I originally posted these on the Realm Forums, but I didn't get much of a response there and I LOVE lots of feedback (good bad, on content or stlye, I don't mind, if you read it, PLEASE comment!) So I though I'd post them up here for you guys to have a look at (because I know some of you don't regularly visit the Realm Forums). They're two short stories based on the Advance.
PROLOGUE: 'LIGHT AND SHADOW'
The Charger slams into a gallop with the thud of an iron clad hoof and pounds on toward the Thandol Span; the rider breaths sharply as the simmering heat of the summer dusk continues to boil his blood and purge sweat from his stout form; the tense wait for the broil of battle heightens all his senses: he is being followed.
Along the cliff that runs to the west of him, parallel to the southern road out of Arathi, a furtive figure darts with entrancing speed amongst the shadowed undergrowth of the hillside. Each time the skulking menace lags behind his target, he mutters a spell in his coarse tongue and flickers forward with the 'whip' of an Arcane trickster; 'the messenger from Stromgarde must not reach the Span': this is all the Deathstalker has been told.
The Paladin feels his spirit surge triumphantly as the shattered bridge shoots into view over the last hilltop on the beaten road, he thrusts his steed onward (the clatter of the gleaming mail is almost unbearable) and he winces as the pace of his charge rattles his armour, so that the thick plating slices into his shoulder.
The Deathstalker curses as the mounted champion bursts onward with renewed purpose, passing under the ancient archway at the pace of a frenzied Dragonhawk. But the hunter cannot allow his fearsome prey to pass into the Wetlands: Hawkins will not tolerate failure. His tanned leather armour is smooth and weightless; his boots are firm and sturdy; his daggers drawn as a silent omen to the horror that must meet his victim, they glint with a hungry glare at the last flicker of the sinking sun.
The human thunders across the last stretch of cobbled road and the horse halts in terror; the rider has no time to steady himself, he tumbles with a pained grunt over the armoured neck of his screeching steed, slamming into the ground with a crushing force.
Before he even opens his eyes a prayer has already passed his damp lips... but the horse has already vanished, bolting away to the north in a fit of madness, away from the Deathstalker crouched on the road who moves in for his prey.
The Forsaken holds his daggers before him, the grim sparkle of the blades are the only light on the darkened roadway, they drip with venom. The Deathstalker darts forward towards his quarry, the Paladin still struggling up under the weight of his armour. The daggers swing upwards and then plunge with a whistle at their feast, but they are met by a sudden blaze of golden dust about the fallen man and they crumble into ash as they pass through the shield: the Light has responded to the whispered summons and a shimmering cloak of ghostly radiance sweeps over the slumped body.
The stalker hisses some foul insult as he recoils at the searing flash of flame and suddenly his prey his upon him; the Paladin pounces upward with inhuman force, blasting the creature with a bolt of Light which unfurls from his palm as he flings himself forward. The assassin is swift enough to skitter aside, the burning flame only scorching his left shoulder while he clutches at his rifle and aims the barrel squarely at his opponent. The volley of bullets is enough to halt the human in his stride and the shield flickers for a moment before fading into shadow.
Now he may move in for the kill, his enemy staggers backward, his stomach a mangled mess of punctured steel and seeping blood, the Forsaken loads the rifle with a merciless motion of true efficiency. He takes a steady stroll towards his hated foe, preparing to look into those bright, blue eyes as the life escapes them, the human is still standing - clutching at his stomach, wrought open by the blast of the rifle, spitting blood.
The Forsaken raises the weapon and sets it on his shoulder, the barrel is an inch away from the muddied face of the cowering Paladin. The 'boom' of the bullet echoes round the southern vale of Arathi and passes out over Baradin Bay. The Deathstalker frowns at his prey for a moment and then collapses with a deadened thud onto the floor: the shot of the Dwarven scout only took a second to kill the killer. The chubby rifleman rushes with a cheer towards his ally, but the knight of Stromgarde has already fallen beside his enemy.
The message is his final thought, he does not allow the Dwarf a moment to marvel at the bloody aftermath, but drags him towards him by the beard with an outstretched gauntlet and murmurs the message for which he has died:
'The Forsaken are on the move.'
EPILOGUE: 'FIRE AND ICE'
High Delegate Viatrix Verranos could recall only the terrible roar of the flames as they burst to life amongst pitiful huts. The 'town', although she viewed all that ramshackle barbarity as quite apart from such a term, the 'town' had been scorched by a little more than Light.
