Post by Trinea on Oct 10, 2010 9:28:51 GMT -5
((This was originally written as the capstone for a very long character arc, however I'm posting it for two reasons. First because unlike 95% of the related material which features characters from another server, this stands alone; second because I feel it serves as a good starting point for a new arc. I hope it proves enjoyable.))
"I, James Kriger, do solemnly pledge my loyalty to the Forsaken and to my queen in assumption of the office of Executor.
I will protect my people from all enemies, foreign and domestic.
I will carry out the duties of my office with all diligence and haste.
I will allow no obstacle to impede my path.
I will let stand no affront to my people or my queen.
With solemn mind and able body, I swear to faithfully uphold my office until my queen dismiss me, or death take me."
What a crock of shit.
-----------------------
-Fourteen hours earlier-
"Lok'tar Ogar!" the orcs bellowed as the sounds of battle filled the air. James largely ignored them, ducking a slash from his opponent before driving the blade of his axe into the forsaken's torso. The traitor apothecary dropped to the ground and James moved on to the next one.
The ruins of Lordaeron were filled with combat as the forces of the Horde fought tooth and nail to reclaim the Undercity. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the city beneath, a dread lord named Varimathras was laughing at them.
The Warchief himself led the charge. James had never seen Thrall fight before. It was a terrifying sight. The orc was like a one-man wrecking crew, his hammer smashing skulls and crushing ribs, lightning flying from his fingers as he moved.
James couldn't spare much time to watch him. He had fighting of his own to do. All around him were his countrymen, the loyal army of the Forsaken. They smashed into the renegade forces like a steel boot onto a roach, leaving bodies and carnage in their wake.
At least, until the demolisher machines and the massive, grotesque forms of their abomination troops moved in to support them. Like the flipping of a coin, suddenly the battle went hard for the amassed Horde troops as they were pounded, each moment passing in a storm of steel and blood.
"Power! Power to the Forsaken!" James heard a Forsaken voice bellow. Now that one, he knew.
"POWER TO THE FORSAKEN!" they chorused in reply.
"Power to the Forsaken!"
"POWER TO THE FORSAKEN!"
The loyalist Forsaken rallied, stubbornly meeting the assault of the abominations and their accompaniment troops. Both James and his axe were covered in blood and he took a moment between the waves of assaults to wipe it from his face.
They were in for a rough night.
------------------
The Banshee Queen reclined slightly upon her throne, her blackwood bow resting across her knees. All around her gathered the royal guard, the red-clad Forsaken handpicked to serve as her bodyguards. To James' eye, Lady Sylvanas needed no one to guard her. He had seen firsthand the power and wiles secreted within that darkly seductive body.
Around the circumference of the room were about fifty or sixty Forsaken, gathered up in groups ranging from five or six to fourteen or so. James stood alongside eleven other men and women clad in the heavy armor of frontline soldiers. Like them, he wondered just what in the hell the Banshee Queen had in mind for him.
"Apothecaries," the woman said aloud, her voice carrying throughout the room like a clarion. Seven people stepped forward from the throng, all wearing the garments of the Royal Apothecary Society. James felt bile rise in his throat as he looked at him.
"You have failed me," the Dark Lady said shortly. "You allowed your fellows to fall under the sway of a traitor and nearly cost me my throne."
The apothecaries began to protest, but Sylvanas waved them down sharply. "Know that you have lost my favor. Begone, and be quick to redeem yourselves." The RAS representatives needed no more urging. They all but fled the room, leaving James utterly nonplussed. That's it? That's IT? He couldn't believe his eyes. Sylvanas wasn't even going to punish them for the atrocity they had helped create?
"My war-priests," Sylvanas called.
A man James recognized as Father Lankester and a few others dressed in the regalia of the church stepped forward.
"You aided me in leading my forces to victory. I am pleased with your results as well as your loyalty."
"My warlocks."
"My mages."
One group after another Sylvanas called them all forwards, commending or dismissing each in turn. Finally, only two groups were left.
"Deathstalkers," Sylvanas said evenly.
Six men dressed in dark leather armor and ringed with weapons stepped forwards. James saw the royal guard move subtly closer to the queen and he felt his guts clench. "Your organization was created by a traitor," Sylvanas said, her voice even. "I am tempted to be rid of you along with him."
The leader of the group squared his shoulders. "Varimathras created the Deathstalkers," he hissed, "but our loyalty is to the Dark Lady and the Undercity. Test us if you will."
"Be cautious," Sylvanas hissed back. "You tread upon thin ice. Get you gone from my presence. Know that my eye will be upon you at all times."
The rogues bowed and left, leaving behind one last group.
