Kilrogg Deadeye Story

Here’s the beginning of a story following the life of Kilrogg Deadeye that I’ve been working on recently.

Deadeye-Chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow
A Prequel to Warlords of Draenor
“The very elements have become unruly…they listen not to our needs! Elder Shaman, what is your wisdom?” growled one of the shamanic initiates of the Bleeding Hollow clan.

The Elder-Shaman of the Bleeding Hollow grunted lowly, and slammed his ancient bark staff down onto the ground, getting ready to speak.

“If they ignore your will, then make them acknowledge you! Do NOT let the elements control you. You are their masters, and they are your minions!” growled the elder, ripping a chunk of molten earth from the swampy ground in anger.

“They do not have the will to escape our power. We will show the spirits pain. We will let NONE stand in our way!” roared a burly shaman who towered over the others.

“We will march upon all of our enemies’ grounds and we will emerge stronger with every victory! We will paint this world and many others red! This is our lifeblood-to conquer all who stand before us! This ‘Prophet’ from the Beyond-he will guide us to victory. None will stand before the Iron Horde and live…” growled a voice from behind the group, who had one eye and the other severed off.

“Kilrogg…have you seen the vision of your demise?” spoke the elder-shaman, lifting a muscular, tattooed brown hand toward the Chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow.

“I have seen the future, Elder-Shaman. This world will be ours, with time. The petty Draenei stand not a chance before our might and the might of our allies…” Kilrogg growled, revealing his monstrous, yellowed teeth.

“Good…good. All will be ours in time, Kilrogg. This world-and all others-shall be OURS! And with time, the Bleeding Hollow shall show their place as the true leaders-the true masters-of all!” roared the Elder-Shaman, sending a flare of unnatural, twisted lightning into the sky, that blazed some trees above and sent smoke billowing above them.

“We must not be too quick to join their Iron Horde…they could turn against us. The Warsong are an odd choice to lead this…massive coalition-and we do not know if the reports about the Draenei turning against us are accurate…” spoke an old warrior, leading against a partially-thorny tree.

“You are a pathetic coward, old man. You are hardly an Orc. I cannot believe our people allowed you to stay in our clan for so long. When the Draenei slay your miserable existence on the battlefield of honor, you will then see the truth!” growled Kilrogg, pointing an enormous, angered finger at the older orc.

“You see not my point, Kilrogg Deadeye. If our people charge headlong into the unknown, many of us could be a lost cause! Have we become a savage and brutal, careless clan, Chieftain? We would be no better than the monstrous beasts of the Tanaan if we allowed our people to die fighting a people we don’t even understand!” roared the older man, stomping his massive bare feet onto the cold, wet ground as he marched to Kilrogg.

“We don’t need your support or approval, weakling. We don’t need your axe at our side nor do we need your presence. You can hardly fight. You have grown sluggish and your young have all been slain. You know nothing of a legacy, nothing of honor…you may be an elder in age, but in spirit…you’re just a scared, cowering pup, with nowhere to hide…I see right through your pathetic, shaken vise. You will not survive this war should you join our cause. If you join forces with the misbegotten Draenei, you will be eliminated.” growled Kilrogg, looking down upon the old orc who snarled and held his grown against the bigger, younger of the two.

“If this brute is our leader, then I deeply fear for the future of our people. I challenge you to a Mak’Gora, foolish Deadeye…you know nothing of warfare, of leadership. I will put you down NOW, pup…”

“A Mak’Gora? You must seek death, old one, because it is all you will find from MY axe!” roared Kilrogg Deadeye in savage fury.

Kilrogg walked slowly away from the older Orc, and made several harsh, guttural noises as he marched away. The very mud beneath his powerful feet trembled as he travelled across it.

“Elder-Shaman. I give you a warning. Should I lose this Mak’Gora, see my reasoning and see the truth. Our people depend on the decisions of their leader. This reckless, young Orc is leading our people headlong into unforeseeable things. These barbarian clans are bred on war…it is their nature. Kilrogg’s lust for power knows no bounds. He carved his own eye to receive a vision of his demise, Elder-Shaman! Do not pledge your allegiance irrationally to such an arrogant young orc…” chided the old orc.

“I have seen visions of the future, Kroll’gar. This world will be swept by a tidal wave of desecration, and Grommash Hellscream, along with the other Clan Chieftains, will be relentless to all those who rebel against the Iron Horde. I am weak to have not spoken out against our allegiance to this tentative coalition, but I fear for my own life along with yours and the others’. If you can win the Mak’Gora against Kilrogg, perhaps his son, Jorin Deadeye, shall be a better leader for our people. Only time will tell…” spoke the Elder-Shaman, trying to regenerate the connection between the Elemental Plane and himself.

Kroll’gar the veteran-warrior of the Bleeding Hollow readied his own axes, made sure the hallucinogenic poison was removed from the blade, and readied for battle. As was considered honorable, the two bowed to each other thirty minutes before the Mak’Gora ceremony would begin. Kilrogg practiced his axe-wielding skills and thrust it around, cleaving the air around him in savage ferocity, while Kroll’gar watched the young chieftain’s axe wildly strike about. Kroll’gar noted that Kilrogg was quite a ferocious, furious fighter, and realized to win the battle, he would have to disconnect the chieftain from his monstrous weapon. Around them was a small dueling ring, about 20 meters wide and 20 meters long from tip to tip. Hundreds of Bleeding Hollow orcs gathered to witness a battle of life and death between two heroes of their clan. Older, more traditionalistic orcs cheered on Kroll’gar, while newer-generation, blood-thirsting orcs cheered for bloodshed and the hopeful victory of Kilrogg Deadeye.

“You will regret crossing me, frail, old orc…I will show you no mercy, and I will not let you survive this battle.” growled Kilrogg Deadeye.

“I hope even if you live, boy, this duel shall humble you. You would do well to learn some of your father’s, and your grandfather’s humility and honor.” growled the older of the two.
Kilrogg leered at Kroll’gar and eyed the weak spots in his opponent’s chainmail armor. He let forth the Orcish Battlecry, “Lok’tar Ogar!”, and thrust his axe over Kroll’gar’s head.

Kroll’gar hardly had time to roll away from the monstrous strike. Quickly, he regrouped and leaped into the air with brutal precision, knocking the younger orc upon his back in a strike a sprier orc would envy. Kilrogg laughed and hacked, and finally came to his feet to parry an overhead dual-strike. Kilrogg kicked Kroll’gar in the gut, knocking him backwards and stunning him for a while. In this time, Deadeye charged forth in savage fury, slinging his powerful, broad axe into his opponent’s back. Blood gushed from the old orc’s wound, and he roared in pain. He quickly rolled on the dirt to get back up, pained by his hideous gash.

“Give up now, old man. I shall spare you your life if you simply give in to my command.” murmured Deadeye, holding his axe at the ready.

“Are you scared that it shall be my axes that will pierce your weak flesh on this day, whelp-pup? It is you who should soon be begging for my mercy-for which I may or may not give it to such an ungrateful, dishonorable orc…” muttered Kroll’gar, who suddenly mustered the strength to leap over his opponent and gouge the twin axes into his foe’s shoulders.

Kilrogg fell over, blood spilling from his shoulders at an alarmingly fast rate. The chieftain growled in pain as his wounds controlled him. Kroll’gar looked at the wounded orc and laughed at his languid state.

“Bah, I’m just getting started, Kilrogg Deadeye. You don’t even deserve the honored name of Deadeye…your father was a brave and courageous man who cared for his clan. You care little for others, and you only seek power!” roared Kroll’gar, and he walked towards the fallen body of the Bleeding Hollow’s chieftain.

Suddenly, the ground trembled before Kroll’gar. Great spikes of earth ripped through the very ground and magmatic rock ripped through the ground. The earth seemed to howl in pain as the elements fell apart around Kilrogg and Kroll’gar. All of the tribesmen and tribeswomen ran in fear as the earth erratically churned in anger exemplified, personified. The Elder-Shaman and his underlings tried to calm the earth, but it again would not listen. Kilrogg could not move, and as horrific, abominable forms of rock formed out of the earth, it was Kroll’gar who leaped to defend his chieftain. Quickly he cut through the earth that attacked his leader, and as the magma poured around him, he backed up. The Shamans attempted to freeze the lava flow, but the elements were angered and agitated. They instead betrayed their cruel masters and froze their very veins, attempting to free themselves of Orcish control. Kroll’gar hacked and slashed through the rock, and other warriors joined by his side as lava erupted around them out of the earth. Kroll’gar roared as the heat intensified around him and the village erupted into flames. The shamans desperately called for aid of the few reverent elemental spirits that remained at their side, and suddenly, a great tide of water froze the lava at its source, combating in hatred. The horrific battle went on between the water and the lava as shamans imbued the water-element with their own power. The tide of the battle turned as suddenly the earth calmed itself down. Kroll’gar slashed at the earth as it raged on in aftershocks, but eventually it stopped. Bleeding and wounded, Kroll’gar fell to his knees and roared.

“Press on! The elements shall not stop me from fighting for the Bleeding Hollow!” growled Kroll’gar, slashing through the stone that assaulted Kilrogg.

The very earth roared in pain as the Orcs tried to contain the overflowing magma. The ground began to melt beneath their feet and cave in, and fear quickly occupied the soldiers’ and shamans’ hearts as the night went on. Kilrogg was carried away to a small hide tent where healers attempted to mend his bleeding wounds from the interrupted Mak’Gora. Kilrogg’s body was battered and he lay unconscious upon a small mat in the center of the tent. Kroll’gar slashed his axes in brutal fury as the elements tried to coil and snare him. In pain, he fell to his knees and his axes flew backwards, out of his grasp.

“Fight on, tribesmen of the Bleeding Hollow! Do not relent! Do not give these brutal elements any quarter they refuse to give you!” called Kroll’gar as he attempted to free himself of the earth-entanglement.

The orcs leapt upon the center, burning, blistering heart of the ring, and slashed their iron and steel into the ground as lava burst and bubbled around them. Tens, perhaps even hundreds, of Orcish shamans and soldiers fell flat upon their faces, their lives snuffed out by the earth’s agitated hatred.

The very earth shook and trees burnt and fell. A whole village was in flames as the earth ripped itself apart. Molten anger incarnate rose through the ground and attempted to slay each one of the shaman who had so abused them. The Elder-Shaman suddenly grabbed his staff and pierced it through the ground, using the winds to levitate him up into the air as flames licked the sides of his robes and staff. He roared and lightning came to his aid, circling around the very crater that had been formed. Suddenly, the blistering earth completely fell apart. A monstrous fire elemental arose from the depths, and roared in bloodthirsty fury.

“You have abused your pact of reverence to the Elemental Lords, weak little Shamans! I will char your very souls and send you to death in the depths of the Firelands!” roared the elemental as he pointed at the Elder and his men.

He lifted a molten hand and suddenly the Elder Shaman disappeared from the physical plane. The other shaman attempted to channel him back into the physical world, but the Firelands had trapped his soul. Kroll’gar and the others were trapped in bindings of unbreakable earth, and the more they struggled, the tighter the earth gripped. Kilrogg suddenly opened his eye and stood. He opened his tusked mouth and let out a bellowing roar, and picked up his monstrous bone-looking axe. He screamed and spat out a bit of boiling blood. He lifted his axe high above his own head and he leaped through the air, cutting right through the bestial elemental. He roared in sheer anger as the blade of the axe slashed straight through it like a hot knife through butter. Ashes flurried out of the spirit, and slowly he fell to pure ash upon the burning earth.

“You are a fool-chieftain, Kilrogg Deadeye. All you orcs are mere children, and your arrogance will one day be your demise…the elements will never heed your call once I warn them of your betrayals. This war is not over…your sick and twisted shaman will be burned by Ragnaros’ flame in the coming years…months…weeks…you have little time to live. Treasure every moment as it is your last. Strange things will come through the Dark Portal, and they will end you…” the blazing elemental hissed, as its body deteriorated to pure ash upon the earth.

“The elemental knows not what he speaks. We are the Iron Horde, and we will burn all to ash who stand before us in defiance! Roar with me in the battle-cry of the Orcish people! Lok’tar Ogar! VICTORY OR DEATH!” roared Kilrogg Deadeye, chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow Clan.
“This, Chieftain, is the start of a new world…a world painted in red and ash! None, not even the elementals or our own defiant kin, shall survive to tell the tale of our wrath! Not even you, Kroll’gar, veteran of the Bleeding Hollow-for you have sealed your fate on this day. No mercy shall be spared for your coward generation, Orc. I would not even look in your direction for anything, for it would bring me great shame in our people of the past…” growled Kilrogg, laughing at the fallen Kroll’gar.

