team-evil

[team-evil]

The Amethyst Thief

They have overstayed their welcome.

I allowed their filth to pour through the realmgate in droves, so eager to fight, so eager to die. A tide of green anger delivering themselves unto a million rusted blades. The legion would grow. My legion.

I watched as they threw themselves against the towering bastions of our world, chanting their primal warcries, spilling rivers of their own blood in an attempt to tear down the fortresses we had built over eons. Yes, one tower might fall, or a dozen, it did not matter. Their numbers were finite. Mine are endless. I welcomed their deaths.

My legion would grow.

A castle would topple, and the horde would move on. A fortress would crumble to dust leaving thousands dead and again, the sea of hatred pushed on, undaunted. And yet somehow, their numbers never diminished.

As time passed I began to watch them more closely. I took note of their leader, a brute of immense size, wielding an axe stained with the blood of the living and the dust of the dead. He stood alone at the center of the army, an island in the sea of green flesh and faded orange armour. He sniffed at the air and gave a low growl, then turned his head to the west. A small grin tore across his scarred face. “WAAAAHHG!!” His warcry shook the ground and the army was spurred on, tearing up the ground as it headed west. Towards the Amethyst Citadel.

When they arrived at the gates of the citadel, my legion was waiting for them.

The horde parted as the leader moved to the head of his great force, his eyes narrow as he scanned the ramparts and walls for something. His gaze fell upon a figure attended by four hooded guards. The figure wore dark crimson armour and a silver, winged helm from which sockets of burning green fire stared back at him.

The leader pointed to the crowned figure atop the wall and spoke a single word; “Mine.”

The army charged at the walls and gate as defenses showered arrows of iron and bone into the oncoming masses. Arrows deflected harmlessly off chipped armour but the few that did find flesh, were either ripped out or ignored altogether. Choppas hacked into the gate, tearing out chunks and splinters. As cracks began to form in the gate, defenders shoved spears through the gaps, finding tough muscle on the other side. Some of the attackers grabbed hold of the spears and pulled, smashing defenders into the gate from the other side, obliterating bones or impaling them on the splintered wood from the gate.

As the gate began to give way, the brute charged through his ranks bellowing his warcry. His massive frame sundered the damaged gate, shattering it inwards allowing the horde to funnel through. Black knights on war steeds charged the intruders as skeletons armed with spears and ancient blades tried to stem the oncoming tide. Rusted blades sank deep into green flesh, pikes and blades were washed in dark blood. Gore hakkas and choppas rose and fell, hewing limbs, carving through armour and splitting hollow skulls. Bashas slammed into enemies, shattering them to fragments of old bone or pulping them to dust. All were met with death.

My legion would grow.

The leader, this imposing statue of muscle and sinew, this Megaboss, was pulling his axe from the chest of a black knight when a withering cry pierced the air. He turned to see one of his brutes stagger back, clutching his neck. Blood ran in rivulets as the wound continued to tear, like an invisible blade was being drawn across his flesh. The crimson-armoured figure stood over the body, watching him shudder in pain as he withered and died. He held an amethyst sword which pulsed with an unholy light, dark blood dropped from its edge. The Wight King looked up from the dead brute, his immortal gaze falling upon his new target. His voice was a profane, empty whisper. “You die here greenskin. We will slaughter your filthy kin. Your blood will run, your flesh will rot,” he raised the sword and leveled it at the hulking brute. “You will all be forgotten.”

The Megaboss hefted his large axe over his shoulder and grunted his response. “Dat’s mine,” he says nodding to the amethyst sword. “Imma break it.” Spitting into his palms he hauls the axe off his shoulder and gives it a little spin, feeling the weight. “Affer’ I break you.”

The Megaboss charged in as the grave guard steps in to defend their undead king. The first one tried to block a lateral swing of the huge axe with a shield but is obliterated utterly by the weapon. A second guard stabs at the megaboss and its sword sinks into his thigh. Without looking, he backhands the guard’s helmet, turning its contents to dust. The next two guards surround him, one has a shield and spear while the other has a rusted and notched claymore. The spearman stabs out and the megaboss catches the shaft. The guard tries to pull it free of the brute’s grip but is pulled in close and greeted with a menacing headbutt. The guard’s spine compresses and its torso is shattered by the sheer force. Then there is pain. He looks down to see a foot of steel protruding from his abdomen. Whirling around he reaches out and grabs the head of the last guard. He cries pure fury and throws the guard against a wall where he explodes into fragments of chain links and bone. He reaches to his back and grabs a hold of the blade and slides it free. Blood pours from the wound, staining his armour and the dirt under his feet. He growls as blood drips from his lips.

The Wight king moved forward slowly, stalking his injured opponent. He drew his blade, the ring of steel sounds like a thousand souls screaming for release. The Megaboss takes a step and falters. His breathing is laboured, the axe in his hands is heavy. He spits a wad of blood and grunts and tries to force himself to his feet. The Wight king closes in. Raising the blade above his head, the Wight king whispers,

“You will be forgotten.”

As the blade comes down the megaboss shoulder charges into the chest of the king knocking him back. Then shifting his weight and spinning, he swings his axe in an arc over his head. The Wight king raises the blade to block the blow. A sonic ripple explodes outward as the blade is shattered, sending amethyst shards flying in all directions. The axe continues its course, cleaving the Wight king from shoulder to pelvis in a devastating blow. His body crumples under the pressure as the green light fades from the empty sockets of his skull.

The megaboss takes a few steps back and slowly turns to his kin. A large, jagged shard of amethyst is buried deep in his right eye, sticky blood spatters his face as he stands over the body of the Wight king. He breathes deeply.

“WWAAAAGGHHHH!!”

His kin return the warcry and go back to hacking apart the denizens of the dead; my unholy legion. Leaderless and without direction, they fall easily to the mindless frenzy of the orks.