"Warriors of the Forsaken," Sylvanas called to them.
------------------
James felt his head erupt with pain as he banged it on the flagstones of the old court. Through the haze he saw the abomination lifting its arm, ready to bring its massive cleaver down onto him. James lifted his axe and used the haft of it to stop the descent of the mighty weapon, feeling his arms shake bonelessly as the vibration went through them. Swinging his weapon to the right James thrust the enemy's substantial weight aside and scrambled to his feet, chopping the abomination's arm off before it could recover.
Before he could start to feel any sense of victory, a second abomination moved up to join the first. James cursed under his breath. All along the battle line the loyalists were hard-pressed. If they were having such a hard time just taking the ruins, how would they ever get down into the Undercity where the real enemy awaited?
That was when the sound reached his ears. It was a woman's voice, smooth and sultry, pitched at just that perfect level to reach across the battlefield. It was…singing.
For a moment, James forgot himself and looked over his shoulder. There, standing atop a broken pillar, was the Banshee Queen herself. Clad in her dark-stained armor, Sylvanas bore her trademark bow in one hand, but she wasn't using it. Instead she pressed a hand to her breast and sang aloud, her voice a clarion call over the noise of combat. A siren's song.
James felt a deep, primal surge of desire rise up from inside him. His attention drawn by movement, he turned back towards his opponents just in time for one of them to swing at him. With spilt-second precision, James stepped back to avoid the swing, leaving the abomination off-balance.
James Kriger went to work. His axe struck over and over again, his enemies' blows sailing past him harmlessly. Everything seemed to resolve, to sharpen, each breath dilating into an eternity until it seemed like his enemies were mired in thick mud. Sylvanas' song filled his veins and he became a veritable engine of death, his frenzied assault mirrored all up and down the line as the loyalist forces were suffused with power.
The rout of the traitors was inevitable.
------------------
"Thrall and his orcs may have assisted us," Sylvanas said, "but without the warriors of the Forsaken, this battle would not have been won. Yet even so, we have lost many. The Forsaken stand upon the edge of a knife. The smallest push at the wrong moment may destroy us." The banshee slowly turned her bow over as she spoke. "I have need of new leaders. Each of you have been selected for the position of Executor of the Forsaken forces."
James was shocked. Him, an executor? Was she crazy? Then again…
"My lady," one of the warriors said, stepping forward slightly. "May I speak?"
"You may," Sylvanas replied.
"This is…a singular honor," the man said. "But...I feel I must refuse."
"Explain yourself," Sylvanas said.
"My lady…this civil war…what happened at the Wrath Gate…I feel that…" the Forsaken paused briefly. "I feel that we are going too far in the name of revenge. We must not become that which we seek to destroy!"
"It is unfortunate that you feel so," Sylvanas said calmly. A moment later there was a thunk of flesh and suddenly, the man who had spoken was sporting a long, black-feathered shaft from the front of his throat. James started, realizing that Sylvanas' bow had lifted from her knees. He hadn't even seen her move!
"Are there any other refusals?" the Banshee Queen asked.
There were none.
"Kneel."
------------------
They had fought their way through the Undercity and all the way to the throne room. And there he was, the arch-traitor himself: the dread lord Varimathras, standing upon the dais of the Banshee Queen, potent and powerful. His hands were cupped around a purple glow, his eyes closed. From the glowing ball led eight long streamers of shadow energy, each pointing to one of the great arches that decorated the room.
"What's he doing?" someone whispered.
As if it had been a cue, the dread lord opened his eyes and closed his hands. All around the room, eight great black portals opened.
"Oh, you gotta be f**king kidding me," James sputtered.
Moments later, the bulky green forms of daemonic pit lords erupted from the gateways, charging towards the assembled host. Someone bellowed and the forces of the Horde swarmed into the room to meet them. Once again the world was full of blood and fire as the Horde sought to bottle up the Legion forces, preventing them from gaining a foothold. In the center of it all the Warchief and the Banshee Queen fought the sneering Varimathras, a truly horrifying contest of speed, martial prowess, and sheer will.
Diving sideways to avoid being crushed beneath the falling bulk of a dead pit lord, James looked up to see the ex-majordomo's vulnerable back. Unbidden, images came to him of the atrocity at the Wrath Gate, the stricken refugees of the Forsaken, the bloody memories of every crime the Burning Legion had ever committed-
He growled and began to move forward, faster and faster with every step as he raised his axe. "VARIMATHRAS!" he roared as he broke into a full charge across the room. His axe bit deeply into the dread lord's leg, spraying blood. The daemon roared and without hesitation swatted James Kriger like a fly. He didn't even turn to do it, just extended one wing and slammed the leading edge into the Forsaken's body, sending him flying across the room.
