barked and growled as they searched for the scent of “the creature”, and men with axes, swords and clubs peered into the almost lightless forest. The sounds of the forest were all around them, and a light breeze rustled branches, making the men jump, and others laugh. Far up at the front, Farmer Angus and Farmer Roddy looked down at the leaf covered forest floor. The thick canopy blocked nearly all light, but a beam of moonlight shone down in the middle of the clearing.
“Look, right there. See?” Farmer Angus said, pointing to what were two unmistakable depressions in the ground.
“I see them, and I don’t believe it any more now than I did then,” Roddy sneered. “Those could have been made by anything. And I see no other footprints besides these two.”
“Well then, we’ll just keep looking shall we?”

They continued to move deeper and deeper into the forests oppressive gloom. Before long, the canopy blocked almost all the light, and the dense trees made it difficult to see any distance with torchlight. Brambles and thistle bushes blocked there way and many resorted to hacking the bushes apart with their weapons. Soon, they entered another clearing, but there was no light to be had in this one. The men dropped to the ground, and began a brief rest.
“Do you hear that?” one man asked.
“I don’t hear a thing,” another replied.
“That’s just it. Nothing at all,” the first said.
The men stopped talking, and listened. The forest was dead silent, as though a predator had frightened the crickets from chirping. Even wind had stopped, and the branches were silent. Suddenly, the dogs began barking wildly into the night.
One man turned in place, using his torch to peer into the gloom. Then, he saw something, black shape within the blackness of the night. He frowned.
“What’s that?” he asked aloud. His final words.
In a single leap, Argantes stabbed forward with his sword, running him through. The barbs tore the doomed man’s flesh to shreds. There was a spray of, and the smell of blood in the air. The men hadn’t heard Argantes attack, but had heard the man’s unanswered question. One of them turned to see what it was, and caught a glimpse of a man lying on the ground, his intestines strewn in a rough circle around him, before Argantes leaped on top of him, pinning him to the ground. He sliced his blade down on an angle digging deeply into the earth, and sending the man’s head flying into the bushes.

The men in the clearing screamed in terror, as Argantes stood to his full height. His eyes glowed fiery red in the blackness, his sword pulsed as it gorged on the blood of the dead, and his black cloak swirled with the night, making him blend in perfectly. A man screamed and charged forward, sword drawn and ready to strike. Argantes deflected his sword to the side, and punched the man in the face. His skull exploded under the force of the blow, sending a spray of brain and blood into the night air. Argantes leaped into the crowd of petrified men, swinging. His blade grazed the front of a man who jumped back. A single red line crossed his belly, and he had a look of relief on his face, until his insides poured out and into the open night. The remaining men fled in blind terror, shouting into the darkness, one by one disappearing into the night. Let them run, Argantes thought. He would have great fun, hunting them down one by one, drinking deeply the essence of their mortal life.

The disemboweled man whimpered in agony and fear, still alive, though not for long. His blood formed a rapidly expanding pool, and Argantes crouched beside him, a look of false concern on his demonic face. Then, as swift as a striking viper, he plunged his hand deep into the man’s chest, his fingers closing on his prize – his heart. He tore it free, and the man watched his heart beating for a few moments, until his eyes took the hollowed look of death.

Then, as calmly as if he were out for an autumn stroll, Argantes stood, straightened his cloak, and strode from the blood soaked clearing.

[to be continued…]

[Inquisistor7]

Pretty vicious stuff. The writing, though, is good. Also, the scene in the library was sort of clihce (especially with the librarian's saying that the situation was worse than he thought). Now, that is not a bad thing, since the story itself is interesting. What I mean is that it's not always bad to use archetypes and plot types that have been used before. The catch is that in order to make the story sufficiently enjyable and interesting one must be creative and put one's own spin on it.

Don't get me wrong, though, this is good. Oh, and about violence: it is okay to have some gory scenes, but don't go overboard.

[Renetet]

Not as bad as the last one, but still a tad of gore here.




Dawn of Darkness: The Pool of Divinity


Arturus looked up toward the Ruling Council of Orgrimmar. He beheld the great Seer, Drek’Thar, and the mighty Shaman, Gab’Rulk. But the greatest of them all was none other than the great Orc Warchief himself, Thrall. The three great leaders looked down from their seats in the Hall upon Arturus and Morag. Morag looked grim, but had said nothing since his discovery in the Library, a meeting that had left Arturus uneasy. The feeling of something being very wrong had grown in his mind, particularly since the last full moon. Since then the feeling had grown more and more pronounced, and Arturus was driven nearly mad with his desire to know what Morag did. Now, he thought, I will find out.
“I thank you Warchief for this meeting. Indeed, I was worried that your negotiations with the Goblins would take precedence over my need,” Morag said.
“Never would I ignore one of my own. You said your need was very urgent, and if what the spirits tell me is true, I will agree before this meeting is done,” replied Thrall.
“It is dire Warchief. This paladin from the East, Arturus, has brought this –“he drew the prophecy out and handed it to Thrall – “to our attention. There is no doubt in my mind now. What has been foretold for the last ten thousand years has been fulfilled. Argantes is free once more.”
“After his first defeat at Mount Hyjal, Archimonde punished Argantes for his failure. The texts are very clear that Argantes was bound by Archimonde within the deepest parts of the Nether, in the Abyss. Argantes was bound for as long as the Nether exists, caged by Archimonde using a life-pact, a power that can only be broken by death.”
“It would appear that Archimonde’s defeat at Hyjal has weakened Argantes binding and imprisonment, and allowed him access to his powers once again.”
Thrall leaned forward. “Can we be certain that Argantes is here on this world? Has he breached the walls of his prison?” he asked intently.
“We do not know, but –“Morag began.
“He is free. I have felt it for sometime,” Arturus interrupted.
Thrall leaned back, thinking hard. “Yes, I knew that the Paladins would feel it. Always your people have sensed the coming of darkness and times of great peril. It is a very valuable ability of your Faith,” he commented.
“Morag, this bodes ill for us all. What do you propose we do?” Drek’Thar asked.
“Argantes may be free, but his powers are diminished. He will not have access to the totality of his strength. If he did, we would have known by now. Archimonde’s binding has held even through his death. Archimonde knew that Argantes was far more powerful than he was. It was why Argantes was chosen for the ritual of bringing Sargeras into the world. Archimonde knew his power, even his very life, would be insufficient to bind Argantes. He divided the binding between his most trusted servants – Mannoroth the Pitlord, and Tichondrius the Dreadlord. However, even this was not enough. So Archimonde crafted the Prison Crystal, infusing it with the power to hold Argantes. This Crystal was then hidden here on the Mortal Plane, safe from Argantes grasp.” Morag continued.
“Then Argantes will be looking for this Crystal.” Thrall said.
“A Crystal?” Arturus asked. “Crafted of obsidian?”
“Yes, more than likely, obsidian is the favored gem of the demons.”
Arturus calm voice concealed his distress. “I have seen it. The farmer who brought the prophecy to our attention gave it to us.”
“Do you have it?” Morag asked eagerly.
“No, I was worried it might be lost on the route. I brought only the parchment. The gem is safe though, the Order watches over it,” he added, seeing Morag’s dark expression.
“Can Argantes break the imprisonment in time?” Gab’Rulk asked.
Morag took a deep breath.
“No. He cannot. The imprisonment binding on him will not allow him to break free. However, the Prison Crystal will allow him to remove the binding. He will be looking for it, and he must never find it!”
“What if he already has it?” Gab’Rulk inquired.
“Argantes cannot break the binding, even with the Crystal. He needs help to do it and he will likely search out a Warlock to aid him. All it will take is one man, one person with enough will to break the enchantment, and our last chance at stopping Argantes will be gone. If we fail in our task, he will unleash an apocalypse which we have no hope of surviving.” Morag finished.
The hall was silent now, the weight of Morag’s words sinking in.
“So what must we do?” Thrall asked.
“The Crystal possesses the power to reinforce the prison. Argantes knows this, and he is afraid of this. He will free himself, and then destroy the Crystal to prevent himself from being recaptured. But, we have the advantage. We know where the Crystal is, and have it in our possession, if not on hand. We must prepare the Ritual of Binding, and use the Crystal to seal Argantes back in the Abyss from where he came.”
Thrall nodded in agreement. “Our course is set. We must take the Crystal here to Orgrimmar, and use it. The shaman’s and I will remain here and prepare the circle,” Thrall said decisively. “You –“he pointed to Arturus and Morag”- will go the Order’s Cathedral.”
“We must hurry. Argantes will soon know its location. He will sense the Crystal as surely as a beacon. He may already know its location,” Morag warned.
“Then let us make haste across the Barrens! All the worlds hope rests on our success,” Arturus declared. He led Morag from the Hall and out into another dusty day on the Barrens.