The megaboss grabs hold the broken shard and pulls it out. Fresh blood flows over his cheek and into him mouth. He waits for death to take him, it never comes. Grabbing a nearby grot, he nods his head in the direction of the broken shards strewn about the courtyard. He then drops the shard that was lodged in his eye into the grots waiting hands and tosses his axe to a nearby brute. They understand.

The megaboss wades back into the fighting, flexing his muscles, using his fists and boots to lay waste to my children. His boyz, his Ironjawz greet him with warcries of victory and begin to chant his name.

Now I watch as the horde of green, clad in orange leave Shyish, in search of new prey. Their leader stands at their center, his one eye surveying the vast landscape. His axe is held tightly in his fist, jagged shards of glowing amethyst are bolted to its keen edge. The Blade of Endings has been reborn, in crude ork fashion.

And the thief, Modak Deadeye is its ruler. For now.

- Nagash, Father of Necromancy and Supreme Lord of the Undead

[team-evil]

A Debt to Pay

Sitting alone in the corner with his back to the wall, he took another slow sip from his mug, watching as patrons hurried outside or pressed their faces to the grime-stained windows trying to get a glimpse of what had happened from the relative safety of the inn. They exchanged looks of concern and their whispers turned to loud guesses, to exclamations and then proclamations and warnings of things to come.

“Sounded like a rock slide,” an orc said to himself, then nodded his own approval. “I heard the Undercity alchemists are trying to create liquid explosives,” a drunken tauren said to his companions at this table “An explosion like that?” blurted a goblin who was trying to peer out the window. “That’s gunpowder you idiots, no mistakin’ it.” “Da dwarves be attackin’!” shouted a troll from the doorway who had obviously heard the goblin and drawn his own conclusions. He pressed his way through the crowd screaming “Dey be coming for war! Da dwarves be comin’!”