The Gryphons swept into view over the Alliance encampment. The night before the Horde had endured a harrying volley of barbed arrows, followed by a harrying volley of barbed arrows, an endless volley of barbed, cutting arrows; they whistled as they sliced flesh and hummed as they struck bone.
All about Hammerfall the glimmer of Alliance torches could be seen and the dark cloud that slept over the sleepless town that night blinded all the stars, so that the town was lit up only be the nearest fire of the enemy. The clatter of begrimed Alliance armour in their fresh trenches rang out over the calm alarm of the Horde enclosure; the canvas of the proud banners and low tents would flutter in the stillness of the silent summer dusk and wave to the ensnared Horde, mockingly.
And then the Aspect of Death had plunged from the starless sky, marvelling at the whimpering fools who cowered below; he had set the icy night alight, brought on the brief breaching of a fiery dawn, before he soared off to the south, laughing, mockingly.
The heavy dawn which followed that hellish night brought a moment of relief. At night the Horde could only watch over an unseen monster: a ridged back of glimmering torches; the scales of fluttering canvas; the deep maw of the trench enclosing Hammerfall. But it was unseen, imagined, it settled in the mind with all the other memories of the blood from the night before. The flash of flame from the Aspect of Death had given a glimpse of the monster-from-Stormwind, coiled round the 'town', smouldering with hunger, but it was a momentary nightmare: the dawn made the coiled creature solid, certain, vincible.
Then, she remembered, the Gryphons swept into view over the Alliance encampment and swung further east over Hammerfall. Viatrix had but a moment to launch herself against the Inn and then the first bomb struck the central platform with a triumphant boom and a terrible roar, the fire of the monster gobbling up the frail wood of the 'town'.
Hammerfall burst into chaos.
"It's a raid! Find cover!", the icy cry of Archon Stillwater was enough to send the scattered Horde diving aside as flame rained down upon the town. Then chaos turned to a steely will to resist, to survive: the northern defences of Hammerfall had taken a direct hit and Viatrix recalled the shrill hysterics as the Horde rushed to repair the damage. Shaman magic had proved itself useful: conjured Water washing away the scorching blaze which the Alliance cheered on.
"There you are: hiding, Delegate?", then the Centurion had approached her and Viatrix, still squashed against the Inn, had managed a bow and looked about the roaring fire englufing the town: the Doomhammer forces dashed about the 'town', doing all they could.
"High Delegate? High Delegate?!", Viatrix's mind swam back from the fire of the past to the cool shade of the present. Her eyes snapped open and she realised she must have dozed off, slumped against the rough stone wall of the Lordaeron Throne Room. The grand chamber was empty, save for the Centurion; the Orc glowered at her with the same contempt he had shown to her, squashed against the Inn.
"Ah! Centurion Ironfist! My apologies, good evening, once again... I really -do- apologise... The last few days have been quite exhausting, as you shall no doubt appreciate!", Viatrix managed to push her bloated body off the wall and bow briefly.
"The campaign has been -difficult-, hm, due to your incompetence.", the rough growl of the hulking Orc was enough to make Verranos squirm beneath his fiery glare and as he jabbed his fist at her, she chuckled softly, nervously, before stepping to one side and into the Chamber, away from his fiery glare.
"You have the Charter?" the Orc continued, he glanced down at the scroll of parchment held tightly by the Forsaken.
"Yes, yes, it's all here, take it... Take it... To Grommash Hold, yes?", the Orc nodded once, "Splendid! Splendid!", swooned Verranos, shoving the Doomhammer Charter towards the Centurion.
Ryzarhn Ironfist snatched it from her gloved claw and quickly opened the delicate scroll, his urgent eyes scanning over the Orcish script. He grunted once and turned away from the plump shadow of the High Delegate. The blubbery woman visibly deflated with relief as he made his way towards the towering archway, the rattle of his plated armour hid Verranos' melodramatic sigh of relief and her gleeful grin, seemingly more of a cold leer, went unseen.
"Suffer well, Centurion!" she crooned gently, bowing once again, her light voice danced round the broken chamber. Ironfist did not look back, but his reply - a harsh, deep growl - was filled with unspoken menace. The last sentence crashed around the frosty hall, drowning out the echo of the Forsaken farewell:
"Hellscream's eyes are upon you."
Subject: The Arathi Advance. 
Sat Jul 30, 2011 11:55 pm
. It can be very difficult to avoid a slight amount of hubris drifting in when writing from a point of view of a favoured character, something I think I succumbed to a leeetle bit on my story post arathi, but in this one there was no trace of that at all, Viatrix is never described, or even portrayed, in a particularly flattering light, good objectivity.