“I see now why Kroll’gar despised you so, Kilrogg Deadeye…you are hotheaded, irrational, and after your life was saved multiple times in the heat of this battle…even though he gave his life for you…you care little for him. You treat him like he is worthless…and now he is dead. You truly have no honor, brute…” muttered an orc from behind in anger.

“You wish to speak to the Chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow? You dare dispute my honor?” growled Kilrogg Deadeye in obvious anger.

“A village has been destroyed by our peoples’ recklessness, Kilrogg! Of course I dispute your honor! You have sent aid to none and still you prophesize about the Iron Horde and how this world and all others shall be painted red! Is power truly all you want?” shouted the Orc who walked toward him in anger.

“I have much more honor than you, lesser orc, could ever even imagine. Perhaps it is time we have had an execution. Soldiers, to me!” growled Kilrogg, grabbing his axe in brutal fury.

“We will not halt our pursuit of glory for you who would lag behind. You are filth, weakling, and I will give you an honorable death…” growled Kilrogg, raising his axe in an agitated arc.

The other orc slipped away quickly and dodged. The hacking blade came down, sweeping into the orc’s side and Kilrogg laughed in bloodlust-forged fury.

“Call forth the beasts of the Tanaan. They shall be hungry for an early breakfast, and he shall prove a satisfying meal…” Kilrogg chuckled, furiously shaking in his hilarity.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Kilrogg. I have information about the Iron Horde…” muttered the orc, who backed away as two monstrous, savage beasts cornered him back against a spiked plant.

“Halt. Let the pup speak.” Kilrogg said, and suddenly the two beasts turned away from him.
“I was on the road that intertwines with the Draenic one to the city of Shattrath. There was some sort of commotion coming from the city, and I heard the bloodcurdling battle-cry of the Warsong Clan. What business do they have with the Draenei in their own greatest city?” asked the Orc, shrugging.

“I do not know, but this information is quite intriguing. I will travel to the site of Oshu’Gun tomorrow in order to meet with the Warsong Clan to negotiate our allegiance to them. Perhaps I shall keep you alive, for now-but your slandering lands you a spot in the cages. Guards, arrest this man. He is not to leave the village for five months.” spoke the Chieftain.

The Chieftain let out one more great and savage laugh, and mounted himself upon his Battle-Worg. He rode out into the damp, dark, and foreboding jungle of the Tanaan ahead of him-he had known these swampy roads quite well since he had been living here his entire life. The sounds of the savage and ferocious birds made their angered noises as they battled each other for food-these carnivorous birds often fed upon the dead flesh of orcs slain by the creatures of the jungle.

Sky Golem Wash

Hey, the Shredder needs a washing more than your yaks, you know…

Gilneas will rise Again: Part One Epilogue (For the Alliance)

Part One Epilogue
The sun had risen out of the clouds for the first day in, perhaps, a year.  The Gilneans had nearly forgotten the warmth it provided after all the years of cold, cloudy days.  These Kal’dorei who willed to help the Gilnean people were kind; they taught the Druidic arts for the first time, in history, to humans, and gave them safe transportation across the ocean blue, under Captain Rell Nightwind, a Kal’dorei with a fleet of Night Elven ships at the will of the proud people of Gilneas.  High above, Horde Zeppelins flew across the sky, and in the rough waters, there were Forsaken ships blocking the path to escape.  The Horde wanted war badly, they wanted to taste the Gilnean blood they thirsted for.
They craved the feeling of their axes bloodied with the death of humans.  They were fed all these things under the tyrant Garrosh Hellscream, who, too, had the unquenchable thirst and lust for blood.  Kal’dorei emissaries tried to convince Varian Wrynn in Stormwind to aid the Gilnean cause, but he took their allegiance with a grain of salt.  He trusted not Greymane or his line, but had sympathy for their people-after many peace talks, he finally agreed to let the Kal’dorei people welcome the Worgen and Humans of Gilneas into the Alliance.  A shattered kingdom, Varian knew they could rebuild, and their location near the fallen site of Lordaeron would help them combat the Undercity and its evil schemes.
Varian willingly sent Stormwind Seventh Legion soldiers aboard a couple warships, and lent the Skybreaker’s aid to storm the Horde Warships.  Under the banner of the Alliance, the Worgen willingly fought with their formerly adversarial allies.  The Skybreaker was a massive, sleek ship, which had sunken many Horde ships and even a few airships, like the Orgrim’s Hammer in Icecrown Citadel and other smaller-class ships.  With help from Varian, Greymane and his people took to both the seas and the skies for war.  Hundreds of Alliance and Gilnean troops boarded the Skybreaker, and many more boarded ships to bombard their opponents with magic and cannons.
High in the air, soldiers commandeered Horde ships, plunging them into the Headlands.  They boarded Wyverns, as they did this, and bombarded the Horde-Forsaken assault with their own war vessels, while hardly a Gilnean died.  They used smart tactics against the Horde, killing crew members and grunts, while sending it with packs of mana-bombs to destroy the settlement of Forsaken.  The Mana-Bombs had qualities of making plagues fall stagnant, and unusable on humans, Worgen, or any other living race.  The Skybreaker aided them, gunning down cannon-masters.  Muradin Bronzebeard took the helm once more, the Dwarven Mountain King at his rightful position in the airy skies where he could desolate his enemies.  He gleefully lent his aid, and the Skybreaker took down the Horde airships surrounding her.  The Orgrim’s Hammer lay in the distance, and it readied its charge.
Alliance soldiers on gryphons and hippogryphs took to the skies and aimed to capture it, and plunge it into the earth.  The Hammer was a massive ship, the same size, about, as the Skybreaker.  Quickly Lorna Crowley, Tobias Mistmantle, Shadowcloak, Valeige, and others, leaped aboard the ship, and its grunts charged for them.  Lorna shot one in the skull, and Valeige burnt one to death, forcing him to fall off the ship.  Shadowcloak rappelled to the bottom of the ship, where he stealthily set mana-bombs with Tobias in the lower quarters.  They assassinated Grunts along the way, and watched as each one of the Orcs and Forsaken troops fell off of the sides.  The Skybreaker headed home, to Ironforge, and as only a few ships remained, the Gilneans and Kal’dorei made quick work of their perennial enemies.
Though not completely clear of Forsaken presence, Gilneas was partially freed of their tyrannical shackles, and one day-Genn swore-he would personally return and kill Sylvanas for her dark deeds.  He was scorned at his son’s fall, and, back in Gilneas, he buried him in Aderic’s Repose, the Royal Cemetery of Gilneas.  Every one of Genn’s ancestors were buried beneath the hilly soil, and whether their corpses lingered, their spirits lingered.  He knew his ancestors were helping him get through the painful tragedies that had hurt him so, and that Liam was with his ancestors, with the Light, far above.
He knew his son was somewhere above, watching him, talking to him and coaxing him to trust the Alliance.  Genn wiped away cold tears, and looked at the clouds, where he seemed to see his son, hidden within the constellations of the stars.  He lifted his rapier to the sky, and roared, nodding, and sheathing the blade.
Genn mounted Liam’s old steed, who had a grey mane as well-a strange ilk, if you will.
As Genn rode to Keel, he saw, in the distance, Horde siege-engines as well as Horde catapults.  Kal’dorei resistance soldiers mounted Glaive-Throwing vehicles and called to the Ancients-tree spirits who were giant and friendly to the Night Elven kind.  Genn realized his people weren’t so alone anymore.  People sided with them-they came to their aid-gnomes, dwarves, Elves, even the humans of Stormwind aided them in their darkest hour.  And as the hour came to a close, Genn boldly looked at the horizon, where the sun was setting for the first time in a very long time-a symbolism of a life in the Alliance to come.