It had happened just moments before, a deafening bang coming from the forests of Silverpine. He pondered at what it might be but brushed the thoughts away as he had more important business to take care of this evening. Pulling his hood closer he took another sip from his mug, placed it gently on the table and after a moment, let out a small sigh. “You are genuinely, terrible at your profession,” he said in an unholy, raspy voice. “Now have a seat.” A figure appeared from the shadows garbed all in black except for a red sash around his arm and mask on his face. A notched cutlass hung from his waist and he could hear something rubbing on the inside his jerkin, a hand pistol most likely. “The Brotherhood does not take kindl-“ the masked man began. “I said have a seat,” the hooded figure interrupted, gesturing to a chair without turning to look at the masked man. The masked man stood silent and a little surprised, then pulled out the chair, took a seat and started over. “The Brotherhood does not ta-“ “You should have a drink,” the hooded figure said, waiving over the waitress. The masked man sat unblinking, his face beginning to flush with anger and impatience as he was clearly not accustomed to being dealt with in such an impolite manner. The waitress approached and bowed her head slightly, greeting the masked man to the inn. Her skin was a pale blue and torn in some areas but her face still showed the youth she had before she turned. Her eyes were a bright yellow, glowing with the spark of undeath. “Evenin’ sahr,” her voice a quiet echo, “what might I get ye?” “I’ll have what he’s having I suppose,” the masked man said cocking his head towards the hooded figure. The waitress looked to the hooded figure who then raised his mug. “You heard the man my dear.” The waitress bowed again and left to fetch his drink. The masked man sat quietly for another moment scowling at the hooded figure. The silence grew to a palpable tension as the masked man stared harshly at the hooded figure who not once, looked in his direction. After another few moments, the waitress returned, placed a mug on the table and left. The instant she was out of earshot the masked man, spitting ire, began again. “The Brotherh-” “The Brotherhood,” the hooded figure interrupted loudly, “does not take kindly to thieves.” The masked man sat up a little, surprised at this admission. The hooded figure continued. “Which is ironic since your particular band of miscreants deal quite a bit in thievery, deception,” he paused a moment to take another swig from his mug, “and murder.” The masked man allowed a small smile to creep onto his face, pleased with the reputation the Brotherhood had earned. “Do you know why I stole the ledger, Mr. Slade?” His smile faded as he bristled at the name. “How do you…” he began. “ You don’t? Well, the Defias aren’t really looking for the best and brightest are they? No they’re just looking for the most eager.” The hooded figure sat up and downed the rest of the liquid in his mug. Slade’s eyes darted around the room, it had gotten very quiet and he was now just noticing they were the only two sitting in the common area of the inn, all the other patrons had gone. “You see Mr. Slade, can I call you Mr. Slade, or should I call you Benjamin? Maybe Ben? No, that’s far too informal, maybe I should just call you Slade,” the hooded figure conversed with himself while Slade’s hand slowly crept towards his cutlass. “Anyways, like I was saying, or asking, I guess technically I was askin-,” the hooded figure stopped talking and quickly turned towards Slade who’s cutlass was coming down at him from across the table. The figure deftly pulled a dagger from his cloak, avoided the swipe and slammed the dagger into the back of Slade’s hand, pinning it to the table. Slade let out a scream of pain and dropped to his knees, his arm extended over the length of the table, blood running down its length and pooling on the floor. The figure quickly stepped in front of the table blocking the view of the waitress who came running back into the room. The hand behind his back gripped the dagger tightly. “Apologies my dear,” the hooded figure said solemnly bowing his head. “It would seem my friend here does not do well with his consumption of ale. He just fell off his chair, isn’t that right?” The hooded figure began to turn the dagger and Slade’s body jerked with pain. “Yes!” he exclaimed a bit too loudly, sweat pouring off his face. “I don’t think you’ll hear him again my dear. Now run along, we’ll be fine,” The hooded figure bowed his head again as the waitress slowly made her way into the back. “Slade,” the figure said, “you and I need to have a little talk and it would be in your best interests to keep the whimpering and such to a minimum.” Slade looked up from his bloody hand to see the figure had removed his hood and the dim candlelight of the inn cast shadows over the horror that was his face. Gaunt, scarred, pale green skin was stretched over protruding bone and dark, filth-covered teeth grinned endlessly down on him. Dark, hollow sockets held the unholy glow of undead eyes. “You see Slade, I had to steal the ledger.” The figure shrugged as if helpless. “If I know one thing, it’s that the Brotherhood is very good at keeping detailed records of those in their employ,” he paused to take a drink from Slade’s mug, feeling refreshed, he continued. “There’s only one test to prove yourself to the Brotherhood, and you know what,” he reached into his waistband to retrieve a small, leather-bound book, “they’re really good at keeping notes.” He opened the ledger and began flipping through pages, looking for one entry in particular. Slade groaned in pain, sweat beading off his nose as he tried to pull his hand free of the dagger. “Ah! Here we go,” the figure blurted, suddenly excited. “Midsummer, second full moon. Mr. Willower has refused to pay his debts and has fled to the Eastern Kingdoms. His daughter is now fair payment.” The figure looked at Slade. “I’ll keep reading, it gets better.” He scrolled down the page to find where he had left off. “…daughter payment, oh yes here it is. Midsummer, fourth moon, Claire Willower taken for payment. Silver and onyx locket to be retained by collector as proof of payment for debts to the Brotherhood.” The figure closed the ledger resoundingly, stood and began pacing while pondering the words he had just read. “Hmm, taken for payment? I wonder what that means.” He stated to nobody in particular and began scratching at his temple. His eyes fell on Slade and after a few moments he put his hand on the dagger and turned it ever-so-slightly. Blood poured from the wound and Slade muffled a scream. “Ok! Ok! Alright!” Slade spat between gasps of air. “She was killed to pay her father’s debts! That’s what it means you rotting bastard!” The figure pondered the answer for a moment then asked ��But, if they weren’t her debts, why kill her?” “Because a message has to be sent,” the masked man growled. “The Brotherhood does not forgive debts so easily.” The masked man’s free hand was slowly making its way inside his jerkin. “Nor does the Brotherhood,” he said with resolute defiance, “tolerate the undead.” Slade pulled the pistol from his jerkin and fired. The figure moved like a shadow, closing the distance between them in an instant. All movement ceased. For a moment, the inn was silent. “I got you,” Slade teased. The figure leaned in closely and whispered, “Yes, but I got you back.” Stepping back, he revealed a second dagger, like the one in Slade’s hand, plunged deep into his chest. Red and glowing, the dagger pulsed, quickly at first but then slower and slower. The figure looked down to see a small hole in his upper chest. Black ichor oozed out of the wound and he shrugged it off, his attention still focused on Slade. He pulled something from his cloak and knelt in front of Slade. Slowly, the figure donned his mantle of death, his true face, and watched as fear swelled in the assassin’s eyes. “No.. No! Kodran, no wait! We can talk,” Slade’s words slurred as blood began to pool through his mask. “I will collect your debt,” Kodran said evenly, “in blood.” He turned the dagger sharply in Slade’s chest and watched the light fade from his eyes. The dagger’s glow faded and Kodran removed it from the dead man’s chest as well as the one pinning his hand to the table. Fitting them back into their sheaths, he bent over the lifeless body and began rifling through his pockets. He pulled out a coin purse, a few bottles of poison, some throwing daggers and then saw a necklace hanging around his neck. He unfastened the silver chain just as the waitress was entering the common area. Kodran tossed the remainder of the ale onto Slade’s body, and pulling up his hood, rushed to greet her. “What was that I heard?” she asked trying to get a look inside the room. “Oh nothing my dear,” he said ushering her away from the scene. “I am afraid he’s had his fill, tried to get up for another mug, fell over and voila. Actually,” he said raising his nose to the air, “you can almost smell it from here.” Kodran watched as her nose twitched as her nostrils filled with the smell of spilled ale. Satisfied he continued. “Just leave him be for now my dear, I’ll fetch one of the deathguards to deal with him.” She smiled shyly and bowed her head in thanks. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Kodran reached into his pocket and pulled out Slade’s coin purse and handed it to the waitress. “That should cover our drinks and some of the mess.” The waitress held the purse and felt the weight. It was at least a month’s wage in gold. She began to speak but he cut her off quickly. “Don’t argue,” he said sternly. She smiled once again and watched as Kodran threw on his cloak and made his way for the door. He paused for a moment and without turning, spoke. “Rest easy Claire,” and without another word, he was gone. The waitress stood silently in the empty common room of Brill’s inn and slowly opened the coin purse in her hand. Amongst the gold coins lay a small, silver necklace affixed to an onyx locket. Claire Willower smiled at it’s radiance and couldn’t help but think she had seen it before. Kodran made his way towards Brill’s entry gates to speak to a deathguard about Slade’s body when he saw two figures approaching from the direction of Silverpine forest. From what he could see they were both Blood Elves, one, possibly a hunter,  as she was being tailed by a wolf carrying a stick and the second looked to be a monk, carrying a staff. Both looked filthy and were covered in dirt and grime. Then he took a closer look at the wolf and saw it wasn’t carrying a stick, but a grotesque arm. Kodran stopped walking and faded into the shadows. “Well,” he thought to himself, “who says Brill can’t be exciting?”

[team-evil]

The Dead Forest

Death was in the air. It had been like that for years. It started in the soil, the earth turned to a rotting filth, poisoning plants and killing fields and crops. Rain seeped into the cursed earth, plaguing even the oldest of trees whose roots dug deep. Bark splintered from the trunks of thousand year old redwoods as leaves and needles fell to the forest floor. The rot passed from plant to animal until nothing in the forest was truly alive any longer. The forests of Silverpine were no longer beautiful.