“Ga’bri kensha budaros,” Argantes intoned, speaking the words to activate the Pool of Divinity. He held the heart of his victim over the basin. “Keras, anarka kendara,” he spoke, crushing the heart, making blood run down his arm and into the basin. Instantly, the basin flared a deep red and pulsated. Argantes looked into the depths and focused, preparing himself for what he would see. He jerked suddenly, as the ritual took effect.
The images came flashing, one after the other, each fading as another took its place. He saw a great cathedral, crafted of the red mountains, a wide chamber with a throne and dais. A black crystal sat there, illuminated by a column of light, and surrounded by a courtyard full of proud, strong people. The images flashed and, just as suddenly, ended.
Argantes fell backward, the shock and strain having overcome him. He blinked, disoriented by the vividness of the pool. As he recovered, he began to cipher and reason. The Pool showed what the user most deeply wanted, and what was most deeply needed. The cathedral he had seen, the chamber within it, they had to be where it was hidden. Soon, Argantes thought, I will be free. Before the blood in the basin had begun to coagulate, Argantes was gone.


[to be continued...]

[Inquisistor7]

The only question I have at this point is this: wouldn't Thrall, as Warchief of the Horde and all that, be a little mroe suspicious of a human paladin?

This installment was pretty good. Keep writing.

[Renetet]

The only question I have at this point is this: wouldn't Thrall, as Warchief of the Horde and all that, be a little mroe suspicious of a human paladin?

Long Answer: yes and no. The humans fought with the Horde at Hyjal, and the paladins more than likely would have been responsible for the healing of the warriors. Afterwards, when the war was over and the humans settled on Theramore, the Paladins set out to the Stonetalon Moutains to found a new order. The new order retains trade lines with the Orcs who supply weapons and armor to the order. Also, Morag is with Arturus for the meeting, and is one of the advisors to the Warchief. Thrall doesn't trust humans completely, but because of Jaina's efforts, he is willing to put aside preconceptions.
Short Answer: In the Reign of Chaos Night Elf Campaign, the objective is to kill a human paladin in an orc / human camp. So they cant be THAT mistru****l of eachother.


Now for the next post. This contains some further violence.






Dawn of Darkness: The Red Dawn


A plume of dust marked the passage of the two wolf riders from Orgrimmar, their feral mounts kicking up a cloud with each leap. Arturus and Morag had been pushing on for three days, pressing their dire wolf mounts for all the speed and endurance they had. Arturus was used to horse back riding, which was a gentler and higher form of movement. A dire wolf, large as it is, left the rider a mere three feet from the ground, leaping through the air at incredible speeds. Morag, used to his mounts gait, led the way across the arid plains, while Arturus, badly shaken, followed. Arturus was glad to have the sturdy shaman beside him. Morag had always been a good friend, and the strong orc would make a fine warrior if ever they needed to fight. Further, Morag had once been a wolfrider, and knew much about fighting from wolf back, which was very different from horse back. Arturus had seen orcish wolf riders in combat before, had marveled at the coordination between mount and rider. He looked down at his mount, and knew that it too would make a great warrior, its four hundred pound bulk and crushing maw making it an excellent weapon. As the pair raced across the rugged land, Arturus felt, for the first time since this whole mess started, safe.

The two made camp for the night, the air full of the sounds of the barrens – the sound of predator and prey, the squeaks and shrill cries of desert lizards being hunted by quillbeasts, the occasional squawking roar of a wildkin frightening away others from its den. Morag sat near the fire, roasting their dinner, a leg of boar meat. The wolves were off together, foraging and hunting, but Arturus didn’t worry about them. Few creatures on the barrens were matches for dire wolves. Arturus lingered at the edge of the firelight, in prayer for the first time in days, seeking the calming influence of the light, and remembering the oaths he took when he joined the Order.
Morag stood and walked over to where Arturus knelt in prayer. “To show compassion in the face of difficulty,” he prayed. “To show courage in the face of despair. To be loyal to the word of God, and uphold the tenets in his name.”
Morag looked into the blackness of the night, wondering why humans pledged themselves to such frailties. As a shaman, Morag was bound to the earth, the sky, and the natural order. Morag could see what he served all around him, could breathe the reward of his work with every day, but humans only could see their work after their deaths. Morag shook his head. The humans’ were unusual to say the least, but capable of great things.
Morag stiffened suddenly, listening intently. He had distinctly heard some small disturbance in the black of the night. He glanced at Arturus, but he still kneeled in prayer. Morag brought his axe from his belt up to the ready, uncertain, but better to be prepared. Arturus finished his rite, and stood. He looked at the heavy axe in Morag’s hands, and in the direction that he was looking.
“What is it?” he asked, but Morag silenced him with a raised hand. He motioned to walk back to the fire.
They sat silently for some moments, watching the boar roast. Morag was secretive for a shaman, and didn’t let on too much, which was often distressing to his companions. As Arturus ate, he distinctly got the impression that Morag was watching the forest around them more than his meal, listening to the sounds of the trees more than the sounds of the fire. Arturus could only imagine what the orc could hear and see, with senses keener than his own. Arturus got the feeling that they were being watched, but dared not to speak. Morag stood calmly, then spun and hurled his axe into the darkness. There was a loud grunt, then a gurgling grunt, then a slumping sound. Then the forest came alive.
Centaur charged into the firelight, their axes raised to strike. Arturus’ sword flashed from its sheath, the blade glittering orange red in the firelight. He sliced his sword toward his opponent, who parried the blade to the side. Arturus launched blow after blow, forcing the horseman off balance. His rite had left his mind clear, his senses ready. He spun to the side, driving his blade around the axe and into the centaur’s chest. It staggered back, seeking to escape the stinging sword. Arturus swiped ahead, knocking the axe to the side, and then, coming in closely, stabbed through the centaur’s lower chest. Morag drew a horn from his belt, and blew loudly. A sound like a wolf’s howl echoed across the barrens, and Arturus knew that, wherever the wolves were, they would soon be returning. Morag had no weapon, but was far from defenseless. Chanting quickly, he danced his hands through a simple spell, a blast of lightning piercing the night and stinging the eyes of the centaur. One raised a hand to cover his eyes, blinking. He looked back, and Morag was gone. Morag wrenched his axe free from his felled victim, and bludgeoned the centaur in the back of the head with the heavy handle. It was unconscious before it hit the ground.
Arturus parried the next attack, a vicious axe swipe from another centaur. The weight of the blow send Arturus off balance, and he only just evaded the downward chop of the next. He jabbed forward, backing the centaur back. It reared on its hind legs, kicking Arturus hard in the chest. Arturus fell hard on his back. He looked up in time and saw the centaur, axe raised in triumph, ready for the kill, get bowled over by his faithful dire wolf mount. He stood quickly, and saw his wolf maul the centaur, its long claws digging 4 parallel lines across the centaur’s chest. It tried to swing its axe, but the wolf, too agile, avoided the feeble blow. It closed its jaws on the neck of the evil beast, and wrenched back its head, as the centaur gurgled in its death throes. He chanced a look at Morag, who brought his axe cleanly through a charging horseman, and then, reversing his grip on the weapon, bringing the handle across the face of the next attacker, stunning him. He saw another loom behind Morag, and almost shouted a warning before it went down in a heap, taken down by the other wolf, biting and snarling.
The centaur decided that they would find dinner elsewhere. The remainder fled into the darkness of a night, the sound of pounding hooves disappearing into the night. Arturus looked about the clearing, and the several dead centaur warriors. The wolves had given chase to the centaur, but returned after a few minutes, barely panting.
“Perhaps it would be prudent to set out again?” Morag wondered.
“I would have to agree,” Arturus said, and quickly got astride his mount.
The horizon was beginning to lighten with a new day, a reddish glow brightening to the dark east. The centaur descended upon the small camp, but found only dying embers and their slaughtered comrades.





Another day dawned, and a dust storm was blowing in the mountain pass. The farmers quickly moved to protect their crops from the winds, shielding their eyes from the stinging dusts. Soldiers patrolled, scarves wrapped around their faces to keep the dusts out. Two soldiers stood at the entrance to the Cathedral grounds, talking to each other, yelling to be heard over the wind. They paced and slouched, killing time, waiting until their shift was over.
“So did you hear about where Arturus is gone? Say he’s gone to Orgrimmar!” the soldiers called.
“Ya, they say he’s off to see the Library there! Dunno why though!” the other shouted.
“Did you hear what their guarding in the throne room? A gem that can freeze you solid!” the other said.
“Well now, that’s new, and…hey, look there!” he said, pointing into the blowing dusts.
At first, they could not see anything, the blowing dust obscuring their sight of the pass. Then, they caught a glimpse of a man, moving among the dust, wrapped in a black cloak. Despite the heat, the stranger had wound his cloak about him tightly, and had his hood pulled far over his head. He moved quickly over the rough ground, heading directly for the citadel gates.
“You there, hold fast!” the soldier shouted commandingly. He stepped in front of the wanderer. The man grabbed him around the neck, hoisting him high into the air. The soldier fought his grasp, but the hand was like a vise, holding him and crushing his throat. He jerked and kicked spasmodically, then the crushing sound of snapping vertebrae could be heard, and he slumped in the grip of the wanderer. The black cloaked figure turned toward the other soldier, who drew his sword and swung. The man grabbed the sword blade in midair, stopping it dead. Then he reached up with his free hand, and pulled back his hood. The doomed soldier looked up into the red, staring eyes of Argantes, and his gaunt, demonic visage, and began to scream. He was still screaming when Argantes claws found his throat, and silenced his cry forever.