Gilneas will rise Again: Chapter Seven-The Battle for Gilneas City

Chapter Seven
Their actions today would echo through the centuries-transcend nations, and perhaps worlds-and beyond.  Liam’s voice would be heard by every Gilnean patriot left in the nearly-shattered country.  They had been through years of torturing pain, years of burdening doubt of a second, third, fourth chance.  Liam would pave the bloodied road to victory, no matter what the Forsaken had in the way.  His soul was determined, and his gift to the people was renewal of the lifeblood of Gilneas- their own country.
They rode across the cobblestoned streets until they saw their targets.  Liam leaped off of his steed and kicked his booted foot through the chest of a Forsaken, knocking its whole body into pieces flying back in splattering remnants.  When hope looked lost they would get back up and spit in the Forsaken faces.  Liam would never give up on his people, no matter what the cost.
“We are a people forged in blood, my friends.  If blood is to shed, though, it shall not be our own blood.  It is the blood of our enemies that shall be spilt on our sacred, ancient, Greymane grounds!” roared Liam, throwing an axe into the twisted skull of a Forsaken.
They charged through the hordes of Forsaken they met.  They became the tide of death that the Forsaken once were to them, and relentlessly they chopped through their perennial enemies.  Their righteous fury was fueled with the hate of many years.  They would stop at nothing to win this war, and no matter how many men of theirs had to die for their country, they would fight.  Familiar faces were among the crowd of Gilnean patriots, scattering across the whole of Gilneas, doing all they needed to do to win this.  They fought and chopped through their enemies, until they met with the Forsaken flesh-constructs, or Abominations.  Lorna Crowley and her rebel allies readied cannons to gun the behemoth monsters down.  Many a man readied the cannons, shooting through hordes of the Undead, and they fought their enemies with ferocity that the Worgen would envy.  They charged, and slashed through three at a time, perhaps, and sometimes more.  Worgen joined in the assault, using their agile canine bodies to bring their enemies to ruin.  Humans and Worgens fought side-by-side, something thought impossible for months.  They slashed through their enemies with the same hatred, the same righteous fury.  They joined as one, more united than ever now.  They put aside their bickering quarrels and united against a common enemy, and even soldiers from Kul Tiras were found joining in the siege, aiding their Gilnean neighbors even though the Gilneans never had helped them.  People joined together in the darkest hour, and the time was nigh that the Forsaken had to fall.  Gilneas would rise again by their steel, and it would return to its former glory, no matter what.  Whatever the threat was, the Gilneans turned to aid one another-in the Gilnean Civil War of rebels and loyalists, in the Worgen infestation, in the Shattering and the Cataclysm, and perhaps, most-importantly, the hour of war with the Forsaken.  The heated rivalry sparked this inevitable war.  And the Gilneans were glad it came.
They would spill their corrupt blood across their streets and give the Forsaken hell.  They came in like a massive quake, grinding their bones to powdery dust by their maces and hammers, and the flails their men would use would indent their caved-in skulls.
In this hour they would rise up once more to stand together as allies.  Their battle would be hard, but it would be worth fighting for.  These people would not stop at anything but victory.  They fought through the hordes of Worgen, Forsaken, and the cataclysm that struck a quarter of their land.  Whatever the Forsaken could do, they could do better.  They would not stop at anything but destruction of their enemies.
“FOR GILNEAS!” was heard popularly throughout the city, for they loved their country and they would stop at nothing to bring Her to life anew.
“If I see Sylvanas among the hordes of her corpse-people, I’ll make sure to sink my claws into her flesh and make her fear death once more…” muttered a scorned, nearly-feral Worgen of the Bloodfang Pack.
Liam’s charge met with Genn’s in Greymane Court.  Crowley made his way up the alleys as well, and he and his men prowled in the shadows.
The soldiers stood ready as Dark Riders of the Forsaken rode their skeletal steeds down the alleys of Gilneas.  Suddenly, Sylvanas appeared before them all, her riders surrounding her in protective defense.
They charged for her-all of them ready for killing.  They leapt through the air and smashed the ground they stood on, reaping the Dark Rangers that stood defending their master.  They fought with bloody, keen precision and accuracy, and lust for domination over the Forsaken, and as they sliced through their perennial enemy, Sylvanas Windrunner, they took pride in their own power as a people.  Mages fired at her with potent energy and magic-elemental powers.  Arcane explosions echoed through Sylvanas as she was kicked off of her steed and barraged by a series of archaic missiles.  They slowly began to take their toll on her, weakening her attacks.  She shot arrows into the Gilnean Resistance, hitting her targets with graceful precision.  From above, however, sharpshooters and Gilnean rangers aimed for her.  Worgen infantry surrounded her from behind, clawing her back deep and bloodily.  She hissed at them in discontent and shot more arrows around in all directions.
“Enough!  Let us see how brave Gilneas gets on without its stubborn leader!” she roared, and targeted Genn, about to shoot a black arrow into his heart.
“FATHER!” Liam roared, making the noble sacrifice and taking the hit intended for Genn.
“LIAM!  NO!” Genn howled, letting the Worgen with in him take control.
Liam was on the ground, the arrow jutting from his own heart-his eyes were rolling back, Death’s grip slowly enclosing on his soul and entire being, but yet he still managed to muster more heroic words, “We did it, Father…we took back our city…we took back…Gil–…” his voice faltered, slowly disappearing, and he could not muster finishing his phrase.
Genn looked at his son as the life faded from his eyes, from his body, from his soul.  Pale and gone beyond repair, Liam was slain, the arrow meant for instant killing.  Genn knelt by his son’s side for many hours, mourning the tragic loss of his only son.  That arrow was intended for me, Genn thought, but his son took it instead.  If only he could go back and rewrite history…
“King Greymane, we may have forced Sylvanas and her Forsaken out of three districts, but the forth remains…what is your bidding, sire?” asked a respected veteran of Gilneas.
“We will bide our time…we have had many tragic losses today.  Get rest, and get Sir Mistmantle and another soldier-spy into the Cathedral.  I found an order for a meeting by Sylvanas earlier today…” Genn said, pointing at the Worgen, Tobias Mistmantle and Shadowcloak.  They nodded slightly and went off to the Cathedral District, hiding every so often in the water of the Canals.  They crept by the areas that lacked guards, and snuck in to the cathedral unseen.  It appeared they had luckily arrived before Sylvanas and the two she was to meet with.
Suddenly, an Orc general came walking into the Cathedral, but luckily Tobias and Regorlin were in the small baptismal founts at the sides of the Cathedral. Warhowl, the Orc General, frowned as he waited for Sylvanas and Crenshaw, the High Executor of the Forsaken, to enter the room.  Finally, Sylvanas Windrunner and her Executor entered the room. They bore no greetings for each other, and Warhowl was the first to start speaking.
“You are late, Windrunner.  It appears you are losing control of Gilneas, Sylvanas.  Garrosh fears he is going to have to carry out this invasion himself.”  Warhowl growled, his tusk-like teeth yellow and slimily moving as his jaw shook, almost unstably, in the presence of the foul Banshee Queen, much to Sylvanas’ displeasure.
“You can assure Garrosh that this is but a minor setback.  Our victory in Gilneas will be absolute.”  Sylvanas said curtly, her guard, the High Executioner holding his bloodied, reddened axe at the ready, gritting his sharp and replaced teeth at the Orcish general.
“You sound very confident, your Majesty. I seriously hope you do not plan to use the Plague. Garrosh has explicitly forbidden it.” spoke Warhowl, looking at Sylvanas uneasily, folding his massive, armored arms, perhaps hoping to intimidate her.
“You’d do well to match your tone, General. Neither you nor Garrosh have anything to worry about. We’ve ceased all production of the Plague, as he ordered. We’d never deploy it without his permission.” Sylvanas retorted, squinting her evil red eyes slightly, trying to intimidate Warhowl back, aggressively flailing her arms about as she spoke.
“I will deliver my report to our leader, then. By your leave, my lady.” Warhowl said, seeming to try to lighten the air.  As he said this, he walked around them in goodbye, his heavy chainmail boots clinking under him, leaving uneven rifts in the wooden floor of the Cathedral.
“Go with honor, General.” Sylvanas replied, her arms folded once more, as she watched him exit the room in a strange, Orcish fashion.
“My lady! Should I order my men to stop the deployment of the Plague? Or are we to continue as planned?” Crenshaw piped up at Sylvanas, seeming to scare, or at least frighten her slightly, for she looked at him quickly and straight-up.
“What kind of question is that? Of course we are deploying the Plague as planned! Let the Gilneans enjoy their small victory. Not even their bones will remain by tomorrow.” muttered Sylvanas, angrily thrusting a sharp finger at her High Executor.
“As you wish!” Crenshaw hissed back, flailing his meatless arms at her, his bones shaking slightly, and his entrails hanging from small tears in his armor.
Soon, they had all left, but Tobias and Shadowcloak stayed down until they were sure they were completely alone.  They sprinted quietly with a silent trod.  Outside, the Forsaken were readying their use of Plague-Weapons.
T0bias looked at Shadowcloak, his eyes wide and fearful, and he spoke, “She hopes to use the Plague on Gilneas, Regorlin…we must get this message to Genn and the others back in Greymane Court!”
They sprinted across the grassy cline that led down to the Canal River.  They leaped across with their swift Worgen forms, and made their way to Genn, who still knelt by his son’s corpse, now inside of a small house in the Court.
“King Greymane…we have horrific news from Sylvanas.”  Tobias said, his claws flailing still as if he were running.
“What?  Speak, then!  We have not a moment to waste!”  Genn growled, standing up quickly.
“Sylvanas plans to deploy the Plague of Undeath upon our city, sire!  She is going to bomb Gilneas and bring it to a pile of rubble and deathly misery!” roared Shadowcloak, hastily, in order to save time for he feared that she could already be deploying the plague.
“We need to evacuate the city, then.  Crowley has been meeting with the Kal’dorei in the south, and has spoken with some of their noble leaders.  They intend to aid us in evading doom.” Genn said, kneeling back with his son, who had not taken a breath for many hours.
“Prince Liam is gone beyond repair, my King.” Tobias said, feeling Liam’s bloodied back.
“He was a great man and would’ve made perhaps one of the best kings Gilneas would’ve ever seen.  A true fighter…a heroic leader…a sacrificial man, who knew nothing of selfishness…” spoke Regorlin, feeling the back of Liam’s limp corpse as well.
“We will evacuate the city through our tunnels beneath the very hills of this land.  Back in the First War, we used these places to store weapons.  Now it’s filled with pests, and hasn’t been kept for many years.  Take these torches, I will get the rest of the people across to Keel…” Genn said, handing burning flames to the both of them.  They looked down into the dark tunnel, where everything seemed to be deathly-fear crept on their spines, freezing them in place as they entered.  They heard groaning-it seemed-and hissing-and moaning-and the sounds of death, and smelled the scent of rot, of demise…and they hurried as the spiders and other beasts skittered by them.
“Tobias, our people have been tested by too many tragedies recently.  We have been plagued with misfortune, and death, and unluckiness.  I understand not why the Light seems to hate our people so.” said Shadowcloak, in a voice of somberness and fear.
“I do not understand the Light’s divine wrath, but perhaps one day, we will return, and reclaim our land.  The Forsaken are strong, but we are stronger.  And we will never falter to them.  We will join the Alliance and the Night Elves, for they share a common enemy: the Horde; the Orcs; The Forsaken…and all of the other intimidating, bestial creatures of their barbaric horde.” Tobias said, walking on as the creatures beside them stalked and watched them.
“The Pandaren Brewmasters had a philosophy on what was worth fighting for…do you think our cause is worth fighting for?” asked Shadowcloak, who saw only despair in their future.
“Our cause is worth fighting for.  We fight for our country, our people-our family.  We seek not to kill just to kill but to fight for our people.  And, by the Light, we will kill our enemies if it is in the best interest of our people, of Gilneas, and all of Her land.  One day, we will redeem our fallen, we’ll redeem Liam Greymane and all of the other Children of Gilneas of whom had their lives stolen by the Forsaken and the Horde.  One day, my friend, our salvation shall come.  One day…” Tobias said, looking at the opened door ahead.
“We will find the Light on the other side, eh, Tobias?” said Shadowcloak, jokingly.
Tobias laughed, and even in their darkest moments, the Light was by their side, watching them, protecting them-but they, perhaps, would eventually find it to be true-that the Light was with them all the dark days and all the bright days.

