To Purge An Island

[Wretched 2075]

 

The gathered forces of the elves had stood before the monstrosity that was once a Druid's grove, now ensnared with sickly lengths of web, seeping with the frozen corruption of the Black Scourge with the great, radiant Blood Shard hovering above like the watchful eye it was. By sea and by land did they charge, storming the spider-infested beaches lined with blackened sand, swords and arrows buried deep into the grotesque hides of the colossal beasts. Like a tidal wave they came crashing through the trees to meet them, skittering about the island with an unnatural, furious hunger.

 

With a deep humming, the looming Blood Shard marked the arrival of one of its masters, a thick black mist gathered atop the trees and from it paced a Dark Lieutenant of the North, his freezing aura driving another surge of spiders from the trees, mixed with the corrupted soldiers of the Scourge, their withering bodies emerging from various rifts in seemingly endless waves. The ever-present breeze slowed to a complete halt, the stillness of the air carrying with it a blood-curdling chill as blasts of freezing flames were shot amongst the trees, the sound dulling out the screeches of anger and the screams for help.

 

For several days did the battle rage on, until the fight was brought into the treetops themselves, beneath the rotating mass of Blood Shard that seemed to pulse with energy. The remaining elven troops fought to defend the mages as they began to attack the shard, but in their haste did they cause an unfortunate reaction as the stone's rotating picked up speed, cracking across its shell to reveal a deep purple aura within which seeped down onto the treetop, soon igniting into a thick, swirling inferno. Elves leaped from the island with panicked cries, the circle of flame expanding rapidly across the canopy as fragments of the shard violently tore themselves free, darting through the air only to explode several metres away. With one final, ear-piercing blast, the Blood Shard was no more, scattered about the fire-engulfed expanse of land with now almost the entirety of the island obscured in smoke.

 

 

Concealed by the shadow of a nearby mountain, several figures stood to overlook the scene. After a minute of whispered comments, they turned to head Northward, on this day defeated. The elves had cast down the icon of despair that had driven them from their home, and for a while, however short it may be, they could smile with the essence of victory - but at the cost of their once beloved grove.

[John Ivory 4547]

*A dirtied man named Theobalt Rolnik stands in the Malinor camp.*

 

"Huzzah!"

 

*Theobalt Rolnik raises his sword high and wears his new greaves he had looted when he slayed Vulnir with Lion.*

[weatherman321 19]

Vulnir sits in the study of the Haumel longhouse, staring down at a blank parchment. In his hand he holds a quill, which he taps against the desk incessantly, tap tap tap. Finally, the words come to him. He dips the quill in the nearby ink pot and starts composing a ballad about the battle in which he had taken part.

[WuHanXianShi14 0]

Art shrugs, as usual extremely biased propaganda fails to sway him to 'fear' any cultist wannabes in his not-so-humble mind.

[Shadeleaf 1022]

Shae'Tan simply sits within its cave in the north, dark helm angled towards a wall of maps with it's black iron staff across its lap, the pointed cyan blade resting in its right gauntlet. 'They thought they had won... oh my how wrong are they' it thinks, allowing the staff to gracefully swing up towards the cave wall holding the maps. 'If their w.hore princess wishes to deny our offerings of peace... then let them bend to the Master's will, may their grounds lay fallow, and tents empty...' it continues, black smog swirling about the point of its staff with a dark blue glow, forming into the iconic black and blue fire ball. "'"We begin tomorrow."'" it seemingly speaks aloud, the black flame surging forwards and rotting away the corner of the map that was Malinor; Turning about in its seat it addresses a small gathering of followers, illuminated red under the over-lights.

[5678 260]

Art shrugs, as usual extremely biased propaganda fails to sway him to 'fear' any cultist wannabes in his not-so-humble mind.

[5678 260]

"We shoul' destroy dat Delva furt nuxt" remarks Burz'ver, to no one in particular

[CaptainSheepy 317]

Ceruberr stands alone on the towering walls of Lin'evaral. His staff in hand as he watches helplessly from above. His pure strands of snow-white hair move gracefully in the wind. His cold pale skin illuminated slightly by the fires.

 

Fear, anger, helplessness...

 

He turns on his heel, a stern expression upon his face.

[lιoɴ 248]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.