[to be continued…]

[Inquisistor7]

I liked how you presented the shaman's opinion of humans and their religion. Also, the fight scene was good. The only real complaint I have is that the central (in terms of location) paragraphs for this chapter were really stuck together. I know you didn't intend it, but for future reference press the return key after each paragraph instead of pressing tab.

[Renetet]

Thank you for your continued readership Inquisistor7. I must admit that when i began this project as the result of a tired mind hyped on too much coffee, I didnt expect it to take as well as it has. For all who have read this story, i thank you for your interest in Dawn of Darkness.

Now, to business. Due to the incredible amount of work i have recieved and be made aware of being back at school, future installments will be a bit more spaced. HOWEVER, this story will continue to its conclusion. Im currently writing the 6th part, The Crimson Dusk, but i have no idea when it will be finished.

Again, i wish to thank you for your continued interest in this story, and hope you will continue to read the remainder of this story.

[Renetet]

Sorry for two back to back postings, but I decided that I couldn't leave the reading community for a few days without at least buying some time. Enjoy this installment, its fairly long (4 pages in word), and keep checking for regular updates.

This contains further violence.










Dawn of Darkness: The Crimson Dusk


Morag and Arturus pressed their mounts for speed and even more speed as they fled across the desert sands of the Barrens. Dire wolves were fast creatures, with long legs and almost unnatural endurance, but even they were beginning to tire, though they would not let it deter them. Morag loosened his axe, then thought better of it, and drew out the sword from its five foot long sheath on the wolf’s side. As if it understood fully Morag’s plans, it growled and slowed down, turning and stopping. The other wolf followed suit, stopping quickly and standing beside its fellow. Morag stood and raised the blade, glittering in the clear light of the dusk sun. Arturus looked at Morag uneasily. He was a great soldier, but knew nothing of how to fight from wolf back. And fighting on the ground against opponents like centaur was not easy. Morag seemed undeterred and sat straight backed in his saddle, watching the slowly advancing dust column that was the centaur clan.

“Morag, we have no time for this, we must keep going!” Arturus said urgently.

“Arturus, we ride dire wolves, not wyverns. We cannot hope to outrun the centaur unless we take the speed from them with death,” Morag countered, raising his blade to accentuate his point. His wolf howled its agreement, its mournful cry, soon followed by its brother, sounding the challenge. Arturus shut his eyes. This is mad, he thought to himself, drawing his blade. Mad.

“How do I know what to do? I’m no wolfrider; I don’t know how to fight!” Arturus lamented.

“Let go of your preconceptions. Trust the wolf, it knows what to do,” Morag reassured him.

Arturus opened his eyes, looking down at a stand of trees as the centaur poured from it. The seven beasts closed on them with astonishing speed, and Arturus began to appreciate just how fast the wolf was moving even with him riding. Morag drew his horn from his belt at his side.

“Let these beasts taste the wrath of the Horde!” he shouted, the ground seeming to quake and the air to rumble so fierce was his cry. With a mighty blow on his horn, the hunting call of the wolf, they charged forward, closing with blinding speed on the centaur mob.

Arturus saw his opponent, a big centaur, axe raised, clearly deciding to run past the wolf, thinking it an unintelligent beast. Weapon out and ready kill, the centaur grunted surprised, as the wolf jumped to the side, its jaws closing on the centaurs head. Arturus heard the resounding crack of a crushing skull, and looked in time to see Morag’s blade take the arm and leg off another rushing centaur, sending it tumbling to the ground. Arturus glanced up in time to duck, the next blade narrowly missing him. The wolf however, had been quite prepared, and Arturus was nearly crushed as his mount took the centaur’s rushing profile down with its incredible strength, rolling across the dirt and grass and taking Arturus with it. Arturus was barely aware of his wolf’s thrashing form, snarling and biting at the centaur. It raised its axe in futile defense, but the sturdy wooden haft was no match for the wolf’s paw, which snapped it as though it was a twig, driving into the centaur’s face, and removing him from the fight.

Morag was more skilled in the art of wolf borne warfare. He maneuvered his wolf through the centaur’s charging forms, his blade and mount drawing equal amounts of blood. He roared and shouted war cries as he fought, his war blade slicing deeply into another foe. Spinning in a tight circle, he lashed out, drawing a wide berth for him to maneuver in. His mount growled and snarled, biting at the centaur and even leaping into the air, allowing Morag to slice downward on his shocked enemies. Soon only two centaurs remained, and decided that revenge was not something easily obtainable, especially against such battle hardened opponents. They turned and ran off into the trees, leaving their fallen comrades.

To his credit, Arturus had managed to survive his first wolf fight, though he looked distinctly worse for it. His cloak was torn, and he was a little bruised. An orc likely wouldn’t have noticed the weight of the wolf rolling over it, but Arturus felt he had probably cracked a few ribs. Morag rode up beside him; just Arturus was getting unsteadily to his feet.

“Told you the wolf knows what to do,” he chuckled.

“Y…yeah,” Arturus managed, wincing as he breathed. He felt nearly crushed, but fortunately, nothing seemed to keep him from touching the Light. He chanted softly under his breath, and his hands glowed, a warm and calming yellow. He placed them on his chest, and a surge of light engulfed him. He took his hands away, and breathed deeply, relieved that there was no further pain.

“Well, now that the centaur are dealt with, we shall continue on our way,” Morag said, watching Arturus get astride his mount.

“Yes, every moment we waste brings us closer to –“Arturus began.

“Look! The sun!” Morag cried.

Arturus looked up into the dusky sun of the Barrens. Normally a pale, dusty orb of yellow, the sun had begun to turn a deep bloody red. As Arturus watched, the lines of crimson seemed to flow across its surface, appearing to bathe the land in blood.

‘Something is very wrong here,” Morag said, sounding shaken.

“Yes, this cannot bode well for us at all. What dark power can alter the sun?” Arturus wondered. Morag shook his head.

“No, it is much worse. The Crimson Dusk was the first sign of the coming apocalypse,” he said quickly.

“The Crimson…how do you know that?” Arturus asked.

“Look, it is here, this symbol right here,” Morag explained, pointing to what looked like an orb, situated between two mountain peaks. What appeared to be rays of light were filtering down across the land.

“If the Crimson Dusk has come,” Morag said quietly, “we are very short on time. We must press on at once!”

And with that, the two whirled around, heading up the pass and into the canyon of the Cathedral.




“Archers at the ready!” the commander shouted. Along behind him, a line of armor clad bowmen knocked feathered arrows, lining them upon the demon in their midst. Argantes charged toward them, a singularly intent on acquiring his prize.

“Fire!” the officer bellowed. Dozens of arrows flew to their target, fletching guiding them true to the figure of death. Argantes stopped, and raised a hand, arrows bursting into flames, blacking to ash and soot. Argantes felt puffs of smoke instead of piercing arrow heads, and continued to close.


“Draw swords!” the officer cried to his men, and they drew far more. Mighty hammers, heavy axes and long swords filled their ranks now, the men waiting for the order to strike.

“Charge!”

A line of men rushed toward the crazed demon, weapons ready to pulverize, bash and tear their enemy, rend his demon hide and send him back to the waiting Abyss. Argantes flew forward, his sword flashing and dealing death with each hit. Again and again his blade struck, and again and again the men of the Order fell dead, their life’s blood given in protection of the world. They put up an immense fight, Argantes taking several blows, tearing his skin, but hardly stopping him in his lust. His desire was at hand, and he would not let anything stand in his way.

The men fell back, retreating away from their target. The commander alone now faced Argantes, whose now blood soaked cloak hung limply around him, a shroud of evil.

“Come demon, taste the power of the Light,” he taunted.

“Your Light shines no more mortal. The Crimson Dusk has come, and soon all the world will know the darkness of the Abyss,” he said, and as he spoke, the sun darkened and reddened, the gloom bathing the land. The officer looked around nervously, taking in the dozens of his slaughtered warriors, the blood and carnage, the fact that he had failed…

“Never!” he cried his passion and faith fueling him to fight. He leapt upon Argantes, sword flashing again and again, seeking to feed upon the black soul of the demon. Argantes blocked the attacks, but fell back slowly before the paladin’s righteous fury. The holy man’s sword moved with grace and speed, and Argantes could find no weakness in the man’s defenses. Every movement kept the man’s blade on Argantes blade, in his path, or on his heels.

But Argantes could feel the power in him growing, and he could feel the link to the Nether within him growing as well. He reached inside himself, reaching into the Abyss, and summoning his personal servants, the mightiest of warriors; the Blackguards would come.