Gilneas will rise Again: Chapter 6-War on the Horizon

Chapter Six
Emberstone’s mine was one of Gilneas’ greatest assets for armor smelting and forging as well as for weaponry.  Their needed arms as well as armor to fight a war in their own city.  Greymane knew this well, and he sent soldiers to camp in a small tent village they used in times of war.  The Forsaken were no easy enemy.  They were, perhaps, the most powerful faction in the Horde, with probably the most populous people.  They could not breed with each other, and relied on infection to sustain their ranks.  This was a disturbing truth-the men they killed would be the men they would soon fight side-by-side with.  It also put fear into the hearts, souls, and minds of their enemies- their brutal assault would leave no quarter for their enemies.  They would fight without remorse for their fallen enemies and would never stop their conquest-for their purpose in the afterlife was to serve their evil queen.  Perhaps this was what made the Forsaken so formidable.  They could return their dead to life and their thirst for death was seemingly endless.  Their hunger knew no bounds.  Their hatred for life drove them to do unspeakable, terrifying things-and their immense rage would never end, for they could never truly die.  After all, how could you kill what was already slain once?  Truth be told, you couldn’t.  Their rage was what gave them power.  It was what gave them their iron will, their rage against the “traitors” who could not defend them in life.  They were taught-brainwashed, you could say-to hate all living creatures.  Their blindness was what gave Sylvanas such undeniable demanding of her people.  Hateful to all life herself, Sylvanas wanted all the living creatures of Azeroth and beyond as her “children”.  She wanted to raise them as undead, blighted creatures, and she wanted to unite them under one banner of her army.
Her strategy was impeccable, and her tactics were undeniably some of the best military decisions and choices a leader could have.  She was determined to control more.  She craved control, and she had much already-yet it was not enough to sate her unquenchable thirst for power.  More dead meant more minions and underlings-and the more underlings meant more power.  But these Gilneans were a rare challenge for her.  They were brave, prideful, and harsh on the battlefield to the Undead- and they were relentlessly unmerciful.  They would fight till the end no matter what, and now, Emberstone was what they had their sights on.  The ambush had come at midnight, where they charged into the mine and began slicing skulls.  They chopped, hacked, dodged, and parried their way through the dark, near-lightless mine as they took keys and freed every man, woman, and child performing slave labor.  They gutted the cruel slave-drivers especially hard, taking pleasure in seeing their bodies fall without any life whatsoever.  They took pride in their own bloody killings, and the Gilnean spirit and pride returned to many of the laborers and the soldiers.  Into each Forsaken body they stabbed a Gilnean Battle Standard, and burned their Undercity tabards.  They would be reborn from the red blood of their enemies, no matter the cost.  They cracked their opponents’ skulls with hasty attacks, and approached a cliff where the earth had caved in during the earthquake.  Forsaken-constructed scaffolding and staircases led the way down, into the den of an abominable, patchwork monster-its body was massive and stitched together, and a dying Gilnean yelled for help from inside the beast’s recycled gut.  Other Gilneans were already undead inside of his plagued belly, and they climbed out, scared to see their reflections.
“Help me!  I have been plagued!  You must kill me and the others before we can spread it!” he cried, his eyes turning hollow and red.
The sharpshooter in the distance needled his throat, and shot the others in the jugular veins.  Then they attacked the abominable amalgamation, slicing patches from its stomach and rending its flesh.  The beast kicked around as plague sludge squired out of his writhing pores.  The threw a mana bomb at the corpse, turning the sludge to glass statuettes.  Suddenly, though, the enslaved laborers began to grow pale, boney, and rotten.  Their flesh literally melted from their skin in molten hot, white liquid which turned green and fell to the earth, sliming about like worms.  They writhed around in the pustules that formed from their boiling skin.  The Plague had already infected them.  They came like a rising tide to kill the soldiers sent into the mine.  And kill, they did-ending the lives of every man and woman fighting the battle in the mine.  Genn Greymane soon learned that every loss was doubly-terrible situation for them-and that if they lost soldiers-the Forsaken gained soldiers.   The mine was soon evacuated by the Forsaken, though, for Gilneans had marked it as theirs.  Greymane stood outside of the mine, and looked into it.  The plague’s presence was too great to go in, for inside, death would surely rise like a tide affront them.  Crowley made a grimaced face at the rotten cadavers that had died inside the mine.
“Well, Crowley, at least the Forsaken took no men of ours as their own, eh?” Genn said, shrugging slightly, much to Crowley’s disturbance.
“Are you so sure?  It looks like, by those sludgy footprints, something escaped…” Crowley said, in slight fear of what exactly escaped the cave.
“We may never know, Crowley…but at least we have the cave back.  Now, we need the village as our own…” Genn said, pointing at the Forsaken encampment to their left.
Crowley nodded and readied his steed.
“I will take a handful of my best rebel men and a few of your soldiers- and we will storm the village.  We will give them no quarter, no second-chance, only a swift, dishonorable death.” Crowley said with a fanged grin as he sounded his battle-horn.
Soldiers heard the call and readied around Crowley like a pack of obedient dogs.  They looked at the village and saw two foul leaders of the Forsaken attack- Executor Cornell and Valnov, the crazed scientists who was out for terror and villainy to be spread through Gilneas.  As they readied to charge the sounded another intimidating horn, drawing the full attention of the Forsaken.  A sharpshooter atop Emberstone’s cave entrance took first blood, shooting an undead beast’s neck with a poison-tipped arrow.  The soldiers rallied together and charged, swinging their rapiers in clean, yet well-styled blows across the Undead.  It was at first a massacre-for the Undead held no dominion over the battle.  Not even a kill had been achieved by the Forsaken, not even a scratch had been dealt.  Fighting with keen precision, Crowley’s men tore through crowds of their enemies.  They sliced through the undead mongrels, and left nothing but bones with bloodied meat left.  Charging forth aggressively Crowley and his men had Executor Cornell, the true slave-driver of the Emberstone Mine, in their sights.  They spat at him, as they drew near, and quickly offed him, beheading him in an ambush from behind.
“Cornell may be dead, but the mad plague-scientist is still out there.  Be wary, friends, for doom may charge for us.” one of Crowley’s veteran men said, aiming a rifle at Valnov’s infected head.
The veteran was the first to fire, hitting a mutated pustule off of the blighted doctor’s bald, irradiated head.  He charged, throwing his toxic, volatile vials into the air.  They exploded into sludge bombs midair, and Crowley’s group had to evade its radius.
“Fire!  Kill him before he can get another of his potions out into the air!” cried Darius, fending of Valnov’s mad attacks.
The veteran shot the monstrous scientist, finishing him off.  The beast growled, squealed, and fell down, head first behind him, and a splatting noise exploded from his body as he fell to his demise.  Toxic sludge was leaking from his blunt wounds, and the bullet that killed him was lodged in his rotten, green brain.  The veteran shot him a few more times, making sure the crazed scientist had met his final end.  More of the foul, corrosive slime crawled around the dead scientist’s body.  It suddenly froze, as a mana bomb fell upon it.  It later fell to a pile of glass.
“Come.  We must get our ore out of the mine, and send them to the blacksmiths back at camp.”  Darius said, dashing to the mine where carts were already filled by hardworking Gilnean miners.  Iron, copper, and tin were collected, and the blacksmiths would use these powerful metals well.  They knew the importance of their task, and they would accept it, for Gilneas.  They were hard at work as the mine carts were shipped in, and some smelted, some forged, and some began taking weapons to soldiers in the different towns of Gilneas.  Everyone had their own job, and everyone had accepted it gladly, for it was the only way to get their Gilnean homes back from the Forsaken menace.  They would send those good-for-nothing corpse-men to their final graves, and they would take pleasure in prying them limb from limb.  So much war had taken the Gilneans by storm, and they would not stop fighting for their land.  The hour was nigh, and soldiers already rallied and trained for what could be their last battle…the Battle for Gilneas.  They crafted bullets and mana-charged technology into their weapons.  They would do everything they could for the land that was rightfully theirs.
Raising the Gilnean Battle-Standard high, they lined the sides of the bridge, marking Gilnean territory.  And by their steel and iron hatred-they would charge at the Forsaken and force them away for good.  Prince Liam Greymane stood ready at the bridge, holding his rapier by his side, atop his steed.  He looked at the stone walls that he had come to know-and he would never stop fighting for Gilneas…no matter if it even was to cost him his life.  He looked upon the city that was once his father’s.  He knew it would be his again, and he would die for it if he had to.  Willing to make the greatest sacrifice for Gilneas-for his people-he would fight till the end.  Perhaps Liam had the most quintessential role so far in the exodus of Gilneas and the fight against the Scourge.  He was willing to wage war on whoever protested his beliefs, and was a stalwart follower of his father’s customs-but perhaps not all of his father’s stubborn, iron determination in certain areas, like the Alliance…
Needless to say, Liam would make a great king one day.  He didn’t look forward to the day he was crowned, for if he were to be king, his father would have to die.  Dissatisfied by that ending to Greymane’s life, he instead chose not to look forward to the burden of Genn’s crown.  He sought not to lead Gilneas also for he felt his leadership was no match for that of his father’s.  Liam was not one to stand idle, either, for he believed his life was just as good as anyone else’s, and he believed that if any man were to die on the fields of honor; of valor; it should be him, rather than to watch the fall of a friend, an ally.  Selflessly, he led many Gilnean men into battle and saw many men die.  He was a well-liked prince for all of his fine attributes, and he feared the day his father would finally die, perhaps in his sleep, and the next day of his coronation.
Liam was locked in his thoughts as he sat on his unbridled, unsaddled horse.  He had his hand supporting his jaw as he looked into the canal water of Gilneas City’s border.  He felt the wet hair of his steed in the rain, and sensed something-something perhaps unexpected-would happen this day.  Behind him crowds of his people watched, but he did not turn to realized, or even acknowledge, their presence.  His eyes were pale, greyish blue, and discerning-he was gifted with a calculating mind and an intelligent plan of battle.  He grew used to the feeling of rain upon him, and enjoyed it for its calming qualities.  The cacophony of the scene was almost serene and unreal.  It made him feel easy and calm, and the breeze was perfect that day they went to battle.  The sky was breaking in certain areas, and it appeared war-torn as the sun tried to peek through but was blocked by the inky blackness of the clouds.  He eyed the looming storm and felt a cringe in his stomach, but he closed his eyes and listened to the rain.  He listened to nature’s call, and it had a deep affect on him.  He felt his emotions stirring inside him, and knew that if he died on this day, his people would prosper and regain their city.  He looked to the clouds, a single tear swimming across his cheek, and down to the earth.  He looked back up and steadied himself, regaining his calamity.  He turned, looked at his people, and raised his rapier to the sky, to the rain, to the Forsaken that he would rend and massacre.
“The Forsaken think we’re weak, a broken people. They think we’ll roll over like a scared dog… how wrong they are. We will fight them in the fields until the last trench collapses and the last cannon is silenced. We will fight them on the streets until the last shot is fired, and when there is no more ammunition, we’ll crush their skulls with the stones that pave our city. We will fight them in the alleys until our knuckles are skinned and bloodied, and our rapiers lay on the ground, shattered. And if we find ourselves surrounded and disarmed, wounded and without hope; we will lift our heads in defiance and spit in their faces. But we will never surrender! FOR GILNEAS!” Liam roared, compelled to say the words-his eyes determined and ready for war.
His people roared with him and charged for war.  He saw his people’s fighting spirit revived, and he felt his own soul rejuvenated and he charged-no one could stop the Gilneans from reclaiming their lives-their city-their country.  They would end the Forsaken-whether it was today, tomorrow, or years later.  He felt the rain on him giving him energy as they crossed the bridge covered in Gilnean flags, and he led the charge back for his city that he had come to love-the city they had all come to love.  For Gilneas, they charged, their spirits lifted high into the sky that day.

 

Gilneas will rise Again-Chapter Five: The War in the Headlands

Chapter Five
The Gilneans launched a massive attack.  Their ragtag bands of privateers squandered the Forsaken battle-plan, and made it so the coastline was secure.  Soldiers dominated the Forsaken offensive, and they had no solution to their farce of success in war.  Fearfully, they reeled their assault back, with no way to gain a real foothold by sea, so they sent their remaining men on the seas on a suicidal mission to rid the Mana-Bombers.  They readied rangers and sharpshooters on the masts to shoot down the battle-magi, but their plan was thwarted by rangers of Gilneas firing back.  Bitterly, Sylvanas Windrunner wanted to rid the world of the Gilnean scum.  She did many terrible things in her life in reanimation of the dead-and she sought to bolster her people by creating, from the dead, more footmen for the Forsaken.  Her evil plans were hated and shunned by the rest of the world.  Even her own kind-Elves-hated her madness.  They sought nothing but an end for her, as the rest of the living.
She devised a malicious plan.  While the Gilnean attention was turned to the remaining Forsaken Flagships, she would take her ships to the Northern Headlands-tear down a midsection of the Greymane wall-and lead a siege-engine, catapult-propelled invasion into Gilnean land from the backdoor.  Genn had considered this, and, considering Keel’s proximity to the Headland Gate, he sent several spies across the wall to inspect the Forsaken offensive.  Pyrewood Village, a formerly-Gilnean town, now lead by Sylvanas, was filled with bombs, Horde zeppelins, and siege engines.  The war had only begun.  Infuriated with the news, Genn sent soldiers into the fray, but he had no way but use of Mana-bombs and magic to shield-wall his people for much longer.  He had a last-minute, fore-fray address to his people, and it read:
“If you care for Gilneas, my friends-turn your attention to Her Northern Headlands Gateway.  It is under siege by our skeletal foes.  We have no means but Magic in this hour to beat them.  Lend a hand-my conjuror friends- and aid us in our hour of need.  Our nation is strong-willed, determined, and durable-this is proven from our stalwart stop of the Worgen Curse-and our survival of the Cataclysm which crushed a quarter of Gilnean land.  And now, pray to the Light, friends, that we may combat the Forsaken Army, and stop them from reaching our damaged city.  For Gilneas we fight!”  Genn yelled to the towns of Keel Harbor, Stormglen, Tempest’s Reach, and small mining towns along the way, like Emberstone.
He rallied every soldier he could.  His call to arms was well-received by the soldiers and magi of Gilneas.  They fought with pride in their country, and sought to end the reign of tyranny Sylvanas wreaked across Silverpine, former Gilnean land.
Men stood ready at the northern gates, and there were ships with reinforcements and a healthy supply of bombs in the area.  Forsaken ghouls came charging later that day, but stealthy mages had a minefield of highly-reactive bombs in the area.  The soldiers would pull them out-they would provoke the skeletal Undead, and their bones would turn to ash and dust on first contact.  As they charged they rode to their death.  Magi created shields across the landscape around them while Forsaken shot bullets into the imaginary wall.  Then the magi would backlash the shield, sending their weapons flying back into their corpse-bodies.  The Forsaken charged, enraged by the fall of their allies.  The siege-engines and catapults crashed into the shield-wall, and it repelled the attacks back into the Forsaken, sending a shockwave across the Headlands and tearing bricks down from the Wall.  The soldiers of Gilneas charged in, vindicated by their Magi friends.  The Magi sped time up for the guardians of Gilneas, giving them quicker reactionary movements and a foresight of what to do in the future.  Suddenly, though, the air grew stagnant.  Magic was silenced in the foul presence of a truly corrupt, black-hearted creature.  Sylvanas and her ranger allies rode upon deathsteeds, accursed skeletal horses, and as she lifted her hand, time froze for the magi and soldiers of Gilneas.  She advanced upon them, aiming her bow at the ready.  Suddenly, a bolt of fire struck Sylvanas off of her steed, sending her rolling backwards, into the legs of the rider’s horse behind her.  The mage who casted the flame summoned jets of water beneath her, propelling her above the riders, freezing them all in a gigantic, arctic-cold ring of frost.  She then sent a bombardment of flame through the ice, carving the bodies of Sylvanas’ dark rangers out, and chopping their skulls from their necks.  Sylvanas dodged, rolled, and leaped up for the ice.  Quickly the mage severed the link between the ice bridge and sent them both tumbling down.  The mage levitated into the air, summoning a burning ring around Sylvanas and locking her in it.  A layer of ice wrapped around her legs, tying her to the earth, and arcane bracers locked her hands together.  Her bow was burnt and charred, and she was stuck in her tracks.
“You thought you could silence a Mage of my prowess, you foul ghoul?” the Mage hissed, sending ice daggers around her head, which continued to orbit Sylvanas’ head as she interrogated her.
“Get me out of this infernal trap!  You think I am alone?  Foolish of you to think so little of the Banshee Queen, the Dark Lady!” she hissed, and suddenly the magic barriers locking her down dissipated, and her bow repaired itself of its charred predicament.
Sylvanas aimed her bow, but suddenly ten more mages-mirror images of her-appeared beside her.  They began sending flame and ice from all directions at her, laughing in maniacal unison.  Sylvanas twirled gracefully into the air and rolled behind them, shooting arrows into them rapidly.  The true mage was behind Sylvanas, and she already had her three frozen blades in her back by the time she could even tilt her head.
“You think you have bested me, weak mage…but you have failed.  The Ranger-General of Silvermoon shall live eternally, and conquer all- you will be my next prey then, hmm?” Sylvanas hissed, aiming her bow directly at the mage’s neck.
Suddenly, she dodged, kicked Sylvanas in the jaw, and teleported forward.  As Sylvanas pursued, she sent a barrage of starry arcane missiles at Sylvanas.  They exploded around her, knocking her miles back.  The mage then leaped through the air, propelling herself with water jets from the sea.  They met midair, and flew around side-by-side, Sylvanas by her Val’Kyr battle-maiden and the Mage by her icy jets.  She suddenly turned, levitated, and shot Sylvanas with a frigid bolt of cold air, howling out the frosty substance, and she held herself up with a cold cone of air blasted into the ground.
They were equally matched, it seemed.  Sylvanas weaved through the air, her battle-maidens keeping her up, and retreated for the wall.  But the mage muttered some sort of incantation, and an icy limb jutted out of her own, grabbing Sylvanas by the boot and smashing her into the earth.
“I have had enough of your meddling, stupid witch!” hissed Sylvanas, throwing a poisoned, black knife into the mage’s neck.
The mage’s knees buckled midair, on her ice platform.  She fell, her body nearly broken by the hard landing.  Sylvanas laughed, kicked the girl in the face, and left her to rot.  The mage’s eyes slowly lost their bluish glow which signified her arcane power-and they turned to red-like fire.  Her corpse swirled into the air, in a flurry; a whirlwind of fire as she sent massive firewalls in all directions.  Everything in the Headlands was aflame in her revived rage.  She summoned a burning hot limb to scoop up her opponent, and turned the sea to hard ice with blade-sharp spikes, which she grounded Sylvanas’ black-blood-bleeding body into.  Flames now charred Sylvanas, but she once again swooped away, much faster this time, in fear of her own death.  The mage summoned flame jets, and she burned the icy of the sea and fell back down to the earth, bruised and bloodied.
Her injured, dying body was carried away into Keel Harbor, where she was being revived by priests of the Light.  Her eyes lost their glow, and her powers waned after the poison Sylvanas used was affecting her.  Her knowledge of the arcane waned, and her powers grew minimal and weak.  She could summon but a flame suitable for a torch and nothing else, and could conjure but an icicle rather than a blizzard.  The Arcane connection with her seemed irreparable, and Valeige was her name.  She had lost a great deal of her fighting spirit as well-her pride had been squandered and minimalized by the pain.  Bruised and bloodied, she could only lay in her sickbed, and muster only to say few words, for she would shiver, shake, and stutter if she said mouthfuls at a time.  The fate of the other Mages had been similar.  The silencing affect Sylvanas casted had brought their minds into a daze; a trance; to a place where they could not muster to do much magic, or common, day-to-day things.  The war wouldn’t stop, though, and sadly there was a whole army of sieging, warring undead creatures beyond their wall.
“Go…there is little time…we must…kill…the…Dark….Lady….” Valeige said, her voice trailing off as a limp, bruised arm pointed through the door.
The soldiers had an idea.  The cargo ship with the Mana Bombs tucked safely inside would be deployed into carriages, where they would be snuck across to the other side of the wall and set off by a powerful fuse.  Rogues would sneak the cargo across, and they would not know what hit them.
Regorlin and a few others had made their ways to the wall, scrapping the bombs from the locked ship, and readying the carriages.  They would sneak across the holes in the walls while a disguised couple of soldiers would act as undead carrying the carriage across.  Then, they would burn the fuse, and make a break for their horses, escaping detection and death by their own weapons.
They gave the signal to burn the fuse, and so the soldiers did burn it.  They mounted their steeds and headed back for town, but the explosion had a greater affect than they thought.  Sludge barrels of plague exploded across the Headlands, leaving a population of infected animals and mutant creatures.  But still, it halted the Forsaken Assault greatly indeed.  Their people were turned to glass by the arcane explosion and their ships were in ruin.  Their siege engines were destroyed beyond repair, and the earth was in ruin.  The Forsaken Advance would have to collect itself, and collect it did.
The war did not grow to favor either side for months, but eventually the Forsaken began shipping men into the Headlands once more.  They captured key metal producers like Emberstone Mine, and other nearby mines carved into the mountains.  The Forsaken sent hundreds, maybe thousands, of troops into Gilneas.  They did this in order to gain about the best foothold they possibly could-and their priority was to murder the mages-killing every Mage they could on their path to victory.  They sent soldiers into the very City of Gilneas, and they forced the survivors out of the city and into the wilderness.  The Forsaken massacred the people they could, cleaving their limbs like meat from animals.  They enjoyed the carnage of gruesome murder, and made their appreciation clear as they killed the young and women first and kept the males alive until they were long dead.  Then they would resurrect the people as their own, even Worgen were reanimated as Forsaken.  The Forsaken war machine moved through and charged through the city, with little resistance from soldiers sent from Keel, Tempest’s Reach, and Stormglen.  The war looked dire as the days passed by, and from days, weeks spawned, and from weeks, months.  With every hour more lives were stolen, and more were reinforcing the Forsaken warrior squadrons.
They charged forth, ravaging towns on their way.  They had been finally stopped at Keel, though, by an unlikely force of Bloodfang and Crowley family Worgen packs.  The aggression of Sylvanas and her war machine was forced to a halt, and Tempest’s Reach’s militia charged for Emberstone.  They needed to free their enslaved people, and take back the small town of Emberstone.  Then and only then could they stage their valorous assault to take their beloved city back…
…then and only then…