Deep within the forest, a small glow could be seen, casting shadows between the misshapen trees and gnarled branches. A blood elf sat cross-legged in the middle of a small clearing tending a campfire. She watched as small embers would rise into the evening sky and disappear as though they never existed. Reaching out she warmed her hands for a moment before picking up a small rucksack and looked inside. An object wrapped in woolen cloth emerged and she unwrapped it carefully to reveal a small wooden statue. Tucking the cloth into her pack she pulled a blade from its sheath at her waist and looked over the figure in the firelight. Smiling inwardly, she began to whittle.

The aroma of sugarpine filled the clearing as flecks of wood were removed. The statue was beginning to take a more noticeable shape too, which made her work faster, but with no less care. A smooth, scaled body spiraled down into a long forked tail while the head sat with teeth bared and large empty sockets where the eyes would normally be. She blew on the figure, removing any unwanted wooden scraps and inspected it closely in the firelight. Every curve was perfect, every marking exceptional. Balancing the figure on her knee she opened a small pouch on her belt and two small rocks tumbled out. Picking up the statue once again she placed the first stone into one of the sockets.

“To see the earth as I see it, I grant you jade sight,” she whispered to the statue.  Then placing the second stone, she whispered again, “The seas are vast so you will need to gaze far, may the vision of cobalt guide you.” Placing the figure on the ground she looked at it for a few moments, closed her eyes and whispered an incantation. A slight wind blew through the forest giving her goose bumps. When she opened her eyes the tiny dragon figure sat peering at her from its two, now sparkling, eyes. It was exactly as she had dreamed it.

Lost in thought the blood elf almost didn’t hear the sound of someone carefully approaching. She hopped to her feet quickly, kicking her staff into her hands and peering into the darkness.  Silently she listened. A set of green eyes appeared out of the shadows and charged to the edge of the clearing. A large, grey wolf stood staring at her. From behind her, a voice spoke.

“We got closer than we should have, Nephsy.”

She let her grip on the staff ease as the wolf darted into the clearing and leapt into her chest knocking her over, and finally, licking her face.

“Kira stop it!” the elf laughed while trying to push the wolf off of her chest. Kira complied but kept nuzzling her face into Nephsy legs as she stood.

“You know I hate being called that Anáriel,” Nephsy said addressing the other figure entering the clearing. “Besides, I heard you coming didn’t I?”

“You heard Kira, not me,” Anáriel stated bluntly, then softened. “But I will admit you’re improving.” The hunter smiled at her. Nephsy took in the vision that was her friend, Anáriel. Clad in the green and grey of a forest ranger, she wore mostly leather and not mail like most hunters, not that it would slow her down. She wore a long cloak embroidered with names of her family and across her back was her bow, Siren. Sleek, dark and shimmering, like it was made from the watery depths of the Forbidding Sea.

“How was your hunt?” Nephsy asked, taking a seat next to Kira by the fire. Kira let out a small growl and plopped her head in Nephsy’s lap.

Anáriel smiled and watched as Nephsy began to scratch behind Kira’s ears. “Kira is right. There is nothing in this forest fit for a meal. All the animals have the plague and even some of the herbs or roots I managed to find are all rotting. I am sorry Neph, we will not be feasting tonight.” Anáriel’s eyes lowered. The two had been traveling for nearly a fortnight and their rations were nearly exhausted. Nephsy reached into her pack and pulled out some dry berrybread and a small flask of amber liquid. She tore off a piece of bread and handed it to Anáriel who thanked her. She tore another piece and gave it to Kira who sniffed it a few times, looked to Anáriel, growled, and then ate it. The two friends laughed and shared the flask, telling stories late into the night.

The moon hid behind the clouds but its light was still perceptible, even if only slightly. “We should sleep,” Anáriel said throwing a log onto the waning fire. “We should be able to reach the Undercity by tomorrow evening.” The duo traveled by foot as Anáriel rarely used a live mount, except in the most important of situations. She said animals  should not be seen as personal property and should never be treated as such. Nephsy admired her for that. “What’s that?” Anáriel asked tilting her head toward the fire where a small statue sat quietly peering into the forest. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Nephsy said as she picked up the statue. “It’s for you.” Anáriel’s eyebrow raised suspiciously as she took the dragon figurine and looked it over. “When did you get this?” “I made it,” Nephsy responded quietly. “Every time you two would hunt, I worked on it.” Anáriel smiled and touched Nephsy’s arm, “It is beautiful. I will keep it close and treasure it always.” Nephsy bowed her head in thanks. “Please do,” she thought. “For us both.” The trio went to sleep under the crooked canopy of the forest, the crackling fire cast dancing shadows among the trees. The night’s silence a constant reminder that death was all around them. Watching.

