Dawn of Darkness

This is the rewrite of Dawn of Darkness - The Prophecy Fulfilled, as written by my friend(Defective) wrote over a year ago.

Information:

Author - Defective
Timeperiod - Just after the end of TFT
Rating - M, it will get kind of violent and bloody at certain points.

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Chapter 1: Awakenings

The fires crackled on the twin hearths of the great stone chamber. The massive pillars that rose up from the floor were carved of reddish stone, glowing vibrantly in the light of the flames. The dancing shadows played across the strange writing on the parchment, and across the hard features of the face that read it. Tyrosius let out a long, drawn out sigh and shifted slightly in the chair, seeking comfort in his old bones. While his spirit still shone as brightly as it did all those ages ago, when he swore his fealty and allegiance to the Holy Light, his body had endured the rigors of time and the trials of war. His body was aged but still carried the time-worn strength he had gathered during his long tenure as a Defender of the Light, and he still up-held the sacred vows to the Light; shepherding the people, seeking truth, and healing the populace. For a moment, he let his mind wander back to the past; the glorious days of riding across the verdant fields of Hillsbrad during the great Rebuilding, the furious struggle against the Orcs during the Second War, and the horrifying battles against the Undead Scourge in the Third War. The third haunted him, even now.

It was against the Scourge that the noble order of the Silver Hand had failed. Against the vile dead, the Paladin’s had fought, and died, defending Lordaeron and her people. His mind raced through the images of the war. The piles of corpses behind the undead lines, waiting to be called into service by the cruel necromancers, the villages empty except for the wind and the unending moans of those dying to the plague. Arthas’ betrayal, which had shattered the hopes and left the people shocked and disheartened. At times, as he stood upon the battlefield, the wind carried the sounds of banshees to his ears, the unearthly cries of the beautiful elves who had already fallen before the onslaught. He shivered, despite the warmth of the room and his perception jarred to the present. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. The horrors of the past were long dead. To the task at hand, he would need his wits about him. Returning his eyes to the parchment, he read and reread the lines over and over. A farmer and his sons had brought the tattered fragment to the Cathedral of the Light for safe-keeping. With the destruction of Dalaran and the enormous libraries of the Kirin Tor, information was scattered on the winds. The few surviving members of the now disbanded Order of the Silver Hand, who now called the Scarlet Monastery their home, collected these and other such fragments, in the hope of rebuilding their base of knowledge. The parchment was little more than a page, rotted out of what was perhaps a tome. Stained with age and wear, the parchment bore only 4 lines.

“To war among the mortals,
Slaughter through the portals,
Chaos and destruction incarnate,
In a war among the mortals.”

The black ink swallowed the light from the fire, making the parchment seem darker than the surroundings, the hellish writing taunting him, daring him to find meaning within its madness. Tyrosius sighed loudly and cast a glance out the window. True night had fallen and the moon rose to its height above the hills. The fires burned low now, little more than red embers in the grates. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he realized he had studied that ragged bit of parchment for nearly three hours. He rubbed his eyes, resigning himself to defeat. “I will seek answers in the morrow,” he thought to himself, as he set the parchment aside. “The truth will out.” He strode out of the room, with a parting glance at the parchment. He started and stared back at it. He regarded the parchment carefully for a few seconds then shook his head.
“I must be more tired than I thought,” he mused.
As the door to the study shut, the ink on the parchment flashed a fiery red once again, burning in time to the hidden world…


Darkness swirled, writhed, reverberated to the winds of power whose fury raged forevermore. The energies of the Abyss, the darkest depths of the haunted Nether, screamed madness to the mortal mind, sung a soothing melody to the chaotic beings that dwell within the twilight embrace of this plane. The voices of the dead cried out in eternal anguish, seeking release, repentance. Demonic incarnations moved through the ethereal paths of the dark Nether, seeking and hunting for those who were foolish enough to delve into the magical realm. Those whom they found never returned, or were stricken with madness, consuming the world in apocalyptic mayhem.

Yet the Abyss was more than just a home for the raging forces of the Twisting Nether. It is here, bound out of sight and touch to all but the most determined, that the failures of the demonic are imprisoned. Whether by some trick of the magic, some malefic sorcery, these monsters are bound, eternally powerless against the bindings of their prisons. Vileness of all shapes, from the fallen of the Arcane Arts to the most malevolent beings of the endless cosmos, all of them lie imprisoned here.

The energies of the prisons burned in time to events in far away mortal realms, the binding incantations that kept the greatest of these catastrophic beings from roaming free begin to change. A flutter of power, a feeble attempt to maintain their hold over Argantes the Soulless, and a final dazzling burst as their potent magic dissolves on the astral winds. The shackles crumbled to dust, and were no more, and the vast energies of the demon were exposed.