Gilneas will rise Again-Chapter Four: The Cataclysm

Chapter Four
“Hold the line, my friends.  On the battlefield we shall become brothers in arms, brothers in war.  Our vulnerability has never been so high.  But even in this gruesome hour-we won’t let those ships get ashore easily.  My friends-give them Hell!” roared Liam Greymane, who was the first to see the skeleton ships docking at a Gilnean-Headland bay.  Guardians of Gilneas stood with their chests up, and they marched.  As they approached the coast, ambushing sharpshooters aimed guns, bows, and cannons for the ships.  They would give them near-Hell on this day, but would it be enough?
The Forsaken had come with no sensible reason at all.  It seemed they knew that the Gilneans had just achieved a great victory-but now, weakened, and without a strong army, what could they do but fight for a few hard days, and then fall to the inevitable doom that was this terrible undead legion?  They would surely fight, and spit at their boney faces, and thrust their rapiers into their rotten hearts, with more unity than they had against the Worgen.  For, the guardians who were once men were now Worgen.  And the Worgen were as strong as at least four or five Forsaken men, but the Forsaken naval force outnumbered them about five to one.  Darius Crowley and his Rebel Force would be a strong ally to the Gilnean cause, but now, without a strong force of healers, how would they mend the wounds they would take in?  They would armor up, use their shields, and carry bandages and potions.  Krennan and his chemists readied tens of thousands of potions in a month, and they had a stock in their stores of hundreds of thousands more.  Alchemy would be a huge part of the war, it seemed.  Genn Greymane now stood in the front line of the shore, with his son at his right and Darius Crowley at his left.  Genn pointed an old finger at the hull of the ship, of which to be fired at by the cannons.  The anatomy of a Forsaken Warship is not so simple, though, for the ships the Forsaken crafted were magically immune to physical elements; only true, potent magic could destroy such a behemoth.  The guards looked dazzled as the cannons did no damage to the Forsaken man-of-war.  It flamed, yes, but the flames dissipated into thin air after a few seconds.  Genn pointed his finger to the skeleton crew aboard the blood-soaked ship.  They blasted the Forsaken crew with explosive cannons, but the explosions became minimal, weak, and inaccurate.  The Forsaken blasted their own cannons at the Gilneans, however missing them almost entirely.  The resounding explosion shook the very earth-it seemed, at least-but as the ground rumbled, it began to erratically shake.  The water level slowly increased, and it pulled the Forsaken dogs into the great blue.  The captains gasped for air as water filled their accursed lungs.  They fell off-board, and their forsaken bodies were trapped beneath the juggernaut of a flagship.
“Well, that was an unexpected tide, eh?” joked a guard, who used his lance as a lean-to.
Genn turned to look at the man and laugh, but the earth began to shake more.  He pulled his sword out and looked around, stunned by the sudden movement of the earth.
“The very ground is breaking!  The cataclysm has come to pick the meat left from our bones!” hissed the Forsaken, who were trapped beneath the sunken ship.
Genn looked to his men, and pointed for the stables, saying, “Damn you, fools!  Run or die, it is your choice!” roared Genn, sprinting with surprising agility ahead of his guards.  He leaped atop a horse, and they ran as the earth was torn asunder behind them.  Houses fell to the earth, shattered wood flying about behind them.  Forsaken footmen shot cannons toward them, trying to stop them before they themselves would have their fall.  The earth quaked and shattered in all directions, revealing magmatic rock beneath them.  The hills shattered, shaking in all directions, erratically crushing houses and villages.  Duskhaven was a pile of rubble by the time they reached it, and much of Gilneas was under water and magmatic rock.
The earth was shattered- left in a pile of rubble- all across Gilneas.  Jagged rock formations spiked from hillsides, created by cooled lava.  The earth had been ravaged and destroyed.  The residual fear plagued Gilneans again.  Why had the Light forsaken the noble Gilnean people?  Why them?  They had never done anything truly wrong; they were an inclusive people who lived in a secluded, peaceful life.  Why, then, did they get such misery in their faces?  The harsh truth was unknown to the people of Gilneas.  As death rose like a tide, they could not protect themselves from whatever the terrible things it had to offer.  Their emotions turned against them.  Peace could not be upheld when their homes-their lives-had been destroyed.  Tired of the seeming Gilnean inaction, people lobbied for pro-Alliance actions.  They wanted help, perhaps they didn’t even want help; but deep down they knew they needed it more than anything else in their dark hour.  Genn Greymane and Darius Crowley had discussed their inevitable fall for quite some time.  Finally Genn began to give in to Darius’ pro-Alliance ways, as he knew as well as any other Gilnean that without help, his people would form a stronger rebellion than ever.  Perhaps that was the problem-Genn’s stubborn, blind hate for the Alliance forces.  Now Genn and Darius were in Greymane Manor’s observatory, with a small table between them.  It rained, so they closed the shutters and blocked out the sound by closing the solid door outside of the Observatory.
“Darius, I know now probably better than anyone-that we must get the Alliance’s help.  I do not know how we can convince them to help us-for they consider us outsiders, traitors, deceivers, backstabbers, and meddlers.  We have nothing to lose, though, now, Darius, but our lives.  Let us pray to the Light, then, that we may survive this blow-or should I say, series of blows…” Genn said, shaking his head in sorrow.
“Genn- we have come so far as a people.  Mere days ago our most stalwart allies ended the Worgen outbreak after months of hardship.  And a few days later, we are here, in desperate need of aid once more.  The Forsaken will press on, in time, after they collect themselves and pick up their garbage.  They will not be mere pushovers like they were in the Cataclysm.  In a way, we were lucky to have such a disaster.  It made those Forsaken scoundrels have to turn around and restart their invasion plans.” Darius Crowley said, drinking some ale while he sat comfortably upon the luxury Gilnean armchair Genn had set for him.
There was a moment of silence between them as they talked.  The earth shook again-more erratically, this time, it seemed.  Looking outside the window, Darius and Greymane saw the rubble that was the southwestern part of Gilneas.  Genn shook his head, lowered it, and spoke an old Gilnean curse.  Darius did the same, and drank more of his ale as Genn walked around his observatory, trying to devise a strategy to get the Forsaken before they reached Gilnean shores.
“Gilneas lacks a strong Navy, Darius.  Our navy is about a sixth the size of theirs.  But, we have sailors and fishermen who roam the seas.  If we can arm them with weapons powerful enough to destroy a Forsaken ship-” Genn’s voice trailed off, allowing Darius to continue.
“Then we can win this war without a proper navy in place.  Good thinking, Genn.  So, ’tis it be decided?” Crowley said, finishing Greymane’s sentence for him.
“Aye, Crowley.  But what weapons can doom such Forsaken warships?”  asked Greymane, pointing his finger at a map of the Gilnean coastline and coastal outskirts.
“Ever heard of a ‘mana bomb’?  They’re these tiny, potently-created-did I mention illegal- explosives the Sin’dorei and Quel’dorei mages created for combat?  They are immensely powerful and will destroy those damned ships quickly.  We can also get mages aboard those ships…” Darius said, grinning with pleasure at his own ingenious, crafty ideas.
“I like the way you think, Crowley.  Before those Forsaken dogs can even as much as reach our coastline, they’re final execution sentence will be given.  Genius idea, my friend.  Bravo.”  Genn said, smiling and clasping his own hands together behind his back.
“I shall gather couriers to get this message to all living mages in Gilneas.  I shall go now, my friend, for now-is the hour of war.” Crowley said, his eyes intense and ready for battle.
So Crowley went, with other couriers to deliver the extremely-important message all across Gilneas.  They rallied priests and fel practitioners as well.  Back in the old tavern in Keel, Regorlin still sought to convert Valeige to aiding in the warfare cause.  She was unshaking, though, in her devout support of the Alliance, and her grudge with the Greymanes for their betraying of the other kingdoms and even Kul Tiras.  He pressed on, arguing her actions in the tavern.  He knew how strong of magic she could control.  Angrily, he pointed a finger at her and cursed, then went on to try to convince her again.
“Do you see not the risk at stake here?  The Forsaken our at our heels.  If you have not the will for Gilneas to try to fight their endless attacks, then I have not the will to try to convince you anyways.  I had so much faith in you, and I was a fool to put so much energy into you trivial matters.  Good-bye to you, then, as you seem not to care at all for the stake of war that will come to our soil.  What, madam, will you do when the war comes to Gilnean soil?  When you are hanged as a deserter I will not be able to testify against your sentence.” angrily muttered Regorlin, throwing a golden coin at her table.  Suddenly, a bolt of frigid water hit him- seeming to freeze him before opening the door.
“I can freeze the blood in your veins-and then crush you with it.  You don’t want to get on my bad side, Regorlin.  I have control over things you cannot see-but they are there-always…There is water behind you, there is fire in front of you…and I can bring them to life to end you.  You have not seen what I have seen, written in the language of the Arcane, Regorlin.  I suggest that you and your people do not dabble in the affairs of the Nether and what lies beyond your sight.” Valeige said, freeing Regorlin of his icy predicament.
Regorlin collected himself back together and relaxed his frigid body, as she disappeared upstairs.  He could feel the tense arcane energy left in the room in her wake.  Her magical prowess was something to be envied, really, for her knowledge and power in the Arcane arts were unimaginable.  Regorlin knew that magic was absolutely necessary in this dark hour.  And since she would not give her aid to the Gilneans, Regorlin feared there would not be enough magical prodigies left in Gilneas to combat the Forsaken.  He followed her quietly, without leaving a trace, but she knew he was there-she had a sort of spectral sight, one she could use to see anything in her radius.
“I know you are there, Regorlin.  Your presence is unwanted.  Now go, leave, before I have to turn you into a squabbling sheep.”  she said, pointing a finger at Regorlin’s hidden self, and blasted an arcane bolt around him, revealing his presence.
“I know you will not accept helping Greymane or any Gilnean, for that manner.  But please-can you create this “Mana Bomb” that Crowley keeps insisting on?  I know you are capable of creating it.  Your magical talent is admirable as well as it is intimidating.  I know you wish not to help our cause, but please-think on it.” Regorlin said, as he quickly turned away and walked downstairs, in a shadowy presence.
She said not a word of goodbye after his intrusion, and folded her arms, turning around, and walking into her room, locking the door and turning the lights off with a magical spell.
Outside, it was still raining.  Keel was rife with fishermen still; and on every ship in the yard there was one of many magi, holding their conjured mana explosives.  Already that day two ships had been sunken, and many more undead were put to their watery, final, eternal grave.  The Gilneans hated the Undead evenly as the proud humans of Stormwind.  They both had histories of brutal conflict with the beasts they called the Forsaken, though for decades they refused to join back with each other against their perennial enemies.  Stormwind, now, cared little for the traitor kingdom of Gilneas.  They treated them as outsiders, deserters, and betrayers, wishing them ill in many ways.  And perhaps they got their wish, as the Gilneans entered what might be their darkest, yet finest, hour of conflict.
Now, the battlefield was on the high seas.  The unwitting Forsaken had thought little of the small navy Genn Greymane had put together, but they had no idea that these citizens had such powerful magic.  Sorcerers and archmagi stood together in the water, breathing water through their powerful magic and walking on ice when they stood to throw bombs into the hulls of the enemy ships.  Arcane energy would remain stagnant in the air for many seconds before the Forsaken would realize the ship was about to explode.  Their rotten flesh would turn to glass and their corpses to shattered remains as the purple fire scattered across their bodies.  Soldiers would leap aboard and kill the cannon-firers while the bombers would set the magical charges.  Then, swiftly, they would rappel to the other ships and repeat the process.  These daring raiders earned ranks as naval captains, commanders, and admirals, which would create a new, powerful naval force.  They would fight by cutlass and rapier and die by the sword if the Light deemed it so.  They would die fighting with honor and if they did die they would never be forgotten.  The mages earned important jobs of destroying the ships while the soldiers would charge in.  This process worked extremely well, and was nearly fail-proof.  It also supported the conservation and preservation of life of the men.  They would come in with shields and swords, slashing in not-too aggressive strikes.  The men were glad to be fighting their long-lasted enemies.  They were happy to die in the service-in the valorous honor-of their country.  And their conquest would pave the to victory, and perhaps the revitalization of the relationship between Gilneas and, perhaps, the Alliance.

