Andorhal (Koluur)

Andorhal by the player behind Crianas Mishunadare and Koluur of Shattrath

There is a region in the southeast of Azeroth specifically called the Blasted Lands, but Andorhal was plenty blasted as well. It was a broken city. Buildings stood in disrepair, or simple chunks of frames remained. Foundation arrays showed where city blocks had once been. Occasionally, a portrait frame or plush toy could be seen. The whole city seemed covered in dust and decay – even the air was a foul-smelling brown, reeking of the particular odor of the undead.

Razed when the Death Knight Arthas returned to Lordaeron, it now stood as the closest bastion of Scourge control to the lands of the living. Many had died when the town was first destroyed, and countless more mercenaries and fame-seekers had fallen prey to the forces of the Lich King in the city. Today, it appeared as if one more would fall, but to a different foe.

The Scarlet Crusader jerked his gleaming, ornate knife, and the man in which the blade was buried cried out in pain. The crusader was clad in combat gear, his normal red and white tabard stained with blood over his mail armor. The red guard of a broadsword could be seen at his hip, above a red and white sheath, a similarly red mail coif obscured most of his brown hair, and from beneath the hood shone two fierce eyes above a sharp beak of a nose, a perpetual sneer on his face. The body weeping red around the dagger was old enough by human standards not to be a child, twenty-seven years, but the sights, sounds, and smells of the Scourge stronghold and its denizens had leeched away much of the man’s resolve. When the Scarlet zealot began torturing him, yet more of the adult gave way and all that remained was a little boy, alone, lost, and about to die.

“You carry the taint of the Scourge, wretched human,” the torturer spat harshly into the plain face of his victim. “Now you will bleed that taint back into the ground and work for your undead masters no more.” The torturer’s hound, a red hyena-looking thing, starving to where its ribs could be seen, growled.

The victim cried a little more, a little louder. He threw his head back, black hair landing in the dirt, and prayed for the torture to end. He thought briefly of his mother, his proud father that had been swallowed by the flames of Stratholme, how he’d never see his beloved Delia in Stormwind again. He lamented for his brother and sisters silently. His mouth fell open slightly, tasting the dirty tears that had streamed down his face. He opened his eyes slightly, looking once more upon his attacker, who proudly continued to grin. He tried to speak, but failed, and his eyes fell once again on the dagger plunged through a gap in his chest armor. Once gleaming blue and silver, it was now seemingly as tarnished and faded as the city of Andorhal itself. The attacker grinned. “I think it’s time to let the dog have you. Better he feed on you than the Scourge.”

At that moment, the Scarlet’s dog exploded.

A blast of arcane darkness hit directly in the snout, shearing off much of the jaw of the animal. The black energy then streamed down the body of the canine, venting volcanically from the skin with midnight-colored lava, rapid-rotting parts of the carcass. The skeleton collapsed almost immediately, but the force of the blast kept it aloft, hurtling the instantly lifeless body a yard or so backward into the ground, where it crumpled in upon itself, almost burning with darkness.

As the blackness faded, both torturer and victim turned toward the source of the blast. A set of stern ice-colored eyes shone back toward the couple, framed by shoulder-length gray hair, and set in a middle-aged face with an expression of authority. Each shoulder bore some unknown drake’s skull, purple robes flowed down the body, and a fierce scythe, seeming to burn on its own, was strapped to the man’s back. He stood on a slight rise in the uneven ground surveying the scene.

The Scarlet spoke first. “What a pleasure, warlock. You can be my second righteous cleansing today.” The young man in his arms sniffled and mouthed the word help, unable to speak.

The warlock smiled darkly, stared daggers at the zealous executioner momentarily, and then turned to the dying soldier. “I’ll get you out of this. Relax.”

Chillwind Camp, the Alliance military setup to the south, was not far; furthermore, the western road out of Andorhal was clear, barring Horde intervention, which the warlock had little trouble with. However, the man’s wounds were serious. Field first aid and a conjured healthstone could only go so far toward treating the victim, and where the knife was buried, it might already be too late. However, any move toward combat and the Scarlet would surely kill his captured human. The warlock was a master at meddling in the minds of others, bringing about terror and fear, but even that was risky with the zealot’s weapon buried in his victim. Furthermore, a Scarlet running and screaming could attract unwanted Scourge attention that might come back and ruin the day of the warlock and his newly rescued charge. It was a dangerous situation from any angle.

But then the dying man stared into the warlock’s eyes, pleading silently. The anonymous benefactor stared back, and in the eyes he saw youth, kindness, and innocence. He saw the promise of goodness and family. And suddenly he knew what he had to do.

The shadowmancer in violet strode a few steps to his right, still facing the couple locked in murder. He pulled his hands behind his back and concentrated. Casting spells without the right physical array was difficult, especially spells so advanced, but he was confident he could do it with the precision necessary. His lips mouthed a couple vowel sounds. The Scarlet was through waiting. “Foul spawn of darkness, it’s time for you to end as well!” He twisted the knife a little more while drawing his sword, and the boy cried out, staring at his one hope.

The warlock stared back, and from within the dried husk of a man, it seemed a little light shone through in his expression. He smiled, just a little, the way a father grieving over the loss of his son may. It seemed to say, Everything will be all right, and at this nearly pleasant sight, the dirt, tear, and blood covered youth’s fear lessened, just a little. Then motion at the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he started to look upward. The Scarlet never flinched, and his left hand began to push the dagger in harder.

For a moment, all was silent.

The meteor smashed with a hellish sound directly into the two men on the ground, and blasted green fel fire, chunks of earth, pieces of buildings, and stones of the road into the air. Everything in the impact site was obliterated instantly, and from the crater slowly rose a humanoid creature of rock and fire, standing a dozen feet tall and roaring. The warlock, the glimpse of humanity gone from his face, smiled at the success and accuracy of his summoning the inferno and with a few curt orders in Demonic sent the Infernal to assault the Scourge responding to the cataclysm. Checking his surroundings once more, and seeing the rock construct beginning to pound the ghouls and skeletons nearby, he quickly summoned his dreadsteed and rode away. The Infernal soon lay broken in the streets of Andorhal, several undead dispatched around it before it gave way. Relative calm returned to the once-great town.

The warlock had seen love and tenderness in the warrior, as well as terrible fear. He saw a youth, like so many, that simply was not cut out for work fighting the Scourge, and the other perhaps worse threats of the world. He would return to his loved ones, heal, and become a passive guard at best, petrified of combat with the true evils of the world. He was a family man, not a soldier – that is what the rescuer saw. And he had no time for such weak individuals, not in a place like this. They did not demand preserving. There was too much work to be done.