The man fought and fought, his fury driving him on, desperate to end the torment of his slaughtered brothers. Argantes stepped back, for his servants had come at last. After all these years, Argantes thought, the Blackguards walk free among the mortals once more. He made way for his warrior, his fighting elite. The Blackguard stood before the officer, seven feet of black metal, with a huge black sword carried perfectly straight and thick shield clinging to its arm. Created to fight, bound with the spirits of the greatest warriors, Blackguards were deadly opponents, and it readied itself for the battle ahead, raising its shield with its blade outstretched. The officer was a well-trained warrior, who spent a lifetime in battle against all manner of enemies. He was an excellent fighter.

He lasted almost five minutes. As the blackness of death began to seep through him, as his eyes clouded with pain, he caught a glimpse of the remaining number of the Order’s warriors entering the Cathedral grounds. He saw too the veritable army of Blackguards who had formed to guard Argantes. He turned from the fight, heading for the citadel, and gave his Blackguard the orders they had long waited for.

“Kill,” was all he said, and the Blackguards clashed with mighty Paladin’s of the Order of the One Light. Argantes headed into the Citadel, searching and sensing for his prize; and trying to ignore the sounds of battle in the courtyard outside, and the screams that rose over the deafening din, marking the deaths of a lot of good men.


[to be continued…]

[Inquisistor7]

Renetet, it is my pleasure to read this. This most recent chapter was good. There were a few grammatical/spelling errors, but the overall quality was high. Well done. Keep it up!

I know it can be frusrating to not get a lot of replies, but, as Goethe said, "Not to strive is to die." So, don't give up.

[Chuckle Brother]

Now I'm usually hard on things and will put things down but I found this to be an enjoyable read, continue writing it up. also found the same as inquistior though, a little repitition and sometimes grammatical errors, aside from that it is good.

[Inquisistor7]

chuckle brother, constructive criticism is always appreciated. If I may ask, will you be posting here often? It is just that I yearn to see an expansion of the community...

[Renetet]

Still writing on the story, ive run into a bit of writers block, but its nothing a day or two wont fix. I hope you continue to post on this forum (especially since i shall continue to post fiction on here for many months to come.)

Now for criticism, bring it on! I love criticism to my writing, since its the only way to improve work (grammatical errors and redundancy seem to be my main failings, but heavy proofreading rectifies these greatly.) Seeing as this story is quite literally my first public post of fiction, i feel honored for it to have recieved such a high standing here. I attribute the low replies to my unfamiliarity with the FF community. Dawn of Darkness isnt "another story by Renetet" its "a story by Renetet". Look for my name on the next piece of fiction, The Blood Templar, a story of the remaining blood elves and their struggle to survive the nightmares of their new homeworld, Ken'Daros.

Again, some writers block, but expect the weekend to herald the next two chapters of this story.

[Renetet]

Hey again, managed to break my writers block. :bigclap: :bigclap: Enjoy the next chapter!

Warning: Contains violent gruesome imagery.








Dawn of Darkness: The Dead Cathedral



It was there, Argantes could feel it. His prize was close at hand, its beckoning calls pulling him onward, deeper and deeper into the depths of the Cathedral. He met soldier after soldier, each fighting bravely, and each falling, torn and dead, into their own pools of blood. A trail of corpses now lay in the demons wake, and a trail of corpses to be stood between him and his desire. He pressed on, the call of the Crystal drawing him forward through the ranks of defenders. Eventually, he found himself standing in front of two marble doors, beautifully engraved. He pushed them open easily, a task that would have taken several normal men, and walked into the bright room beyond the doors. A pillar of light shone down from the impossibly high ceiling, bringing light to the room and illuminating the dais beside the marble throne of the Hall of Kings.

Argantes move swiftly, covering the distance between him and the dais with a few long strides. He climbed the steps by the dais, and looked down in frustration at the empty marble top. The Crystal was gone. With a roar of fury, Argantes tore the pedestal from the floor, hurling it into the wall and shattering it into a thousand gleaming pieces. Mocking laugher came from the doorway, and Argantes turned slowly, rage etched into every line of his demonic face.

A soldier stood leaning casually against the doors, lightly tossing a bundle of rags into the air and catching it. Argantes stood immobile, only his eyes watching the Crystal’s progress through the air. He made no movement when the soldier pretended to drop it, catching it on the ends of his fingers, laughing at the demon, standing mere feet away.

He knew nothing of Argantes, whose powers were slowly returning. He knew nothing of the fact that Argantes was a Plane Shifter, able to alter corporeal form and appear immobile while in actuality moving around the normal world. The soldier continued to laugh at the visage of Argantes, the demon who was nothing more than smoke and shadow, and knew nothing of the black shadow the crept behind him. His face was wide with laughter as Argantes’ hand plunged deep through his back, tearing right through him. The impaled man looked down at his chest, and at the blood soaked claws of the demon. Argantes’ hand closed around the bundle, which immediately flew into a fireball, the charred cloth falling away to reveal his prize. The black Crystal flared bright blue at Argantes touch, and he could feel the power flow through him, power he had not tapped for over ten thousand years.

“I’ll be taking what is mine now, may you count yourself lucky you will not live through the ending of your wretched world. Die, as thousands before you have died,” Argantes whispered in his victim’s ear. “Die, as all those who stood in my path have died.”

He laid the dead soldiers body to the ground, letting it slip off of his arm. He held the Crystal in his hands, gazing into its depths. The initial blaze of blue light had faded now into its usual darkness, but Argantes felt the power pulsing through him. He focused, willing the Crystal to release its hold, and grant him access to the remainder of his power. He willed it to crumble, and release his tortured spirit from the caged life he had lived for ten thousand years.

Nothing happened. The Crystal remained as inert as ever, cold to the touch, and writhing smoke filling its inside. Argantes heard footfalls outside the chamber, and decided not to risk the Crystal’s safety in a fight with no gain. While the destruction of the Crystal could conceivably guarantee the return of his powers, it could also equally guarantee ripping Argantes (and a good portion of the mountain) back into the Nether.

He set out at once, making his way as silent as the shadow of death down deeper into the mountain. He would escape into the tunnels of the mountains roots, and follow those ancient forgotten routes out of the mountains and back into the plains. He sent a mental order to the Blackguards, who were now finished their gruesome task, and instructed them to return to the Nether. He would call them again when the time was right, but didn’t want the attention of a small army following him through the endless miles of blackness of the depths. Argantes was mighty, but within the timeless blackness of the deep places of the world lie many ancient evils, some best left to slumber.

He began his journey downwards through the Cathedral, into the lower levels and catacombs, and from there, into the eternal blackness of the mountain.




Arturus and Morag slowly moved through the pass, the recent dust storm having made movement treacherous. Sudden sand shifts could pull a man and beast off the track and into the many crevices and fissures in the area, to certain death amidst the fires and heat of these geological marvels. Though progress was slow, Arturus could already begin to see the massive spires of the Cathedral, the dusty red stone pillars reaching into the reddish sky. Soon it will all be over, Arturus thought. He could not appreciate then just how true that notion would ring.

The pair inched across the dust flats toward the Cathedral, and came upon its main gates. Arturus took a look around. He noticed that there were no soldiers, and even more unusual, no activity at all. The usual buzz of the grounds was missing, and the air seemed devoid of life. Arturus felt the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as the sudden realization came to him.

“We’re too late,” was all he could manage.

The two walked up to the great gates of the Cathedral, the gates covered in wards of protection and defense; magical dwoemers designed to keep evil at bay. The statues of angels and the symbol of the Order, a five pronged ray of light, stood before him. He pushed them open, and walked into his greatest nightmare, which had now become reality.
They had entered a slaughterhouse. The corpses of the dead members of the order lay everywhere, in varying stages of decomposition. Severed heads lay in mounds, arranged perfectly, eyeless heads staring outwards at the carnage. Severed limbs lay stacked like firewood, baking and blacking in the sun, white bone protruding from the ends. The remnants lay strewn about in a rough manner; skin sheared off in chunks, organs lying in the sun drying, flesh piled in great heaps, the blood covering the ground like thick, dark red oil. The buzzing of flies was nearly deafening, the smell of putrid flesh close to overwhelming.

Morag and Arturus looked around at the devastation, the sights, smells, and sounds soaking into them. Arturus fell to the ground, the thick blood softening his fall.

“There all dead! All of them,” he cried out. “And I killed them…I killed them all…”

“We should leave here Arturus, now. We don’t know what might be waiting for us here. We have to return to Thrall. Maybe the Council can come up with another plan…” Morag tried to say, but he couldn’t even convince himself.

“They’re dead, and I killed them…” Arturus said weakly. The images of Lordaeron flashed back to him. Pictures of dead bodies stacked twenty feet high, faces twisted in expressions of fear, carrion birds landing on the corpses, ripping and tearing at the dead flesh. Rats everywhere, swollen in size on a limitless supply of human bodies. He saw it all come rushing back, the images renewed in his mind at the sight of the devastation…and the destruction of the second home he had made for himself.