Gilneas will rise Again Chapter Three: Mass-Exodus

Chapter Three
The hour of exodus came ever nearer.  Fear ensued in the people of Gilneas; they knew not of the matters they would face in the coming days ahead.  Blood; cold blood would be spilt in one final, valiant push led by Greymane and Crowley.  The people drew closer to each other.  Neighbors lived as family in the darkest hour they would ever face.  The Worgen were exiled from families, neighborhoods, and other communities, even if they only had small bite marks.  They were also commonly killed when discovered as fugitives.  The people gathered in Greymane Court daily for the city’s new Archbishop, Veiln.  Veiln was known as a bright young boy among the city’s elders, and so he was chosen by a select, secretive group of Gilnean nobles.
People flocked in for shelter for their homes were destroyed by the bestial Worgen.  Panicked by a recent spike in attacks and ambushes, they needed shelter where they would be better protected, so many hid in cellars along the way.  Guards numbered few now, most of them afflicted by the Curse.  Some Worgen were cleansed; bathed in holy Light; and given partial human sentience back-this would not work for most, though, and partially-stable Worgen would often go berserk after intense stimulation.  Back in the Cathedral, Crowley, Greymane, Lord Godfrey the noble, and several others fought for control still, valiantly battling with valorous honor.  Shadowcloak had been sent to convert other Worgen to the Gilnean cause, and he succeeded in certain circumstances, and failed in others.  The first batch of travelers were sent on caravans to the little town of Duskhaven, a multitude of miles south.  In Duskhaven, citizens would have to build houses and live in tents until they were constructed fully.  The people already living in the small, suburban town gratefully helped, for a large league of guards were called to duty.  A few families were also sent to Keel Harbor for refuge, and some were sent to Stormglen and Tempest’s Reach.  Gilneas was near-fully evacuated, with several families left to gain a foothold in the central part of the city.
“Rally, my friends, rally.  We are Gilneas’ last defense, and by Her will we will not give in to those mindless mongrels!  We will fight with valorous pride-and we won’t fall to them in battle.  For we are Her true children!” called out Ivar Bloodfang, a proud human originally from the Tirisfal Glades.  As he roared he lost himself, as did his lover, and his family.
Something had gone terribly wrong.  The Bloodfang family tore free from their armor, howling at the moon above.  Their bodies became furred and muscled, as they sent out their once-rallying cry…but now their call was more of a bloodcurdling howl than that of a battle-roar.  The Crowley family fended their women, and as the beasts piled high they could do nothing but back down.  Men and women alike were bitten and massacred.  The war had taken a turn for the worst.  Blood drenched the Gilneas streets more than ever now.  Bones and bodies wore torn asunder on the grim, windy streets.  Flames covered old inns and taverns, and broken barrels paved the way into Greymane Court.  The city was deserted, and the forgotten halls were brought to ruin.  Death had charged in like a massive wave, and its bloody toll was coming for them.  Outside of the city’s broken, decimated gates, citizens formed militias in defense of Gilneas and Her territories.  War was only on the horizon.  This bloody battle was but a part of a long, grueling war.
Back in Duskhaven, Gwen Armstead, Prince Liam Greymane, and Lorna Crowley fought through angry mobs of people, maddened by all of the recent bloodshed.  They burned down crops, wooden buildings, and shipyards, rebelling with a fierce vindication now that their rebel-lord, Darius Crowley was long gone.  Revitalized with a new passion the people either united or dissented.  Rebels and loyalists battled in the streets, and a refreshed rivalry grew.  You would think the citizens would be coming together in their gravest hour, but as Genn Greymane and Darius Crowley were lost in the city’s forbidden streets, they turned against each other, with more fury than the Worgen themselves had.
“Back, you maddened dogs!  You are worse than the Worgen themselves.  If you choose to make such a racket about something so simple compared to the inevitable doom of Gilneas, we will end you ourselves!” guards hollered, shield-walling the people into a corralled circle.  Outriders upon horses aimed their bows for the angered citizens at the ready, in case they needed to fire.
“We are not the maddened dogs here, guard!  These rebels are plotting this whole thing!  They devised the Curse and our petty evacuation of our so-called fallen, broken city!  My friends, let us teach these idiots some lessons, for clearly they have gone rebel on us as well!” roared an overly-drunk, former guard who raised his already-bloody sword into the air.
And so they tackled each other, piling over themselves and brawling like a bunch of street-thugs.  They thrust their blades into their former neighbors and friends, and took no pity.  It seemed the Worgen’s curse had made its way outside of the city, as people began turning into the very beasts that plagued them.  Sharpshooters went for the throat with their arrows after realizing the threat of another infectious outbreak in Gilneas.
Things were going badly in Gilneas City, as well, for as Liam Greymane, Prince of Gilneas, sent for militia-men to attack on the Worgen, they failed miserably.  Their people were simply not strong enough to do battle with these mongrels-these aberrations-amalgamations, as they unified themselves to rend the very souls of the Gilnean humans.  The Bloodfang Pack aggressed, murdering the brave refugees living in the long-forgotten taverns, inns, and cellars that were harder to find.
Genn Greymane was lost in his fallen city.  He grieved for his people’s deaths-and longed for revenge.  He beheaded the bestial creatures as they charged at him, throwing his blade around in a whirlwind-type attack.  He slammed his sword to the very earth, finally, and used it to propel himself in a heroic leap, tackling a Worgen and severing his spine with a dagger.  As they came for him, though, he began to lose defenses.  Darius Crowley-the beast inside of him, perhaps- was looking right at Genn as he was surrounded.  Genn shut his eyes and spat in Crowley’s scarred, eye-patched face, and kicked him in the furry stomach.  Crowley howled in anger, and leaped for Genn, tackling his own men as he did it.  Genn hacked with an axe well-suited for throwing, but not for melee.  Genn sliced deep into Crowley’s rib, angering him more.  Crowley lifted his massively-muscled arms and hammered Genn in the chest, trapping Genn beneath himself.  He seemed to take pleasure in smashing Genn’s nearly-dead body.  Genn snuck his dagger into Crowley’s stomach, piercing his ribcage, and sticking through between the mangled bones.  He howled in pain and rolled around in his bloody filth.  Genn was bleeding out as well, injured and bruised.  Genn leaped toward Crowley and kicked him in the jaw, sending them both tumbling forward.  Genn grabbed his sword which was still locked in the earth, and readied for a finishing move.  He leaped, sword-first into Crowley’s face-but Crowley grabbed the sword with a steely, gauntleted fist.  His claws were metallic-and his fangs were as well.  He slashed his bloody claws into Genn’s bleeding, ravaged body.  Crowley howled and fed from the blood Genn was leaking.  Genn suddenly let forth a howl as he began to transform into a Worgen as well.  Crowley tried to run, but Genn slashed his paws with his broadsword.  Cleaving in hate-filled thrusts, Genn howled louder, his wounds healing from his bestial transformation.  Leaping high above, he cut at Crowley’s back, slicing a scar into him.  Crowley leaped over the walls, and by the time Genn thought he had him, Crowley was in the Headlands.
Genn closed his fist and frowned, drinking a red potion and becoming human once more.  The Worgen were still out there, and he would hunt them down, no matter who they were. In the little fishing town of Keel, Shadowcloak was alone in the tavern late at night.  He sat beside a dusty old lantern, and relaxed his tense muscles upon the back of the chair he sat in.  He was one of the few Worgen who learned to control the curse.  What was rare about him, however, was that he had no facial hair-he kept his beard and mustache trim, making sure he “looked his finest”.  Suddenly, the door opened, and bells tied to the handle rang slightly.  The barkeep, a girl named Valeige, greeted the hooded, cloaked person entering warmly.
“You look tired, friend.  We have rooms upstairs that are available, and warm drinks aplenty!” she said from behind the ornate wooden table.
“Wellmet.  Thank you, kind lady, but I must begoing after delivering this message to Mister Shadowcloak-err, I mean, Regorlin.  ‘Tis be your real name,hmm?”  Krennan Aranas, the Royal Chemist of the Greymanes.
“Aye, it is.  But don’t say it too loudly, Sir Aranas.  I am here only on business, investigating this town…’Course the drinks are quite fine too…” Regorlin said, turning to look the lanky man in the eye.
Krennan stood much higher than Regorlin, with his grey beard and mustache and thick brows.
Krennan laughed, “I do hope you’ll not be too drunk to read this important notice, my friend.  I still owe you anale for savin’ me from those doggies.  I was a lucky man not to be killed-or worse, infected-back there, ye know…” Krennan said, motioning in a friendly manner.
Regorlin looked uncomfortably back at Krennan.  Had Krennan not realized Regorlin was one of the mentally-stable Worgen?  He kept quiet, though, and laughed slightly uneasily.  Krennan eyed the barkeep, who was stealthily, slyly overhearing their conversation.  He gritted his mustache-covered, yellowed teeth and shrugged.  The barkeep was awfully strange.  As he turned slightly around to exit, he halted, and pointed a long-nailed finger toward the maiden.
“You’re not from around Gilneas, are yew now?”  hissed Krennan in a peculiar voice.
She turned around and dropped a bottle on the ground.  Gasping as if she had seen a ghost, she explained.
“I am from Kul Tiras, your people’s neighboring kingdom, on the forgotten island which had been invaded by the Horde.  I take great pride in my fallen country, Sir Aranas, but I hold my hatred for the Orcs, and not your people.  I was sent, as a young child, to Keel, where I’ve lived the near-entirety of my life.”  she said, as she cleaned the mess she accidentally made.
“Ah, yes…I see.  And who-child-is your father?  Your mother?  You look awfully familiar to a young girl I met from…did she say…Kul Tiras?  It was that…Proudmoore girl, wasn’t it!” hollered Aranas, his eyes almost ablaze with passionate excitement.
“Jaina Proudmoore, you say?  Well, I did once meet her when she was on her way to Dalaran from Stormwind…But there is no relation between us.  I can assure you that.” the peculiar barkeep said, putting the glass in a garbage disposal can behind her.
“If you say so, milady.  Regorlin, I left the letter beside you.  Read it, please, when you’re at least a little sober.” Krennan laughed, and off he went, his hood once again hiding his pale, bearded face.
“You lied to him, Valeige.  You should have told him the truth…”  Regorlin said, standing, his letter in his hand.
“I did what I had to do, Regorlin.  If they knew I had been a powerful mage a few years ago…then I might as well be dead, gutted on the front lines.  I was only telling a minor lie…”  Valeige said, kneeling down to pour more liquor into a stein.
“Well, Valeige, you would make an excellent Battle-Mage out there, while you simply stand here, pouring me some of that magically-fine brew…” joked Regorlin, who finished his drink and put it down hard, making a thud sound as he began reading the letter.
Astounded, he looked up at her, in amazement.
“The Worgen have been forced into submission.  Gilneas is free from the shackles of the beasts’ tyranny.” said Regorlin, throwing the letter aside.
“I’d say we need a couple more rounds of drinks in celebration.  Cheers, Regorlin.  It may be our last.” Valeige said in reply, with a grin.
Regorlin nodded, and spoke, “For that matter, we may need at least three.  Or more, of course, more is always nice…”