A rabbit. That’s what she was chasing. A brown-tailed hare bounded between the trees while she nipped at it’s heels. She was so close she could almost taste it. This rabbit was always so elusive but tonight, tonight she would be caught.Then she heard a sound in the distance, it was faint but, were those footsteps? The thought of the rabbit was gone, now she was listening to the quiet in the forest. She stared into the foggy darkness between the trees and tried to focus her ears to the sound she had heard. She could hear the forest floor give way to the weight of something heavy. Were they footsteps? “CRI-CRACK!” Kira sat bolt upright and the dream faded away in an instant. Her ears twitched as keen eyes scanned the darkness, her nose hunting for clues. She caught the scent of something and without hesitating crept quietly to where the two blood elves were sleeping. She nudged Anáriel who woke up almost immediately. Their eyes met and Kira gave a low growl then turned her head to the north and pawed at the dirt. “Wake up,” Anáriel whispered as she retrieved her bow and notched an arrow. Nephsy stirred and opening her eyes, began to yawn. “What tim-,” she started before she realized Anáriel was facing the darkness and Kira was pressed low to the ground. Without another word Nephsy picked up her staff and looked to Anáriel, who motioned for her to stand nearby. Nephsy had only begun to move when a deep, wet howl emanated from the darkness and the two looked at each other exchanging the same confused expression. It sounded like laughter. Anáriel turned to Nephsy and motioned that she would circle around, then looked to Kira and nodded in Nephsy’s direction. The wolf obeyed and took her place next to the young monk. When she looked up from the the wolf, Anáriel was already gone. The two made their way towards where they had heard the howl the first time. Kira paced quietly in front while Nephsy crept behind her, holding her staff in one hand. After a few hundred yards Kira stopped dead in her tracks and her fur stood on end. Nephsy came closer and knelt beside her companion, trying to get a glimpse of what had made the sounds. She saw a large figure, at least six feet in height, hunched over another figure which was laying prone on the ground. She could see the body glistening, from sweat or some other liquid, she could not tell, and the sounds, the sounds it was making. The figure stopped moving and lifted it’s head to the night air, sniffing. She could see it’s breath in the cool night air and watched it snake into the night sky. Looking down she could see the figure on the ground was a large stag, it’s rib cage torn open exposing it’s half-eaten entrails, her eyes widened at the carnage as her hand gripped her staff more tightly. The figure turned it’s large, grotesque head toward her, the faint moonlight casting horrid shadows across its blood-soaked face. Thick, fur-covered arms ended in large, clawed hands. A black mane ran down it’s head to it’s back and it’s haunched legs were powerfully muscular. Patches of fur were missing and in its place were large pustules of a greenish ichor and large, bloody scars. It’s teeth were long and stained and it’s eyes, dark green and hollow. She had never seen a gnoll like this one, especially one this big.

The beast let out a deafening howl which ended as abruptly as it had begun when two arrows pierced it’s throat. Anáriel entered her view and  loosed another two arrows which thudded into the gnoll’s chest. It seemed to hardly notice as it turned it’s gaze to this new threat, blood dripping from it’s many wounds. In an instant Kira was on it, biting and tearing at it’s legs, trying to bring it down. Nephsy saw her chance and, sprinting at the beast, launched herself into the air. Her knee connected with the gnoll’s face, snapping it’s head back and breaking its jaw as she rolled to the ground and sprung up, staff ready. The gnoll tried to let out another howl but all that escaped was a wet gurgle. Anáriel had fired no less than ten arrows and the gnoll was still advancing. Kira had managed to mangle one of it’s legs while Nephsy bludgeoned it with swift, ruthless attacks. This was getting them nowhere, then she had an idea. “Kira!” Nephsy shouted. “Fire!” Kira seemed to understand and bolted off into the darkness. The gnoll advanced slowly as the two companions skirted it’s swiping claws. Within moments Kira returned with a log, one end burning brightly. Nephsy snatched it up and saw Anáriel rapidly tying a pouch to one of her arrows. She threw the log at the gnoll and Anáriel took her shot. The arrow pierced the log pinning it to the gnoll’s stomach. “KRRA—THUUMMM!!” The explosion knocked everyone off their feet. Kira sneezed and began to roll around in the dirt. Nephsy sat up brushing off the spattering of ash and viscera. “What was that?” She asked, coughing. “Gunpowder,” Anáriel said, picking small pieces of burnt fur out of her hair. “I always keep a little on hand.” Nephsy cocked her head slightly and motioned to the scorched remains of the gnoll that were scattered about the area. “A little?” Anáriel wasn’t listening. She was bent over what looked to be one of the arms of the creature. She waved Nephsy over. “What is that?” She asked, pointing to a scar on the forearm of the singed appendage. Nephsy looked closer and saw the image of a mace surrounded by flames. An image she had seen many times before in many variations; A sword wreathed in flames, a fiery shield, a smoldering axe, it all meant the same thing.The two exchanged looks of concern.

There was no denying the mark of the Scarlet Crusade.

[team-evil]

American Man Fighting: A How to guide

It seems that these days more and more people are becoming fans of MMA (Mixed Martial Arts). People are watching events, reading up in magazines, buying merchandise, taking beginner classes or training to become a fighter, it’s a lot to take in. Not to mention all the styles one can train in like wrestling, boxing, karate, Brazilian ju jitsu, muay thai and countless others. So why is it no one trains in the most effective fighting style?

American Man Fighting

And who better to teach us than the illustrious Captain of the USS Enterprise, Captain James T Kirk? His mission, the boldly mould us into the ass-whooping machines we were meant to be.

My friends, class is in session.

A History

Captain Kirk is a Man. An American man. An American man who likes to fight. That’s really all you need to know.

Oh, and totally not insane.

The Stance

Before we concern ourselves with actual fighting, we need to prepare for the fight. Now most would have you believe that keeping your hands up is an essential way to protect oneself. WRONG! You need to feed your opponent with overconfidence (then knuckle sammiches) so he’ll make the first mistake, ie. Attacking wildly. Here’s what you do; Stand tall and face your opponent, keep your hands at your sides while flexing just a little to show off the muscle, then puff your chest out. This is the typical AMF Alpha Male Stance, used by Kirk on many occasions.

Most notably at cartoon discos

The Attack

Learning how to fight is a long and complicated road. One has to train often and learn what attacks are most useful in what situations. Should you grapple your opponent or wait for a time to strike? Are you better suited trading punches or should you drag them to the ground in a brawl? Thankfully none of these scenarios matter when you’re using AMF, as most times, thought is frowned upon.

Here we will go over the basics of AMF to get you on your way. Here are a few moves that are sure to baffle your foes.

The Knee A very basic attack. You wait until your opponent is open for a counter attack, usually after a punch or attempted knife-stab. You place your hands on his back and drive your knee into his solar plexus. Wait for your opponent to recover so you can lead into the next move.