“Arturus, we cannot save those who have died already,” Morag said suddenly, his voice firm and strong. “But countless more will suffer and die if we let this stop our course. Return with me to Orgrimmar. There, we can combat this evil. We may yet stop Argantes, but as the last member of the Order, it will be up to you to help us.” Arturus slowly got to his feet, the sour taste of bile rising in his throat as smells and sights returned to him.

“Yes, yes you are right of course. This,” he gestured at the piles of dead, his voice breaking. “This will be the death of him. I will comb hell and heaven, walk in the Light and bask in the Darkness. I will chase Argantes from the Sky to the Abyss and exact my revenge upon him!”

“Then let us waste not a moment more!” Morag said, and with that, the two turned from the scene of death and decay, the example of Argantes power. They headed out again, across the corpse-strewn grounds, out through the gates to the Dead Cathedral, and set out again across the treacherous barrens, hoping against hope that Argantes wasn’t already breaking his bonds…


[to be continued…]

[Renetet]

Finally got a break from my work, and got around to this next chapter! Enjoy!



Dawn of Darkness: In the Fires of the Earth


Argantes wound his way through the black labyrinth of the cold earth, past the Citadel’s gates and into the vast darkness of the caverns of the world. In the darkness under the world lie many forgotten things and Argantes knew it. He realized that despite the aid of his Blackguard, he was not a capable warrior in his own right, at least not yet. The Crystal’s enchantments cut him off from his powers for the most part. As he walked, he felt the air grow warm, almost suffocating, and felt too, the sudden danger and foreboding that comes when entering a forbidden place. He looked around nervously as he descended into the earth, stance ready for danger at each turn, and ready to fight as best he could without access to his powers. It would be a long road ahead.

He descended for an eternity, and as he did, the air grew even more sweltering, to the point where Argantes began to sense it as uncomfortable, which was not easy for a creature raised in the heat of the Nether. He entered a large chamber in the earth, hallowed no doubt by some ancient underground river that long ago had dried up. Within the chamber were, most mysteriously, several piles of gold and many unusual objects. Glancing at the nearest pile, which would have consisted of about seven king’s fortunes, the demon realized he had made a very foolish mistake, a fact that was driven further home as he heard the leathery sound of folding wings to the rear of him. He turned about to stare into the yellow-orange eyes of an adult red dragon.

In ancient times, Argantes would have possessed his powers, and would have slain the wyrm without a second thought, and indeed, his hand went to his sword hilt as if he intended to do so, but the sudden realization struck him cold; his latent protective magic was no more. He would not survive the dragon’s giant teeth, which were about as large as a small tree, nor its slashing claws, which were the size of full grown men. He also realized that, even in the heyday of his power, he would not survive the dragons fiery breath, which judging from his foes sudden intake of breath, it was about to use. He abandoned his initial idea and dove to the side, as the first blast of flames flew past him, the heat melting the stone where he stood into glass.

The dragon roared in fury, as Argantes scurried around the pile of gold, looking to escape the dragons rage. He looked at the entrance where the dragon had come in, and realized that if he chose that route, he would die a very gruesome and fiery death. He decided to head out the way he came in, but it was not going to be easy. The dragon’s size made it difficult to run around, and if it caught him in the open, he would not survive long. He summoned a single Blackguard to distract the wyrm, hoping to make a break for it. It appeared looking rather foolishly at the dragon, seven feet of black steel against close to forty feet of red scales. It slashed at the dragon’s thick magic hide with a blade sharp enough to tear through a tree with a single strike. The weapon broke as it connected, the blade bending back on itself and snapping off at the hilt. The Blackguard was still contemplating its broken weapon and deciding another plan of attack when the dragon’s breath blackened it somewhat more, turning it into a mere pool of molten slag.

Argantes made a break for the door way, but the dragon sensed his movement, and turned with incredible speed for its size, spraying fire his way, which he only narrowly evaded. He summoned another guard, but the dragon caught it a vicious blow with its tail, hurling it into the wall and shattering it as if it were delicate glass. Again and again Argantes brought in his faithful guards, and again and again the dragon destroyed them, either incinerating them with its foul breath, slashing them with claws that tore them in two, or knocking them into the walls as it spun looking for the intruder. The dragon was now in a full fury, spewing flames without a care for what it hit, slashing out blindly. Argantes ran around again and again, dodging flames and claws, but finally, the dragon’s aim was true. One long claw caught Argantes in the shoulder, a glancing hit that threw him several feet and tore the flesh right down to the bone. He summoned another of his minions to distract it, but the dragon simply crushed it underfoot. The dragon inhaled deeply and he saw his doom. Flames billowed around him, the ground bursting to flames and turning into glass, the gold melting and running in a river away. Yet, Argantes felt no pain. He was warm to be sure, as if he were caught in the fires of the Abyss, but not unbearably. He was then aware of a burning sensation at his side, and looking at his sword, it was glowing bright red. It was protecting him, by what means he was not sure. As the breath of the dragon subsided, he saw his sword was merely melted metal, its energy expended to protect its wearer. He was not keen for round two. He rolled to the side just as the dragon decided to abandon cooking its meal and just swallow it whole. Its teeth snapped shut on Argantes’ cloak, which burst into flames instantly. He threw caution to the winds, racing across the ground, throwing up his servants from the Abyss to cover him. The dragon was livid by now, and it quickly dispatched the warriors, a single swipe of its razor sharp claws sending them away in pieces. Argantes heels flashed around the corner of the exit as the flames consumed the place where he had been standing seconds ago. He ran for his life away from the roaring dragon, and into the relative cool of the earth. He didn’t slow down until he was many miles away from the beast, and until its roars were little more than memory. It would be a long road.

[to be continued....]

[Chuckle Brother]

Um in response to your earlier question I will be posting fairly often, I just haven't in the last few days because I happen to know the author and he sends me the chapters via email so I didn't need to come to the site. Now on to my comments. Still a few noticable grammatical mistakes but the story itself is good, I especially like that we now know Argantes isn't an all powerful force. Keep writing, I can't wait to see how it all pans out.

[Inquisistor7]

Chuckle Brother: I was wondering if you were going to post more in the forum itself, but I understand well how much time it takes to read stories and reply to them. Also, you are doing the author a good service by what you are doing outside of the forum ( I for one also send my story to a person I know, who often gives me more feedback then I get here). Anyway, I hope you took no offense in my questioning.

As far as the past couple of chapters go, they were good. I have to agree with chuckle brother: keep writing. I think you will find yourself improving as you work at it.

[TheNewHorde]

Ok, a newbie like me do not deserve to be on ur thread, but there is just something I am extremely curious about. When you thought of ur story, did you brainstorm it based on The Last Guardian, by Jeff Grubb then sort of write your own stuff later on? Not trying to be rude, just that I learned English by reading The Last Guardian, it's the book I learned English from. So it's always been my favorite book and I always compare the writings I see with the Last Guardian. And somehow, I somehow felt a sense of Jeff Grubb while I reads it, which I love it very much.

Repeat: I'm not trying to be rude, if you don't feel confortable answering, then don't. Please do not curse at me, cause I really like your story.

[Renetet]

Never read a book by Jeff Grubb actually and, as far as i know, my concept of Argantes and indeed, the story thus far and as will happen, is entirely unique. Of course, my experience of literature is not infinite, and i have read many books by many different authors, mainly by my 2 main authors who are Robert Jordan and R.A. Salvatore, both of which have written long stories (Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time Series, and R.A. Salvatores numerous works on the Dungeons and Dragons books like the Silent Blade and the Legacy of the Drow). I tend to mix my style between Robert Jordan's descriptive works, and R.A. Salvatores intense action settings, which I feel allows the reader to more easily immerse themselves in the story.

My concept of this story just sorta came along on night while I was tired (the first post was written that very night), and I decided it would be interesting to see if people would take to it. Now 9 chapters long, and at least 5 more to come, I'm pretty happy that people enjoy the writing.

No offense taken by your question, and im glad you like the story thus far :-) Also, anyone is welcome on any thread of mine, so don't be shy.

[Renetet]

Dawn of Darkness: The Flight from Stone Talon


Morag and Arturus pushed their way back out of the canyon to the Citadel, winding their way through the deep sands of the pass, heading outward to the harder dirt and long grasses of the plains. They kept their eyes peeled upon the bluffs of the ridge around them, knowing full well that they both reeked of blood and death, and knowing as well that they were deep in Harpy territory. Morag seemed to be tense and alert, and kept his hand on his axe, ready to draw at a moments notice. Arturus’ again wondered what was hidden from his sight and hearing. He couldn’t say for certain, but he could feel that they were being followed, and what was following them was not a friend.

They moved further and further down the pass, and the day began to wane. Arturus had almost relaxed his guard, for a day of constantly feeling on edge was wearing his alertness down. He turned to ask if Morag if he was ready to make camp when he saw it: black silhouette against the dying sun, feathered wings and talon-footed female body; a harpy. He drew his sword, prepared to die as the canyon came to life, winged figures rising from the stones, screeching into the dusk as they hurdled down towards the hapless travelers.