Gilneas will rise Again-Chapter II: Crowley’s Plan

Chapter II
It was a particularly cold night in Gilneas when Darius Crowley and Genn’s guardsmen fought through the Worgen at the Light’s Dawn Cathedral.  Much blood had been spilled, and the Worgen lusted for carnage more than ever.  Their antics seemed nearly insatiable, as if they needed the bloody murder that they seemed to enjoy so much.  Darius and his soldiers torched the ground they stood on, burning their paws and inciting their rage.  It was hard to believe these people were once the civilized, well and mild-mannered folk of Gilnean upbringing.  These people had changed so much both in appearance and characteristics of a deeper value.  Strange, he thought of it, that even the smallest of women, the frailest of men were all inflicted with the accursed bite.  Crowley wished not to think of he himself being infected.  He feared the consequences of his maddened actions-he would tell Genn to kill him before the Curse’s effects began to show.  Even now, his guards were all Cursed.  One man’s beard had already grown an inch.  The guard begged for death, and so his fellow guard slit his throat quickly, to avoid all the pain.  The guard could only utter solemn, dying words through heavy breaths, and he thanked his fellow guards for their service.  Crowley said a quick parting prayer for the man as his eyes closed.  Holding a candle, a Cleric stood in the doorway to the Cathedral.
“It is cold, men.  Come inside.  We have patched the roof as well as we could, so the rain shall stay out.” spoke the cleric, her voice calm and reassuring.
“Guardsmen, go in.  Take our fallen guard’s body into the Cathedral and wrap him in white linen, so that he is warm on his departure to the Light.” said Crowley, holding a wolf-hunting shotgun.
The guards took the limp corpse inside, to be adorned with holy water and linen.  The guards cleaned his wounds and bite marks and made sure he was ready to be wrapped in the white, blinding linen that was once drenched with the water.  There were coffins lined up on both sides of the Cathedral for those who were killed in combat.  Some were occupied, some weren’t, marked only by a Holy symbol that is pierced into the coffin.  Crowley watched as the remaining Worgen readied another small assault.  He had several sharpshooters atop the Cathedral, and five rogues scouting the proximity.  It was not long until full-scale battle would return.  The bloody carnage that would come would take its toll on the Gilneans’ defense.  Warriors and Paladins would charge into the fray, and defend with honor against the bestial monstrosities.
“Rally, men!  We must prepare for war!  Go now, fight for Greymane!  We must unite to protect Gilneas, I say to you!  Paladins, Warriors!  Rogues, Marksmen!  Mages, Clerics, Warlocks!  Druids!  Ready yourselves for the bloody carnage that these beasts shall surely procure!  Fire at will, sharpshooters!  CHARGE!  FOR GILNEAS!” growled Crowley, thrusting his sword with his right hand and slamming a Gilnean battle standard into the ground with the left.
Charging Paladins and Warriors sliced their blades and axes through the Worgen, offering no quarter.  They slammed their shields and hammers into the jaws of the larger creatures, and whirled their weapons around, knocking them all back.  Sharpshooters and marksmen shot with pristine accuracy.  Rogues and shadowsteppers crept through the shadows while Druids and Priests rained down healing and nourishment to the injured soldiers.  Mages and Warlocks called upon fire to smite their foes, freezing them and then burning them with hatred, seething their fur and skin and eventually turning them to ash.  Suddenly, the melee fighters were all blasted by a strange, forceful attack.  It seemed almost magic that knocked them down, and, floating above them was Archbishop Archibald, whose body was wrapped in a shadowy, translucent robe.  He howled and sent down purplish magical, ichor-like pain into men, killing them instantly.  He laughed evilly, madness guiding his blows.  Crowley threw his blade into the Archbishop’s back when he was looking away.  The Archbishop fell, his body exploding into shadowy goop.  Crowley realized the necromantic Shadow magic that the Archbishop casted upon the ground would kill anything on contact.  The Worgen, enraged at the death of their leader, howled and rallied more Infected Gilneans, and the battle seemed only to just have begun.
Gilnean citizens locked their doors and surrounded the hearth a little more closely, it seemed, every night that went by recently.  They locked their doors and barred their windows, readying their hunting rifles for the case of a Worgen attack.  The sons of the family would stay up with their father while the women and children were stowed upstairs, locked by multiple doors.  They too were equipped with rifles for hunting, as the Worgen might be able to reach them.  Guardsmen and other military defense men stood on every street, carrying a lantern of torch and readying for an inevitable assault.  Crowley had sent more men to guard the civilians and some rebels to aid in the evacuation of Worgen-infested areas.  Crowley cared greatly for his people, and he sent his own daughter Lorna to help feed the sick, wounded, and hopeless in various homes and inns across the whole of Gilneas.  His family was good-natured and strong-willed, determined to get Gilneas back into the Alliance.  His very creation of the rebel group was for Gilneas’ sake, and he risked much to save his country.
Meanwhile, in the infirmary of Greymane Court, Shadowcloak was on his deathbed.  It seemed that he had no chance of survival.  Pale and deathly life was flashing before his closed, unflinching eyes.  Outside clerics and nurses tried to find a way to restore Shadowcloak’s waning life.  He hardly opened his pale eyes, but the pain was so great he would try not to keep them that way for too long.  He looked outside the window and saw a cannon firing straight for the window.  Quickly he rolled off the bed and the cannon crushed the wooden-and-stone side of the infirmary.  Fire and ash went everywhere.  Hurt slightly he stood on wobbly, tired, and weak knees.  The cannon shot again, this time the floor below.  The infirmary destabilized, falling and crushing the people of the floor below.  Shadowcloak was knocked aback by the damage, out of the broken, jagged window.  He muttered and cursed as he was impaled on his already-fresh wounds.  Shadowcloak pushed the splintered wood and heated, flaming bricks out of the way.  He helped out one of the few remaining clerics and a nurse, but no one else remained alive.  The flames had spread across the burning rubble.  The cannon had silenced, and the Worgen had triumphed by taking over the cannons at Light’s Dawn and killing more healers of Gilneas.  These beasts were semi-sentient mongrels, and hunted as a pack.  Shadowcloak fell as he tripped over a wooden shrapnel piece.  He moaned in pain, and growled at the nurse and cleric trying to help him up.  He howled in pain and rolled in his filth, ash covering his burnt, masked face.  The cleric blasted him with a jolt of the Light, knocking him back.  He lifted his hand as it turned into a paw-like, clawed appendage.  His eyes lit up, no longer grey and weak.  The cleric tried to run, but the nurse started to transform as well, and she pulled him down by the legs, shredding his body with a razor claw.  Shadowcloak howled and loped to all fours, hunting his prey.
Crowley and his men resorted to the Cathedral of Light’s Dawn.  Genn Greymane, among other noble and royal members, stood discussing at a round table with a map of Gilneas City scattered about.  It also contained small figurines of Worgen and Gilnean forces, and for tactical dominance, Lord Godfrey insisted they simply send in their men and dispatch the final herd of Worgen.  That would not work though, as the Worgen were nearly impossible to eradicate, or exterminate, absolutely.
“We need to evacuate to Duskhaven.  We have lost too many people already.  We will find ourselves resorting to a civilian army against those beasts, but half our dying men will become these Worgen in the end.  We cannot beat a threat by staying in Gilneas, Genn, so we need to evacuate the people to Keel as well.  Discretion is the better part of valor, Greymane.” Crowley said, hunched over with his hands on the wooden table.
“I agree, Darius.  We shall need to evacuate to Gilneas, for half our people have already been bitten.  If we are to avoid our inevitable deaths, we will flee for the smaller towns where the Worgen have not reached.” Genn said, holding the table with clenched fists.
Worgen-they suddenly charged in, howling and readying their claws.  Shadowcloak was among them, his Gilnean tabard maimed and bloodied.  His claws were armored in a thicker layer of clawing.  They readied to finish the last line of Gilnean leadership.
Genn and Darius took to the front lines, fighting with valorous retributive rage.  They beheaded some, and Shadowcloak’s eyes suddenly changed direction, targeting his fellow Worgen instead.  He howled, savagely throwing them upon each other.  His eyes glowed bright blue and he defended Gilneas to the end.  They fought for quite some time without yet Shadowcloak’s fatal blow.  Genn and others aided his defense, fighting with fury for their falling kingdom.  Genn and his men looked at Shadowcloak in slight surprise.  Not quite all Worgen were savage, mindless beasts after all, thought Krennan Aranas who Shadowcloak had saved from the jaws of a Worgen mere days before.
“Aranas!  Get on my steed outside and deliver this message to Mayor Armstead!” hollered Darius Crowley who was slicing a Worgen’s head from his shoulders.
Aranas ran, his hood falling down, revealing a wrinkled, mustached face.  He was also bearded, and he had a grimace worn most of the time, now out of fear based on the Worgen blocking the doors out of the Cathedral.  Their clawed fists slashed his back, but he kept running, drinking a powerful alchemical potion he had devised as the Royal Chemist.  He leapt upon Crowley’s horse, slapped its side, and charged for Mayor Armstead’s alliance of rebels and Greymane guards, located within Greymane Court in a small, fancy inn which was abandoned after Gilneas’ split from the Alliance, reserved for noblemen and diplomats traveling from other major cities and countries.  Armstead was tending to some important affairs that concerned the King, like the location of which the people would flee to, and more pestering problems.  As Aranas made his way to the secluded little inn, he saw guards fighting off multiple large Worgen, and, peering out the inn’s window, Armstead held a small, short blade with a poisoned tip.  Aranas dismounted, tied his horse to a post outside, and knocked on the locked door.
Opening the door, Armstead greeted Krennan welcomingly but in a concerned, cautious voice. “Come in, Krennan.  Take refuge here, for it may be the last we shall have.”
Krennan nodded slightly and lowered his hood, revealing his old, wrinkled features and trimmed beard.  He had startlingly blue eyes, without a hint of pallor, and a thick eyebrow covering them.  Not a very powerfully built man, Krennan was lanky and tall, and stood high above an average Gilnean man.  He was known for his looming figure, his head usually above the others in a crowd.
“Thank you, Mayor Armstead.  Lord Crowley has given me a message that seemed rather important.  Do you have any idea what is inside?” Krennan Aranas asked, looking down slightly and handing Gwen the letter.
“Hmm, I should like to know, but I believe Crowley has sent word that he wished to devise a plan for relocation of citizens.  I think he wanted people in Stormglen, Duskhaven, and, indeed, Keel.  Keel’s shipyards are some of the finest in the Eastern Kingdoms, you know, and we need to have a way of exodus in case of danger.”  Gwen said, softly grabbing the letter and slicing it open with a letter opener on the desk beside her.
Upon examination of the letter, her features grew grave.  She realized not what Crowley knew; that the Cathedral was under intense warfare.  With a bit of fear she threw the letter into the flaming, roaring hearth, her eyes bright with despair.
“The Cathedral is lost.  We have no hope but to flee Gilneas, for war will only get more intense as we resist our inevitable defeat.” Armstead said, her eyes tired and pained.
Aranas frowned, shook his head, and looked to the right side wall, where a large Holy Light symbol was adorned, polished, and gemmed.  He looked down at the ground now, and sighed.
“By the Light, we seem to be out of luck.  If we don’t do anything now, our people will fall.  I only hope Greymane and Crowley can survive that accursed battle.  Anyways, it’s too dark now to intervene, Gwen.  Rest-it is one of the most important things in war-and we need it now.”  Krennan said in disappointment.

