Lost Lore and Otherwise Unconnected Stories

Page 2: Snow

A crash sent of the defenders to the ground as gargoyles dropped even more debris on top of the soldiers. Amidst the chaos, Highlord Tirion Fordring used Ashbringer to push himself up off the ground before any of the other soldiers had the chance to catch their breath.

"To your feet men!" He yelled over the roar. He brought Ashbringer forward and cannons behind them fired at the flying gargoyles. Those that hit their marks shattered the animate stone creatures, the ash raining down like snow. It swirled at Fordring's feet as his men struggled to get up, collecting in their armor and dusted their hair. They'd all be grey-haired like Fordring was soon enough, seeing far too many battles for such young men.

"Shields!" Cries came from the front ranks.

Their cannons were matched by the air singing with arrows cutting through the ash towards the defenders. "Another round!" Fordring shouted. Behind them the cannons erupted again, and the satisfying cry of frenzied Scourge retreating could faintly be heard over the rallies of the Argent Crusade.

This reprieve wouldn't last, Fordring knew, best to use the moment of this minor victory to press ever forward by inches, closer and closer to the dread Citadel. "ONWARD!" He roared, raising Ashbringer high in the air.

The men near him clutched their swords or axes wearily, but heartened at the sight of their leader. One by one they raised their own weapons. They each had something to fight for. Faith. Loyalty. Vengence. Honor. Yes, they'd have all those things when the Lich King would fall, Fordring promised himself.

He glanced at an apprentice dressed in Kirin Tor regalia staring at the ground to his side oblivious to the rest cheering. He grabbed a hold of her shoulder, attempting to draw the attention of the young woman. She looked up wide-eyed at him. "Sir I…" she gaped.

Fordring looked down. Her hands were wrapped around an arrow shaft, pressing against her abdomen weakly. The paladin pulled her hands away into his, the mage's palms were thoroughly stained red. The wizard fainted in his arms and he lowered her to the ground. He glanced around them, most of the soldiers preoccupied with their own wounds or wounded, readying themselves for the next push, or congratulating their fellows. "Ay!" He barked to no one, "Cleric!"

A fresh-faced young man seemed stumble out of the chaos, eyes wide in panic as he came upon Fordring. He was covered in dirt and ash like most, but the Highlord could still discern the white and gold crest of Theramore upon the lad's breastplate. "Oh no…" he breathed, his body shaking as he knelt beside them.

"Marine, take this woman to the medics," Fordring ordered.

"Yes sir, thank you sir," he replied hastily, not at all focused on the Highlord as the older paladin helped the mage into the marine's arms.

Before he could rush off, Fordring grabbed the marine's arm and held his free hand over the wizard's stomach. It glowed briefly, but soon faded. "She should make it, but nevertheless make haste to the priests," Fordring warned quietly.

The marine nodded somberly and turned away, disappearing back into the host of soldiers.

Author's Note: Less lore this time, more about imagery. Either way, enjoy.