The Neck Chop The outside of your hand is a very hard surface, one that should be used often. When an opportunity presents itself in the form of an open neck or sleeping would-be assailant just remember that the number of chops you get in are directly proportional to the amount of alien chicks you get to bang later.

Hammerfist Alright, take your hand and ball it up into a fist. Good. Now smash it on the table like a hammer. Perfect, see how that works? Now use it like a rock on a string and whip it around with reckless abandon slamming into faces and necks. With practice you might soon learn to use both arms simultaneously, but that’s a more advanced move. (See whirling dirvish)

Knuckle Sandwich A Kirk specialty. Clasp your hands together interlocking your fingers and keeping the heels of your hands pressed firmly together. Now find a couch cushion or little brother and swing that bad-boy. Feels good huh? You see, a normal punch had the weight of the arm and hips behind it, which is fine if you like boxing like a pansy, but thankfully Captain Kirk is also a scientist, and if science has taught us anything, it’s that more weight equals a bigger impact. A bigger impact equals more damage and more damage equals better chances to get the green chick. Holy Shit! We did science!

The Dropkick This isn’t just for wrestlers. Sometimes you’re in a situation where you might have to use more than just a simple punch or kick and try as you might you’re not generating enough power. Well if you read about the Knuckle Sandwich then you know all about science, and once again, more weight equals more power. You only need a few steps them launch your body, feet first, like a missile into the enemy. For an added bonus step in dog poo prior to this move.

The Whirling Dirvish Close your eyes and spin until you feel like vomiting or your fists stop smacking into faces. Whichever comes first. This is usually reserved when outnumbered at least 5 to 1. Shout “KHAN!” for added SpinRage.

In this video we see the dropkick opener, then The AMF Alpha Male stance and finally, a barrage of Hammerfists (note both arms are being used with staggering precision

When to Defend

The best way to defend is by punching, kneeing, dropkicking and chopping your opponent. You know how the old saying goes, the best offence is a hammerfist to he temple... or something like that. Besides, this is American Man Fighting, not American ManTime-Wasting.

So just remember these simple rules and you’ll be droppin’ foo’s in no time. Juts remember that no matter how the fight turns out, make sure your shirt’s ripped. Let the ladies see that chest and you’re guaranteed to get a little.

[team-evil]

Christmas Drinking Game

Every time a relative makes a comment about you not being married or why you don't have kids, take a shot of whiskey and drink a glass of eggnog instead of answering. By noon you'll be vomiting and they'll all realize the you're not mature enough for either since you just played a drinking game you read off Facebook

[team-evil]

Part 3: Numbers

The sun was setting over the western mountains, a cool breeze running through the pass along the worn path and into the thornbrush of the Southern Barrens. Silence dominated the dusk and the flickering torches of the Quillboar sentries shone out over the grasslands casting long, deformed shadows. Their bodies rigid, eyes glazed and unfocused, throats crimson.

The dead raise no alarms.

As the sun took shelter behind the mountains, shadows waded through the tall grass and around the perimeter of the Quillboar village. Prowlers they were called, the gnoll scouts, students of the dark crept silently and unseen through the checkpoints and into watchtowers waiting for the sign. A low rumble, deep gust of wind howled over the village and they knew it was time to strike. Ebonsteel daggers held in eager paws lashed out slicing throats and ripping necks. The Prowlers went about their grisly business without so much as a gnollish cackle. When the task was done one gnoll adorned with a hooded cape and an eye fashioned of onyx, reached into a small leather pouch and removed a dark green powder. He picked up a torch and carefully dropped a pinch of the powder into the flame where is sizzled and spat. Then the flame turned and writhed then finally flashed an unholy green. He looked out over the expanse of tallgrass and listened. At first, nothing, then as the moments slipped by the steady and unmistakable sound of padded feet rushed to greet his pointed, furry ears. He turned to the quillboar body slumped next to him and put his paw to its open throat, then took hold of the torch, it’s green flame still burning and snuffed it out with a wet, bloody paw. He hopped down from the guard tower and pulled up his hood as he made to join the rest of the force.

With no alarms being raised they met little resistance. The prowlers snuck into huts, stabbing and cutting at quillboars where they slept. Quillboar screams were silenced quickly and those that did try to fight back met with no mercy. The gnoll brutes set axe, mace and sword to any that fought back. Gnoll Shamans rooted those who tried to escape while the gnoll hunters greeted them with raven-feathered arrows. The massacre was over before the spilled blood ran cold. Camp was set and guards posted. A large bonfire was set in the middle of the village where the gnolls heaped the quillboar bodies and watched them burn. A large tent was erected at the back of the village against the slope of the mountain and that’s where they held council. Black Eye the prowler, Ironpaw the brute, Ravenwing the hunter and Rocktooth the shaman all stood, heads bowed before their leader. He had called them together as only he could, demand they unite and forget their petty tribal squabbles. Their will was bent to his own. The Grimtotem encampment would be crushed the following night and the gnolls would take hold of Ferelas, their 'rightful home.' Victory was assured.

The sun was still rising when the trio came to the southern pass which lead to the Thousand Needles. It had been a long journey but they had travelled quickly under the hot sun and cool moonlight, stopping only when needed. Now they stood transfixed, looking at plumes of black smoke and the unmistakable smell of death lingering towards them.

The blood elf slowly dismounted as a large grey cat slowly stalked alongside her in the tallgrass. The two approached the watchtowers and saw the blood soaked wooden planks and smoking torches. The grass was beaten, crushed and held blood trails leading into the village which they followed to find a vast mound of smouldering quillboar bodies.

The blood elf put her hand to her mouth and gave a shudder as the cat slowly grew and took on a more familiar shape. The third companion sat atop his green skeletal warhorse watching with unblinking, cold blue eyes. Surveying the scene the two pieced together what had happened. It seemed as though the attacking force had left at daybreak and headed for the south. Huts were torn and splintered, the wood most likely used for rafts and boats for the journey across the flooded Needles. They were at least three hours ahead.