Gilneas will rise Again, Chapter I: The Tenuous Alliance

Darkness had descended on Gilneas once more and it was nearing ten upon the clock-tower in the Military District.  Torches were put up for the rain had stopped, and the Worgen had become hushed.  Soldiers stood at every post, watching, lurking, and readying for the inevitable attack by the Worgen forces.  Prince Liam Greymane and his men watched over Trader’s Lane, a small, cobblestone alley with shops and an auction house.  He also sent men toward Hearthstone Road, a street with a tavern, inn, and a novelty-and-board game shop.  Muskets were shot frequently through the night, startling herds of drunken men in the tavern.  The Worgen had taken Breeder’s Grove, which housed three stores, all selling a variety of different animals like Gilnean Mastiffs, mountain steeds, and exotic, rare animals found only in the Stranglethorn Vale.  Liam had his men barricade the aberrations with a cannon at the ready.  Soldiers stood at the brink of chaos.  They fired into the very monstrous beasts of Hell.  This would not be easy, they all knew, and men readied more cannons from the Military District, and all the old Rebel supplies they could scavenge up.  Gwen Armstead, Mayor of Duskhaven, held a small short-sword in her hand inside of a building, giving orders to armed citizens and Militia members.  Outside, the Worgen were rallying, howling with madness.
Shadowcloak and others who were gifted at surveillance, snuck through the shadows stealthily in order to avoid being seen.  The Worgen howled, though, and knew they were there, smelling their presence.  One Worgen threw his claw straight through the shoulder of a rogue, knocking him down.  The beast hacked and slashed at Shadowcloak, but he dodged and kicked the monstrosity in the jaw.  Stunning him, the monster bounded back, growling and foaming at the mouth in rage.  The other two rogues pressed farther, sneaking and weaving through the herd of Worgen without making a sound.  Shadowcloak finally jabbed the beast in the chest, cracking one of its hardened, nearly-petrified ribs.  It howled and began to roar at the top of its lungs.  Shadowcloak swung a dagger out and slit the lurker’s jugular vein, ending its life in one fatal swipe.  He ran to catch his allies, his boots not making a sound on the Gilnean cobblestone.  They were fighting the Archbishop-who blasted shadowy and Holy bolts alike.  Quickly he leaped across small trees in order not to be seen, onto a building and fell down, into the alley.  Falling, he kicked the Archbishop in the collarbone, and repeatedly swiped small strikes at him.  The slashes did little for the Light was still on this Archbishop’s side.  The other rogues began barraging him with melee jabs and swipes, knocking him to his knees.  The monstrosity that was the Archbishop howled, and the other Worgen surrounded them.  They attacked quickly, killing the two other rogues easily.  Shadowcloak began climbing up the hard Gilnean stony walls till he reached the building’s roof, and from thereon he leapt from building to building, the savage Worgen riding for him on their four paws.  Huntsmen shot their bows and guns and threw traps for the Worgen to fall upon.  Shadowcloak fell down, finally, away from the Worgen’s grasp.  The three men that died were not going to be rescued for quite some time, because of the bestial infestation of Worgen.  Barrels were crushed in the wake of the monsters, and they needed some better system so that food transported into Gilneas would be protected.
Liam and his soldiers were barraged by the Worgen.  Shield-bearers and axe-men knocked their weapons in conjunction against the savages, easily holding their fury back.  Hammer-wielding strongmen bashed against, in cleaving blows, at the beasts.  The paved ground became bloody and uneven after the battle.  Sharpshooters in trees sniped the monstrous savages, and trappers below threw their explosives on the ground, creating a minefield for the Worgen.  Rogue ambushers picked what little life the Worgen had out of them when they reached the snipers’ trees.  Gwen Armstead and some nobles planned out the new trade route for merchants, through the Military District, for safety, where the Prison served as the great fortress that would protect both civilians and guards, alike, where they had hundreds of men watching constantly.  Thunder roared as lightning flashed through the clouds with anger-tempered hatred.  Rain fell once more, and the horizon became misty, fogged with the vapor in the air.  Men retreated to the Fort now, for the Worgen had been held off.  The Archbishop was injured, and his forces had been crippled significantly.  The rain would hold them back as well, as their paws would slip and slide on the cold cobblestone ground, perhaps into the poisonous traps that were laid out for them.
Inside the fort were hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people, crammed in, scared, and ready for the Worgen to come.  Guards stood ready in the rain and aimed their bows and guns for the locked gateway of the fortress.  Up the stairs, tens of sharpshooters aimed for the Worgen who rallied below in other districts and streets.  The citizens began transforming into beasts, one by one growing massive and mutated by their curse.  Guardsmen had no choice but to shoot these civilian-Worgen.  Citizens were outraged at what they had seen.  Rebel forces were freed as well, and they quickly began combatting the forces outside of the fortress.
Greymane stood at the top of the stairs, pointing his finger at Crowley.
“Crowley, you are to be freed if you help us combat the Worgen.  This and only this will give you momentary freedom.  Choose wisely, for the people of Gilneas need you and your men in this hour.” spoke Greymane, his voice sharp and biting.
“Pah!  Genn, these people are all going to become our enemies, soon.  Most of them have the curse in their blood already.  Did you not think twice before allying yourself with that crazed, muttering old Archmage Arugal?  No, you did not!  Did you not realize by then that this sort of thing would come from your actions?  Sure, it’s better than the Scourge, but all Gilneas will be infected soon, Genn.  You are fighting a war you cannot win without help of the Alliance!”  growled Crowley, grabbing Genn by his shoulders in rage.
“It was the best thing I could do for my people.  And now, you are the best I can do for my people.  If you really wish for Gilneas’ survival, then you fight for it!  The opportunity is before you, Crowley.  Seize it, or you too shall be left for the Worgen to decide your fate!”  Genn muttered, throwing Crowley off of him in disgust and anger, his eyebrows narrowed and his teeth, under his mustache.
“Perhaps it would be better living under a Worgen leader than a tyrannical leader like yourself.  Get out of my sight, Genn Greymane.  You’re no king of mine, and these people are no allies of mine for their hatred for me is greater than you can imagine!” growled Crowley, shooting a finger into Genn’s face.
Genn walked away in anger, his eyes heavily bagged, and his concern for his people clear.  He needed heroes to fight in the name of Gilneas against these Worgen, but it seemed all hope was lost.  Upstairs Crowley was being locked away once more, until suddenly he pushed the men aside, climbing the wall up to the floor where Worgen came.  His rebels stood on the balcony, shocked at his presence.  They wielded claws that had been forged, replicating the Worgen’s claw.  Shadowcloak, and other guardsmen, came along with them upstairs.  But when they came-they ambushed them, thrusting their more natural claws into the men’s backs, almost instantly killing them.  Crowley realized he had just lost three men instantly.
“If we die like this we die fighting for Gilneas, men.  We will never give in to any force, no matter its prowess!” roared Crowley, and his men shot arrows into the hearts of the beasts.
Shadowcloak grabbed the claws off a fallen man and as he was being ambushed he thrust them into the beasts.  Clawed and maimed, Shadowcloak pressed on, bite marks drenching his clothes with red.  His allies retreated from the heat of the battle as it seemed he got better at using the claws as time went on.  As if they felt more natural, he began winning the battle.  He didn’t know of the cost of the Worgen’s poisonous bite, as Greymane did not tell anyone other than Crowley of what he knew.  He easily slashed through the Worgen and had defeated at least a hundred by the time the battle was done.  Soaked in blood, some his own, some not, he was picked up by Crowley and another rebel man.  They took him to be bathed in the Light so that the Worgen Curse would not go quickly and, trying to make it as painless as possible, they healed his bloodied wounds.
“His wounds are great, Crowley.  I do not know if he will live quite yet.  He lost a lot of blood in the fight and he was injured with great force.”  spoke a cleric, as multiple healers gathered around the hurt, injured near-corpse of Shadowcloak.
Liam rode his horse down the street to where they were keeping the dying Shadowcloak.  Desperately, he managed to mutter some words about the Worgen attacking the Fortress where most guards were dead and too injured to fight.
“My son!” Genn shouted, at the fact Liam had been stabbed by claws. “Are you alright?  How many men have been killed so far in that bloodied massacre!?”
“Too many to count, Father.  All Hell has broken loose!  Rebels and guards are hiding in Crowley’s old cellar full of weapons.  It looks like most of them are dying, though, and we need healers out there quickly.  Death is coming for us, Father!”  Liam yelled, pointing across the street to a corner where the dusty, old cellar door was open.
“Crowley, go into the cellar and get our men out of there.  We cannot afford to lose more men to this Worgen threat.  All able-bodied men, get to the prison quickly.  Go now!”  hollered Genn, shooting a finger at Crowley’s frowning, wrinkled face.
“I will go, Genn.  But I need backup.  Give me a few guards and I’ll finish those Worgen scoundrels if it’s the last thing I do.” Darius mumbled, putting ammunition into his musket.  He mounted a brown steed and soldiers followed, about five.
“Our next vantage point shall be the Cathedral.  With Light’s Dawn reclaimed, we can start defending our territory.”  Genn said, his mustache and beard flowing slightly in the wind.
“Aye.  That way, we can start retreating citizens out toward Duskhaven.  The Worgen must be contained.  We will not hesitate to kill infected civilians, I warn you…” Crowley said, fitting his eye-patch correctly over his peculiar eye that had been damaged in the Third War.
The citizens all backed away in horror.  Some knew of the Curse, but others hadn’t heard of it.  The fact they could turn into those beasts frightened them, and some men even began inspecting the women of signs of the Curse.  Fear spread through them as they realized that the Curse was real, not just some kind of hermit’s crazed mutterings.  They began fleeing through openings in the walls, stealing horses from guardsmen to get away from Gilneas.  Things were getting more intense, though, and Gilneas was about to meet a great fall.  All eyes were on Genn for not explaining, and some civilians became angry.  Worgen-like features began appearing in them.  Genn, his Lords, and his guards quickly mounted steeds outside and fled the angry townspeople for the Greymane Manor.  These people all had the Curse running through their very veins, coursing molten-hot rage through them.  Fear mixed with hatred guided their blows, and the Worgen were getting reinforcements.  The relationship between the loyal, proud Gilneans and their King had become tenuous.  They realized he had kept quiet in the darkest times in Gilnean history.  Some chose to forgive this but others began embodying the Worgen’s savage traits.  War was still going on, and Fate looked grimly at Greymane and Crowley…