Morag seemed to have been building his energy for so long that it was completely expended on his throw. His axe twirled through the air, end over end, striking the lead harpy clean in the chest, dropping her like a rock to the ground far below. Arturus saw one descending for him, claws extended reaching for him. His wolf growled and jumped aside, the harpy’s talons flashing by harmlessly. She screamed in frustration, and wheeled in the air, coming back for another pass. Having little other option, Arturus used what magic he had. Bright light flared from his outstretched palm, blinding her. She veered sideways and into a stone wall, her crumpled form clinging the outcropping.

Morag focused and chanted quickly, the next harpy closing fast. A blast of electricity arced from his palm, snapping and crackling as it struck her in mid flight. She shrieked loudly and fell earthward, wings crumpled. Morag heard more shrill calls from the cliffs, and knew that within a few minutes, more harpies would come. With his magic, Morag could defend himself, but Arturus’ magic was not dangerous to living beasts. His holy fire, which would have been the destruction of many undead, was little more than an irritation against their current foes. Reaching out with his mind, he sent a call out into the wilds, asking for the aid of the beasts of the mountains. Many creatures hate harpies with a passion, but only one could fight them on their own terms. Morag heard the response he wanted:

“We are coming…”

It was all he needed. He came out of his trance in time to see another witch closing on him. He turned his mount to the side, and drew his sword as he spun, using its leverage to cut. He felt the barely noticeable tug of a hit, and then felt the warm spatter of blood. A leg-less harpy flew screaming into the deepening dusk.

Arturus wheeled his mount left and right, but the harpies were almost everywhere. His magic flared again and again, burning them with light and dazing them. Twice, the harpies lost sight of him, and more than a few ended up slamming into the cliff walls or the sandy earth. Were he not seconds away from death, with winged terrors darting from all sides, he would have laughed aloud when two of them struck in mid air, both dazed from the sudden flare of light, falling to earth locked in a tight embrace. He focused his energies upon himself and Morag too, healing the minor cuts and scrapes that the harpies sometimes managed to inflict.

Morag’s hands worked like dancing flames, sending the elements of the earth in their furious dance against his foes. Rocks pelted the witches from the cliffs, sending them screeching up into the sky. Fire and lightning shot from him, striking again and again. But, he was tiring, and he could feel the magic within him weakening and fading. It would end soon, and Arturus, whose healing powers were legendary, would not hold out much longer either. Soon, they would be torn apart, and the wicked harpies would eat their fill of flesh and leave their bones to bleach in the sun. He looked up and saw a harpy falling toward him, talons held wide, reading to snatch him from his mount. But, he heard their cry at last, a telepathic call that only he could hear.

“We come.”

He looked upwards to see the harpy, so intent upon the kill, look up past him to the wall of the ridge. Her face changed from one of triumph to one of terror. She cried out piercingly, but it was too late. With a bellowing roar, the wyvern came on, jaws snapping shut on the hapless harpy with a sickening crack. It flew up into the sky, and let the harpy drop unceremoniously to the ground. Another witch screamed and turned to flee, flying straight into the waiting jaws of the first wyverns mate. The pair of great beasts roared, sounding like a whole pride of lions, and the harpies broke in all directions, screeching and whirling away, disappearing from sight. Arturus looked up fearfully at the two majestic creatures, and watched anxiously as they set down on the ground. Morag walked over to them, having dismounted the wolf, which was now sniffing the dead harpies various broken forms. Arturus made to join Morag, but hesitated, thinking that the wyverns would likely not tolerate a human hand. Morag motioned for him to come closer however, and with reluctance, he stood before the creature that had saved him.

The wyvern was beautiful, with a thick golden mane, and a lighter gold fur all along its powerfully muscled flank. Its broad wings were almost bat-like, thin leathery skin stretched between long bones. Its eyes were fierce looking and slightly cat-like, and they watched him with what appeared to be a furiously angry expression, but looking deeper, he saw a glimmer of intelligence in its eyes. It didn’t seem to mind him much, but Arturus was still nervous. From the tip of their nose to their tufted tail, it couldn’t have been less than 12 feet long, and easily over 700 pounds. It looked at Arturus, sensing his nervousness as Morag walked away, heading for the other wyvern. He looked at it uneasily, not daring to move. If it decided it was hungry, he would be dead before he could let out a scream. Then, surprisingly, it nuzzled his hand with its snout. Arturus almost laughed with relief; he wasn’t going to be dinner. He ran his hand along his nose, and its eyes closed in ecstasy.

Morag was focused on the other wyvern, which seemed to be nodding to what he was saying. Arturus couldn’t follow the guttural orc language, and was most surprised when his wyvern dropped to the ground beside him, at mounting level. He looked at Morag, perched upon the back of the first, and realized what Morag had been saying.

“They agree to fly us to Orgrimmar, to see Thrall,” he said, as if he read Arturus’ thoughts.

“We are going to fly?” Arturus’ asked incredulously. The wolves had the equivalent of saddles, but the wyvern was bareback, and further more, a winged animal. He had sometimes wondered what it was to fly, but never thought he would learn the answer. However, faced with the prospect of actually riding a flying creature, he decided he would rather not know. He looked at the wolves, but they we’re already disappearing fast down the pass. Arturus eyed the wyvern with apprehension.

“Climb on, they will not let you fall, and don’t worry,” Morag said, reading Arturus’ expression. “They will not harm you either.”

Arturus climbed aboard with some difficulty. He was just congratulating himself on finding out how to sit on its back, when he nearly fell off as it spread its wings, bearing him swiftly into the dusk sky, and almost falling again when it spun in midair, setting out on a course to Orgrimmar.

“Hahaha! Exhilarating, isn’t it?” Morag called.

Arturus, who had wrapped his arms around the wyvern’s neck, and buried his head in its bushy mane, didn’t reply.


[to be continued...]

[Inquisistor7]

Your fight scenes are good, and your descriptions fulfill their purpose. Some grammatical and spelling errors , but nothing horrible. Pease keep it up.

[Renetet]

Dawn of Darkness: Council of War


Argantes looked out across the great fields of the Barrens, blinking in the blinding light of the new dawn. He recognized the place as where he first came into this world, and sudden inspiration caught him. The dimensional tear that had brought him into the world could conceivably be reopened. The binding enchantments of the Crystal would still hold him powerless, but the proper ritual of opening would grant him access to the Abyss. His mind reeled at the possibilities. Shattering the Crystal would prove easy in the Pits of the Nether. He would have no problem in breaking free, and then…

He began to plan his great scheme. The demanding nature of the rite would mean that he would need to be undisturbed for several hours. However, the ritual would surely alert outsiders, given that he was ripping the fabric of space between Hell and the mortal plane. He would need the assistance of his Blackguard, and all the allies he could muster from the Abyss. He set out across the plains, seeking the tomb where he would find the rift.




The great wyverns flew tirelessly onward towards the distant city of Orgrimmar, and it was to the rushing sound of the wind and the sounds of their wings that Arturus woke. A moment’s disorientation passed, and the realization that he was still flying, and hadn’t fallen off was welcome. He thought ahead to their current plight. Argantes was gone, escaped with the Crystal and even now, somewhere off in the wilds. He had the power to destroy the Order, and in such a brutal fashion. It would only be a matter of time. Morag had explained to him over the sound of the winds that they would consult with Thrall and hopefully find Argantes before he breached his prison. Thrall would commune with the spirits, and they would show him the path. Looking ahead to the horizon, Arturus couldn’t wait until they arrived in the great city.

A few hours later found Arturus – eyes shut tightly and gripping the wyvern with more than a little fear – plummeting toward the waiting wyvern roosts where they would land. They landed with remarkable grace, and Arturus got to his feet unsteadily, glad to have the feeling of solid earth beneath him once more. He knew he would never forget that long ride from Stone Talon. A procession of orcs greeted them, and without the slightest delay, they began their trek to the Warchief’s fortress.

As they moved through the city, Arturus saw the orcs preparing for battle. Everywhere the smiths and armories rang with the sound of hammer on anvil, the sparks flew from workers sharpening spear points and axes. Within the high walls of the many barracks, the sounds of war – of the steel on steel of orcish axes, and the war cries of island trolls – boomed across the city. Wolf-riders raced through the streets, practicing their deadly skills, perfecting the harmony between rider and mount. As the fortress drew near, Arturus marveled at the orcs eagerness for the glory of battle and bloodshed.

As they entered the hall, they caught sight of the ruling council. Thrall looked grim, yet hope shone in his eyes upon seeing Arturus and Morag. Gab’Rulk stood nearby, deep in meditation to the spirits, as countless other shamans were, praying to the Earthmother to grant them power over the elements of the land. Drek’Thar was nowhere to be found, but his duties were great, for he was a notable shaman often found far and wide in the nation of Durotar. Thrall was clad for battle, his black plate-mail shining and polished, his war hammer almost glowing with the prospect of combat. Despite his knowledge of the situation, Thrall’s blood was thrilling at the prospect of leading the orcs to war.