“We are too late,” spoke Tay in a soft voice, “We cannot catch them now.” The large tauren stood pining over the scene until he saw a black feathered arrow sticking into a wooden shield next to him. He reached down and plucked it free, stroking the soft raven’s feathers. “How many do you think they are?” she asked quietly. Observing the ground around him and eyeing the arrow, Tull sighed, “I would guess at a hundred.” “And your guess is just that my friend; a guess,” Nexx was standing on one of the nearest watchtowers surveying the scene. Tay flashed an angry glare at the mage, “Speak your thoughts or keep them to yourself corpse! We need answers, not riddles!” Nexx smiled apologetically and bowed low, scooping something off the watchtower floor with abject quickness. He then floated gently off the tower to land quietly next to the duo. “What I meant to say was that your guess was accurate, in that this force was numbered at close to one hundred,” Nexx said softly. Tay never liked it when the mage was polite, it didn’t suit him. “So then, why correct me?” Tull asked. “Because I think, this was but a fraction of their entire force” Nexx said as he showed the two the item he had picked up. An ebonsteel dagger caked in blood sat neatly in his palm. Tull’s eyes narrowed and he growled deeply. “Prrrowlers...” Tay saw his teeth legthen. “Yes,” Nexx said meaningfully, “I see you found a raven’s arrow.” Tay saw where this was going. “Are you saying that the Prowler and Hunter tribes have merged?” She asked. “I am afraid it is worse than that my dear,” Nexx said, his voice hollow, lacking its usual bite. “I have seen the painted markings of gnoll Shamans as well as the mailed bootprints of the Brutes.” Tull’s eyes unfocused, his heart pounded in his chest and he could feel his fur thicken. Tay stood stunned. “All... the tribes?" “Yes. Nearly five hundred gnolls march to Grimtotem,” the mage stated blatantly his blue piercing eyes slowing turning towards the tauren. "But who are they followi..." Tay's train of thought trailed off as she looked to Tull. With that, Tull’s rage exploded. His hands sprouted wicked, six inch claws, muscles rippled under a thick hide as his mouth foamed with slather. The large bear reared up on its hind legs and swiped at the four foot thick support beam of the nearby watchtower, sending an explosion of wood and splinters in every direction. The tower came crashing down around him in a cloud of dust and debris. His voice was anger-filled, primal but there was no mistaking his words. “Hoggerrrr."

[team-evil]

Part 2: Bound

Sitting atop his dire wolf looking down into the waste that was Desolace, the orc thought about the road ahead. South through the hot sands of Desolace and into the wilds of Ferelas, all before nightfall, was no easy task. “The road is long my love, we must not tarry,” came a hollow voice to his left. The orc straightened and nodded his approval, then, whispering a words on encouragement to his wolf, the pair took off town the dusty path into the open desert of Desolace. He glanced to his left and saw his companion bent low over a grey wolf, spurring it on. She looked to him and smiled and urged her wolf forward, past his. It was a game they played, a challenge of stamina and cunning, how to get the most out of your wolf and yourself to reach your destination first. They had played this game when they first met over eight years ago. They had also played it the evening of her death.

It was in the early days of spring, not six months past. They were hired as a part of a garrison to protect local traders as they passed from the Crossroads to Bloodhoof village. She was a huntress and skilled tracker, always sensing danger before it could bring them any harm. Her black tiger, Bast she called her, would prowl the tree lines and flush out any would-be assailants. He on the other hand was an apprentice warlock, dabbling in the dark magics and tricks of the shadow. They were a formidable team.

This particular evening was quiet. There were no traders to be making a nightly run and so the pair set out for a moonlight stroll mostly to enjoy each others company. She had commanded Bast to stay behind with the wolves and together they walked towards the small tree line of a nearby oasis. Deep in conversation, they strayed deeper into the small glade. He was telling her how he had gotten the scar across his jaw, a story she had heard hundreds of times but loved the way he told it. All of a sudden she took off in a dead sprint and he followed, welcoming their game. Through the trees they weaved, trying to gain advantage until he finally caught up to her, wrapping hi massive arms around her as she laughed. He still remembered the warm evening and how her olive-green skin gleamed with a thin layer of sweat. She was smiling, a low growl rumbling deep from her throat when her eyes darted past him and her smile faded. Her muscles tensed and in a flash her bow was off her shoulder with an arrow notched. He turned away from her and spoke in whispers, calling upon his powers, drawing energy into himself, inviting the darkness, the shadows. His breathing slowed and matched hers, together they stood silent, back to back, watching, waiting.

The cry came from his right, a loud challenge from deep inside the trees. A centaur sprang out from the trees and before he could muster a word, she placed an arrow neatly in his eye. More centaur quickly piled into the glade brandishing rusted blades, crude stone axes, warped short bows and long jagged spears. Arrows flew in all directions as did his evil omens and plagues. One centaur was horrified, screaming and clawing out his eyes with his own daggers until she placed two arrows into his chest. The bodies were piling up but their numbers seemed to be increasing and they both knew it was time to make a hasty retreat. She quickly cast a frost trap into the nearest group and he placed a fear curse on a few others. They turned and ran, hearing the dull thunk of arrows as they dug deep into trees on either side.

Only once they cleared the trees and the sound of the angered centaurs died away did he look to her. She was leaning against a tree hunched over slightly, her breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. When he went to her she looked up at him and smiled. Her tunic was covered in blood and three arrowheads poked through; on in her stomach and two in her chest. The fact that she ran to the edge of the glade filled him with awe. She quickly sank to one knee and her smile faded. No words were exchanged as he bent down and took her into his arms. Even with blood pouring from her wounds, she never cried out, never complained. Telling her he would save her, she looked to him, her eyes open, unfocused, and unseeing.