The Nether burst to flames, and destruction tore forth like a tidal wave. The prison walls weakened and crumble before the onslaught, the path to freedom laid bare. The horrific entity within begins to stir, as one does in waking moments. The fog of imprisonment begins to fade; the mind begins to deduce the truth. And with only a moment of hesitation, the great demon accesses the vast ephemeral power of the endless Void. And as the raging powers of the newly risen Demon blaze forth, raining destruction and ruin among the ruins of his former cage, the fabric of reality twists, folding.

Ashes and shadows fall upon the ruins of the prison, as the tiny tear between the worlds flickers and disappears…

Well written and interesting, I would suggest you submit this to the story contest but were already done that.

Anywho well done and I hope you get team members for your campaign!

This is only chapter one of 12, and this is a short one at that. The story doesn't end until we get to where my AoS takes up.

Good stuff...a couple of comments...
This part doesn't make sense. First off, "The truth will out" doesn't make sense, and I was sitting here reading and wondering, why does he turn around? Whos says "The truth will out"?
I really like this part. Very well described.
Overall, I enjoyed it, hope to see more

Chapter 2: Departures


Sunlight pierced through the windows of the Bastion, splaying radiance out across the floor. The cock’s crow had given birth to a new day, and as the sun rose ever higher across the horizon, Tyrosius began his preparations to visit the Scarlet Keep. He planned to meet with the Grand Crusader Higharch, to discuss the strange fragment, the mysterious ‘prophecy’ as it were. Yet the dangers of the city were great. Stratholme had been one of the first cities to be purged by Arthas, its entire population decimated by his soldiers in the belief that by killing the infected, they would somehow stop the undead advance. He let out a bitter laugh in recollection of that decision. Within but a few weeks of Arthas’ disappearance into the lands to the North, Stratholme’s entire garrison of some five thousand soldiers had been overrun by masses of undead. A few of the guards had managed to take shelter in a few places like the Scarlet Bastion. They had fought a stalemate ever since, constantly pressing to keep the undead from overrunning them.

The sun continued its journey, as dawn fell across the shattered ruins of the city. Undead wandered everywhere, just out of sight of the numerous roadblocks set up by the Crusaders. They had killed hundreds of them, week after week with no relenting, no peace. There was nowhere to bury the fallen, both living and dead. They had piled the corpses and burned them, at every garrison across the city. He remembered the vile stench of those pyres. Yet what needed to be done needed to be done. The Scarlet Crusade had dedicated itself to this, the liberation of Lordaeron. Nothing would stop them in this. Not the legions of the dead, nor the greater legions of their own dead.



Tyrosius made his way down to the square, an open space about fifty yards across. Once used for public events, it now served as a type of military chokepoint. Barrels and crates created impassable barriers, and archers fingered their bows. As he swept by, the commanders saluted him with respect. The soldiers kept their eyes focused on the streets, arrows ready to fire.
“Report,” he inquired gruffly of the Captain.
“The undead are massed at Crusader Square to the east,” he said. “They don’t seem to be a threat at the moment, but there are a few roaming packs of them, all the way across the city to the Scarlet Keep. I don’t think we can cut a path without getting bogged down by their numbers. Last time we tried…” He cut off. Tyrosius grunted in agreement. Early on, the Crimson Elite, the best soldiers in the Scarlet Crusade had attempted to create a gap in the undead ranks. It was hoped that shredding enough of them would reduce the strain on patrols, and allow them to move between the two bastions in the city. It had failed horribly and a great many good soldiers had died. Since then, they had faced a losing battle, fighting to keep the undead at bay.

“How many undead patrol between here and Postmaster Square, Captain,” he demanded suddenly.
“A few hundred. They seldom bother with Postmaster Square now. We burned the corpses there and whatever supplies were there we carried off as well. It’s useless, but a few still linger around,” he replied.
“Ready some horses, and two of your best swordsmen, and quickly,” he ordered.
“Yes, High Lord Tyrosius,” the Captain said, giving a sharp salute.
As the soldier started away to collect the escort, Tyrosius could already feel the plan forming in his mind.

Within minutes, Tyrosius and his escort were weaving their way through the cities infested streets. The horrors of the plague stared back at them, a few mangled corpses peeked from the ruin, and stores with shattered windows and doors lined the street. They made there way out of sight of the Bastion, leaving behind the safety of its granite walls, and entering the lair of the dead. Postmaster Square had once contained a sewer entrance, one that lead to all corners of the city. With any luck, they would be able to reach Watch Post and link up with the soldiers there.

The road to Postmaster was uneventful. A few undead had made rabid charges at them, but they were clumsy and weak efforts. Very few undead had seemed organized, much of the time scattering when facing true opposition. The rare times they had proved organized had been difficult fights. However, as the small band of warriors slipped into the sewers, he couldn’t help but smile. They had not alerted the undead, and the trip would pass uneventfully. They disappeared into the shifting darkness of the underground.