“I am glad that you have returned,” Thrall said.

“Warchief, we haven’t –“Morag began, but Thrall cut him off.

“Argantes has the Crystal, yes, I know. The spirits have told me this much. But according to Drek’Thar, it is what he will do with it that concerns us all,” Thrall explained grimly. “Drek’Thar communed with some of the Archmagi of Theramore about Argantes presence, and how he managed to gain access to this world while locked in the Abyss and supposedly powerless. They had sensed a tear in the boundaries of the world, but hadn’t been able to discern why. Judging from the prophecy, and what he has learned at the Theramore Library, Drek’Thar believes that Argantes will use this tear to return to the Abyss.”

“Why shouldn’t we just let him?” Arturus interjected. “Why not let him return to the Abyss, where he will be out of sight and mind?”

“Argantes has many allies from before his imprisonment. He will use them to free himself. In the Abyss, the Crystal can be unmade, and we will not be able to bind him without it. Whether Argantes returns to this world or not, we cannot permit him to roam free,” Thrall replied. “The Archmagi gave us a clue as to where the rift would appear, in a region on the Barrens known as the Flats, not far from the Cathedral. Our forces will scour the area, and look for the rift. Once we find it, we will seal it for good!”




“So it seems, that despite all our efforts, blood will be spilt and lives will be lost,” Arturus said to Morag late in the evening after the meeting with Thrall. Morag, lost in meditation to the Earthmother, gave no clue that he had heard, but Arturus knew he did. He looked out across the sleeping city. The sounds of the day were all but extinguished now, the forges were dark and the barracks’ were silent. Arturus looked across the city, and came to realize the difference between his race and Morag’s. While the humans would sleep the restless sleep of the eve before battle, when their fears would surface in the night, fear for friend, fear for their family, and fear for themselves, the orcs dreamt of the honor and glory they would find, charging into battle and dying on a field of their fallen enemies. For an orc, dying on a battlefield surrounded by the dead forms of his fallen enemies, there was no higher honor than that. As Arturus entered Morag’s lodge, his sanctuary of prayer and serenity, he felt the weight of the last days come to bear. The events of the past flashed before him, and he felt the fear for himself, for Morag, and for the entire world. However, as he fell asleep in the lodge, the place where Morag found his solace, he found peace within himself, and for the first time since the slaughter of the Cathedral, he did not dream of his murdered brethren.




Arturus woke the next day to the sound of a marching army. The noise of a thousand heavy footsteps brought him to the door of the lodge and he looked out across the great city, a city fast emptying. The warriors of the horde, bearing axe, shield, and armor, marched out of the gates, a single massive column like a writhing snake, wandering across the great dusty Barrens. Wolf riding scouts disappeared into the swirling dusts of the new day’s wind. At the great towers of the beastiaries, the proud and noble wyverns and their proud and noble riders were being given their orders, one by one rising into the dirty air and soaring off, also looking for the rift, their mighty roars echoing across the flat land. Arturus heard Morag stir behind him, and knew that they would soon be joining the column of marching soldiers, or more than likely, the groups of shamans and witch doctors who would be marching behind, lending their mystical power where needed.

Arturus grabbed his sword, buckling the sheath and belt around him, and grabbed up the fine orcish armor that had been delivered. The great plates that overlaid the fine mesh of interwoven ring mail underneath were made of silvery arcanite, and yet were also so well made as to be feather light and very flexible. Morag emerged from a side room, wearing a mask in the visage of a wolf, and robes with runes of warding and protection. Arturus knew he looked an easy target, but realized that not even his fine sword would cleave the powerful warding magic about this orc shaman. The two comrades in arms left the lodge, leaving behind the serenity of the city, and joining the throng of warriors entering the great unknown of war.

[to be continued…]

[PissingPanther]

cool story im hooked keep it up!

[Inquisistor7]

The phrase "the great unknown of war" struck me as particularly apt, since the majority of the orcs probably don't know what exactly they're getting into. Anyway, good chapter. I eagerly await more.

[Chuckle Brother]

the next chapter will be arriving soon, be patient as we have lots of things to do at school and so he hasn't had time to really sit down and finish the rest of the story

[Renetet]

FINALLY! its what u've all been waiting for, the next part of Dawn of Darkness! Now, the thing is, the next chapter is too long for one post, and the sections are too small and not enough plot is developed for individual chapters. Thus, it has been divided into three subsections (or so im planning) of a single greater chapter. Hence, enjoy part 1 (which im sorry took so long to write, but between IS essay's, examination preparations, and last minute assignment headlines, i haven't had any time at all to write.) I now give u...





Dawn of Darkness: Into the Breach

Part I: The Army of Darkness


Argantes breathed in the dank, cold air of the tomb. He sensed the energies of the rift within, the energies that he had not noticed in his weakened state before. Though he had thought that the rift had shut behind him, sealing itself as most rifts do, it had in fact remained there, invisible to Argantes. With the reclaiming of the Crystal however, his abilities had increased in their sensitivity. He now detected the emanations of the portal, and knew that with a few simple spells, and a minor incantation, he could reopen the gate, and return to the Abyss, where no mortal would dare follow him. He knew as well, from the frequent sightings of wyverns in the sky, that he was being hunted. Though what the purpose of these searches served wasn’t clear to him, he knew that people would be looking for him. And he knew that he would be helpless during the ritual, which would take all of his concentration, power, and most of all, time. He would need a diversion, something to tie his enemies up, even if only for a while. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his own innate power, the power that allowed him to bring forth his loyal followers to fight.

He looked back across the fields below the ridge. His loyal Blackguards looked back up at him, awaiting his orders silently.

“Defend me!” he shouted out, and with it, he sent a mental command greater than words could express. His minions set to work, dredging out ditches and filling them with spikes made from sharpened trees, which they felled with their weapons. They set up barricades, and makeshift walls, anything that would slow the coming onslaught. Time was of the essence, yet the price of disappointment would be far greater; Argantes’ did not tolerate failures well.

The Blackguard went about their task dutifully, and Argantes turned and ran into the tomb, seeking the exact location of the mysterious rift that would finally allow him to end his eternal imprisonment.




The sounds of the marching army filled the air; the grating sound of metal on metal, the pounding footfalls of hundreds of heavy steps, and the songs of the orcs, singing battle-hymns as is custom before battle. Their soaring voices were filled with confidence, and their songs rose in a crescendo through the valley. They had been marching for close to a week now. The scouting wolf riders had periodically returned, bearing news from other search parties and the marauding bands of orcs who were sweeping the path ahead of the army. Their job was most important; clear out any opposition that was native to the land. The war parties were clearing groups of centaur, razormanes, and the occasional wildkin from the path of the army. The wyverns too, had been periodically seen, usually landing and briefly conferring with the Warchief before disappearing again.

The numbers of orcs scouting the region had been astounding to Arturus. Nearly on a daily occurrence, a new party would be made, either wyvern or wolf, and be sent out to search the area. More than once, these parties returned showing signs of injury, having been attacked by one of the native beasts. However, a few moments with a witch doctor and they were sent back out. Arturus also had his hands full, healing the injured and raising morale with his Light-given powers. And so on it went, an endless cycle of useless news and reports of nothing. Arturus began to wonder if they would ever catch Argantes’, and began to wonder if all would be lost. Dark thoughts began to poison Arturus’ mind.

However, today was different. The wyverns came screaming down from the clouds, their riders bent low over them to stay safe from the wind. At the last second, they pulled out, flaring their wings out wide and landing with unbelievable grace near Thrall. The riders and the Warchief were conversing in rapid orcish, Thrall’s expression growing grimmer with each word. They finished their report, and Thrall wasted no time. He climbed to the top of a nearby rock, and thunder rumbled in the sky. The entire army fell silent, all eyes intently focused upon Thrall. Arturus emerged from a tent, and listened intently.

“Argantes’ has been found!” Thrall boomed across the assembled orcs, bringing murmurs of excitement from them. “Our wind riders have spotted him to the east of where we stand now! He has brought forth his minions to aid him, and they stand ready to do battle with the warriors of the Horde!” The orcs boomed a roar of triumph and victory. “Let us march forth, and send Argantes back to within the fires of the Abyss, and lock him within the prison whence he came from! Lok’Tar Ogar!”

The echoing cries of war that issued forth from the mouths of the eager warriors of the Horde could be heard far and wide, carried on the wind. Arturus added his own voice to the din, and shouted until he was hoarse.




The new day dawned with the traditions the orcs held dear before battle. Thrall and the other Far Seer’s held a ceremony, praying to the ancestral spirits to guide their actions, and ensure that those who fell died with honor in battle. He held tribute to the countless orcs who had fallen in battle against demons and their dark minions. Thrall knew the pain of such losses well; his oldest friend, the legendary Grom Hellscream, had sacrificed himself to destroy the demon Mannoroth, whose demonic blood had plagued the orcs for generations, driving them to become mindless engines of chaos. With Mannoroth’s death, the orcs were freed from centuries of demonic servitude. Arturus kept his head bowed, remembering the slaughter of his people at the Cathedral. The images floated back to him during the ceremony.