His sadness gave way to rage almost immediately as he cursed the sky and earth. His roars shook the treetops and his body filled with energy. He lay her body on it’s side and removed the arrows. Resting her on her back he knelt over her and glowered. His mind racing for answers, for an explanation of what had happened, of what he could do. And then his mind cleared, his rage ebbed and he began to chant. Slow at first, then more persistent. His words had meaning, had a purpose. The earth under her began to rot and fester, the air began to reek of sulfur and a thin, purple haze of mist seeped from the group an began to envelop her. With his hands placed on her forehead and chest his chanting was now hollow, directed, practised.

A small tear in the earth opened and through it came a hand. A sharp, bony, clawed thing, digging into the earth and pulling behind it a lithe monstrosity. Leathery crimson wings, taloned feet and a face with no eyes, just a mouth with teeth like shards of yellow, broken glass. There were no words spoken between the warlock and this, demon, this, Terrorguard, yet no words were needed. The Terrorguard inclined its head and gave what appeared to be, a crude, knowing smile before it bent over the dead orcs body. It’s mouth opened wide releasing a shrill scream followed by a fetid mist of deep purple and green into her mouth. After a few moments the Terrorguard quieted and backed away. Turning to the warlock, it raised a great clawed finger and sunk it deep within the flesh of the orc’s chest, dragging it across his breast, ripping him open where a dark green ooze poured from the grievous wound. The Fiend’s tongue then lashed out, burning his skin and closing the wound. The tongue entered his great toothed-maw and he reveled in the taste, a slow shudder crossed his body. A voice, deep, powerful but distant, echoed in the warlock’s mind. “Boouunndd.” When he looked to see where the demon had gone, he was nowhere in sight. He knelt and picked up his beloved and carried her back to the Crossroads where she lay, unmoving, for days. One evening he was tending to dinner when a cold hand gently touched his shoulder. He turned to see his mate, his Artemis, standing before him. Her skin was paler than he remembered but her smile was the same. She did not speak but merely hugged him and he returned it. When they separated he saw that her usual dark brown eyes were now yellow and her body seemed frail and weak. He pushed the thoughts away and offered her a seat and poured her a hot bowl of zhevra stew. The two sat silently for many hours just happy to be together once again.

“Where are your thoughts?” came a voice. He shook his head and saw Artemis looking at him quizzically. “Nowhere. Just…” he hesitated, “…it is nothing,” he sighed. Artemis slowed her wolf and he did the same. She circled around to look at him, her face wrinkled, shallow, decaying. “Do you regret the pact you made?” she asked softly, her voice a mere whisper. He looked into her cold, yellow eyes, void of the spirit of life they once held and gently grasped her hand. “Never. You are mine and I am yours. If that demon had not done my bidding I would have plunged into the OtherWorld itself and demanded you be returned to me.” Even in death her smile was warm and it reminded him of all the reasons he did what he had done. “As I did when I heard you call my name,” she said finally.

After a few moments Artemis pulled her hand away, sat up straight and turned to south, towards Ferelas. “It is getting late my love, I fear we may not make the camp by nightfall,” she spoke over he shoulder watching the setting sun. Bubbaganoosh smiled to himself and brought his black wolf alongside hers and cast her a sideways glance. “If the hunter is tired,” he said, “perhaps she would care to sleep?” Artemis gave a loud laugh and kicked her heels into the wolf’s flank setting it wild on the path to Ferelas. Her love trailed close behind and once again they were children playing at The Chase.

[team-evil]

Part 1: The Meeting

“This is taking too long,” said the priest in a hushed whisper. “He should have been here by now.”

“Patience my dear, he is not that late. Come, sit with me.”

The blood elf priest huffed disapprovingly and then rolled her eyes at her companion. She sauntered over to a nearby stump, scrutinized it closely and flicked a dusk-beetle off it before sitting down.

The moonlight was shining into the small glade and the only sound in the night was the soft crackling of the fire in front of the two. The Blood Elf’s eyes glowed especially green in the darkness, whether this was due to the moonlight or her ever-increasing ire towards their late guest, he did not know.

“Tull,” she said softly as she laid a hand on the tauren’s shoulder. “You know as well as I do that we need to go.” The tauren poked a stick into the fire watching the embers slowly float into the air and be swept away by the soft night breeze. “You heard it yourself,” she continued, “two full encampments of gnolls headed to Grimtotem this very night. We need to meet the others there or…” The tauren stood up and stomped his hooves into the ground, shaking it violently. “You think I don’t know this?! There are four of us Tay, only four!” His voice growled and for an instant, she thought she saw his fur thicken. “Artemis and Bubb will be there now,” his anger unleashed, she now spoke freely. “If we wait much longer we risk not getting there in time.” She stepped closer to the tauren, her green eyes narrow, “He’s not worth it. Not him. Rarely trust a mage; Do not trust the dead.”

“Now, now, Sweetness,” came a voice from the shadows, “It is rather unkind to speak ill of those who might be of assistance, wouldn't you agree?” Tull and Tay turned to see a figure step into the glade. His sickly, pallid skin was stretched over his bones and torn, ripped flesh hung loosely in areas. His robes were purple and black with fine scarlet etchings adorning the hem and cuffs. His smile was wicked and mocking but it was his eyes that caught the attention of the companions. Bright, unblinking, blue glowing eyes, not the yellow of the dead, set in deep sockets scanned the two. After a few more moments, the stranger fell into a low bow and held it.

“My name, as you have guessed, is Nexx,” his voice was coarse and rasped with malice. Looking up at the two, they saw he was grinning.

“I hear you have a gnoll problem,” he held out his hand and a small flame burst into being. He stared at it lovingly and then clenched his hand, snuffing it out. “I think I may be of some use.”

[team-evil]

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