The ceremony continued until the sun of the Barrens was high in the sky, at the peak of its power. Thrall gave the order, and within a few short hours, the army was on the move, heading eastward. The wyvern scouts and wolf riders had returned. They had surveyed the area thoroughly, and had prepared very accurate plans of the area. The ridge was basically connected by a single path up, and in front, a large expanse of foothills that the Blackguard had assembled upon. Thrall and the Far Seer’s had been preparing the battle plan. The orcs would stop just at the base of the foothills. They would do battle in the day, when the powers of the Blackguard were at their weakest. Arturus looked around at the eager faces of the orcish warriors. All of them were acting as though they had already won. Indeed, the orcs were no stranger to fighting demons. Thrall had led them through the battle at Mount Hyjal against Archimonde, and earlier, against Grom himself when he had given himself over to Mannoroth’s control. Arturus held no doubts over the outcome; they would win, they would smash the Blackguard’s ranks, and pound them into the dust of the plains. But could they stop Argantes?


[to be continued…]

[Inquisistor7]

Pretty good. I look forward to more.

The only majore suggestion I have is that you try to find different ways to epxress things, id est, not repeating the same word of name over the span of a few sentences unless necessary. Here is an example:


The entire army fell silent, all eyes intently focused upon Thrall. Arturus emerged from a tent, and listened intently.


Instead of using the adverb "intently" in the second sentence try using a synonym for it. It helps the flow.

[Chuckle Brother]

Very good addition to the story, I would have to agree with Inquisistor though, some of your sentences tend to get a bit redundant, other than tha though and several minor grammatical errors it was an good addon to the story, I'll give you some more feedback on friday at school so that I can tell you with more detail. Goodjob

[Chuckle Brother]

To anyone who is enjoying reading this story the next part will be coming soon, exams are just ending so he should get back to writing within a few days

[Chuckle Brother]

This is going to anyone who has been reading DoD, I do not believe there will be anymore story, the guy who was writing it has given up on most everything so he probably will nevr finish the story

[Inquisistor7]

That is very unfortunate. Oh well.

[Chuckle Brother]

If you care I just heard that he will indeed be finishing the story, so if anyone cares it will be finished

[Renetet]

Dawn of Darkness: Into the Breach

Part 2: Hell’s Gate


The glinting of the black forms on the foothills betrayed the presence of the army of Blackguards. Argantes’ finest warriors were arrayed across the hills, unmoving through the day, and even now, in the night. Some force greater than their own will kept them immobile, and at the ready. Arturus peered through the small copse of trees at the base, catching glimpses here and there of his seven foot tall nemeses. The Blackguard had not budged an inch. Their fortifications were feeble, but formidable none the less. They had erected walls nearly all the way up to the cave, making a direct push impossible. They had created huge spike barricades that would make combat difficult. With their large size and massive swords, the Blackguard would have a significant advantage over the axe wielding orcs. Further, their latent protective magic would prevent the powerful shamans from raining death and destruction from the elements upon them from a distance; they would need to close the gap to do so. And so it was this night, the eve before battle that found Arturus and a small band of orcs looking down upon the tranquil landscape. Arturus was busy noting the positions of the various barricades. They were arranged to force the large room requiring orcs into a close range battle, one that put them at a great disadvantage. He noted the number of ditches, large enough for the Blackguard to reach over, but too short for the orcs to jump, and saw the kill zones that they had set up. He marked them on the small map, which had been sketched by a wyvern rider that day, along with the other orcs who were busy marking down nearly everything, from rocky outcroppings to the highest concentrations of the enemy. Arturus was surprised at the sheer competence the orc army had shown thus far, planning the battle down to the minutest of details. And knew without question that their battle prowess was far from competent…

It was the stuff of legends.




The circle of power glowed with energy, as Argantes raised his hands, and focused his mind to the channeling ahead. The appropriate scrolls and spells he had found in the tomb, after a short time of searching the huge parchment rooms within. He had created the circle exactly, checking and rechecking every last rune, engraving and symbol. If even a tiny detail was amiss, the consequences could be disastrous. The spells energies needed to be focused on a small area. If the spell breached the containment dwoemers, then the energies would be released in a cataclysmic explosion, one that would surely kill Argantes, along with a sizable number of the Barrens inhabitants. Argantes pointed his palms up towards the tomb ceilings, uttering the starting words that begin the process of rupturing the fabric of the world, and restoring the rift. As the energy coursed through him, he felt the dimensions weaken.




The dawn sun rose to the tune of a thousand sharpening blades. Arturus and the orc scouts had returned, handing over a near complete birds eye view of the battlefield. Thrall and the other far seers were planning the flip side of the fight; deciding where to position the Hordes ultimate weapons. They were planning where the catapults would arrange themselves, and the angles upon which the wyverns could safely fly by. These two forces would be the key to a decisive and low casualty victory; Thrall knew that the orcish warriors could not match the Blackguards potent defenses or fighting skills. The positive side was that the Blackguard had no ranged weapons. They had no magic, barring the every day demonic sort which makes them tougher than mortals can dream, and possessed little to no barriers that would long stop the endless catapult barrage, or keep the mighty wyverns at bay, for on the hills they would be vulnerable to both. They had erected a few towers of wood to keep watch over the surround, but overall, the area was very poor defensively. Argantes’ elite would be hard pressed to buy him the time he so ardently desired.

Arturus weaved his way through the orc camp, and among the warriors of the horde who were busy making final preparations for the coming conflict. The sun was still low on the horizon, but no more than three hours would see the mightiest of conflicts ever to be seen on the Barrens. He passed the slovenly peons, who were chipping stones to perfect spheres to be fired by the awesome catapults. He cast a glance toward some jungle trolls, engaged in a voodoo ceremony to their dark gods of war. The orcs were being led by their tribal shamans in rites of war. They paid their respects to their ancestors, who died at the hands of demons like Argantes for generations, and to Thrall and his vision of a united horde. The rituals were everywhere, and one thought was on their minds; to end Argantes’ mad bid for freedom before it was too late.




The energies of the Nether rippled over Argantes crouching form. The circle focused the next incantations, the power of the spell sending shudders through the earth. The walls of the tomb crumbled and shook, but he paid no heed; the dimensions between this world and his were falling. He focused his mind, sending another searing burst of energy through the budding rift, and suddenly, it opened. The fury of the Underworld ripped out of the tiny tear in the fabric of reality, the dark energy wrapping around Argantes’ like a warm cloak, welcoming him into its fiery embrace. He felt the power seep into him, invigorating and strengthening. However, the minor rift was not big enough; it needed to be enlarged, and reinforced. But the circle only focused Argantes’ magic.

Visible for miles, the energies of the burning Nether plane tore a blinding beam into the mid morning sky, an awesome beacon to the assembled masses of the orcish army, and a powerful reminder of who they were facing.




Arturus blinked as he stared at the magnificent red beam of chaotic energy. All around him, the muttering and feral growls started from the army. The shamans broke their circles, and began spreading the orders to move; the sun had risen almost to its zenith, and the battle was soon to commence. The Horde assembled their weapons, the wyverns took flight, leaping into the air, and the lowly peon’s took their stations near the catapults, and began to push.

Within the hour, the orcs’ stood poised for battle, standing attention at the foot of the Blackguards’ makeshift fortress.


[to be continued…]



Ive been busy for a lot of the time lately (my parents have insisted on "acclimating" me to the working world by selling my every waking moment. Fortunately semester 2 is starting so they can't do that anymore.) C_B is right, and i will continue to write DoD, if only to say it was something i finished.

As for the Red Templar, i will write further on that after i finish DoD. 1 project is enough for me.

[Inquisistor7]

Analysis:
Paragraph 1: Good descriptions. I got a good idea of where things were and all that sort of thing.

It was the stuff of legends.

In general, avoid using cliche phrases and sentences. This is one such statement; it doesn’t really add anything to the story and is rather unnecessary.

Paragraph 2: A few grammatical errors were present, otherwise it was good.
1) “rune, engraving and symbol” place a comma after “engraving” 2)“spells” ought to be “spell’s”
3)”Barrens” should be Barrens’

Paragraph 3: “The dawn sun rose to the tune of a thousand sharpening blades.” Cool sentence. The rest was solid, except there were a some more possession mistakes; one other thing: “possessed” would be better as “possessing.”

Paragraph 4: “would see the mightiest of conflicts ever to be seen on the Barrens.” Okay, that was a little repetitious; a better phrasing would be something like: “would see the mightiest of conflicts ever to be staged [or waged] on the Barrens.” One more thing, use a colon instead of a semi-colon in the last sentence of the paragraph.

The remainder of this part was good, except there were a few grammatical mistakes.

Keep writing; I look forward to more.

[Chuckle Brother]

I liked it thought I agree with Inquis, there are still several mistakes, but you were very pushed from all sides and can be forgiven :P , over all it was very good. Keep it up.