Ow.
------------------
"Rise," the voice of the Banshee Queen commanded. James Kriger and ten other Forsaken men and women did so, plate armor softly clinking. "All of you are now my Executors," Sylvanas said, her blood-ruby eyes boring into them. "You are my hammer, my will, and my voice. You will strike terror into the hearts of your enemies and bring inspiration to your fellows." She began to call them forwards one by one, delivering specific instructions and James found himself tuning out, his attention drawn to the gates of the throne room. He'd been standing there when it happened…
-------------------
The throne room was a mess in the aftermath of the battle, the soldiery of the Horde picking their way through the carnage. Only a few of the Forsaken had made it this far. More orcs surrounded Thrall. At least it was finally over.
That was when a royal guard came running into the room. "My lady!" he barked. "Intruders! Men of the Alliance!" James felt cold shock wash through him and he nearly cursed aloud as he ran to be by Sylvanas' side.
They came rushing into the throne room, a dozen or so men decked out in full plate bearing the blue and gold of Stormwind, the tabard of the lion worn over their armor. At their head was the man Kriger recognized as King Varian Wrynn. He had to do a double-take. The man was huge, made even bigger by the colossal armor he wore. In each hand was a mighty sword of elven make. James thought he might have been darkly handsome if his face hadn't been twisted into a look of such hatred.
"Thrall," he said aloud, his voice full of venom. Behind the king, a woman came rushing into the room accompanied by more troops. With a start, James realized it was Jaina Proudmoore. The Alliance certainly wasn't pulling any punches! James felt his anxiety rise. The two forces were roughly equal. Only a small portion of the army had come with the two Horde leaders to secure the throne room, and now most of them lay dead.
"I was away for too long," Varian was saying. His glare was like a weapon unto itself. "My absence cost us the lives of some of our greatest heroes. Trash like you and this witch were allowed to roam free, unchecked! The time has come to make things right. To disband your treacherous kingdom of murderers and thieves. Putress was the first strike. Many more will come."
James found he couldn't look at the man. The words were like a knife to the gut. Putress, you brash fool, he thought. You've doomed us all. The Alliance troops edged forwards around their king and James found himself looking across the at a dark-skinned man standing to Wrynn's left. The man squared his shoulders in challenge and lifted his sword slightly to point at James. Kriger nodded.
"I've waited a long time for this, Thrall," Varian roared. "For every time I was thrown into one of your damned arenas... for every time I killed a green-skinned aberration like you... I could only think of one thing-"
Why doesn't Thrall say something?
"…what our world could be without you and your twisted Horde…"
Sylvanas, say something! SAY SOMETHING!
"It ends now, 'Warchief.' ATTACK! FOR STORMWIND! FOR BOLVAR! FOR THE ALLIANCE!"
f**king hellfire and damnation!
The Alliance force bullrushed towards them and the Horde soldiers swept forwards to meet them. Varian made an impossible leap for a man in full plate and brought his swords down onto the haft of Thrall's war hammer. James swung his axe in a tight arc and the dark-skinned man stopped it with his shield, the metal ringing loudly. He slashed at James with his sword and the Forsaken dodged backwards before he got another smile cut into his neck.
"Enough! Stop!" a female voice shouted. A frozen wind suddenly blasted through the impromptu battle and James felt ice forming on his armor. Jaina Proudmoore held up her arms, hands glowing with magical frost. "I can't watch you do this, Varian!" she snapped. With a flash of light and a bang of sound, the Stormwind king and his soldiers vanished into thin air.
In their wake, the Horde soldiers left behind slowly began to lower their weapons, expressions of confusion and relief on their faces. Thrall sighed deeply and James watched him walk forwards to sit down at the top of the steps, the butt of his hammer resting on the stone. "It ends like it began," he heard him say. "All that we have fought for in this world is lost. The hopes and dreams of my father and mother…by Doomhammer…gone."
Jame felt his lip curl. You limp-wristed, soggy-brained, green-skinned piece of-
---------------
"Executor James Kriger."
He snapped to attention and stepped forwards. "My lady?" he asked smartly.
Her sharp red eyes drilled into his and he felt naked. "Prior to Varimathras' betrayal of me, word came to Undercity that the Argent Crusade prepares a tournament and joust to be held upon the shores of Northrend. Champions of each city of Azeroth and Kalimdor have been invited to attend."
"Sounds like an excuse for a recruiting drive," James said before he checked himself.
One perfect elven brow rose slightly. "Indeed," the Banshee Queen replied. "You will be among the detail I send to represent the Undercity. We will present a strong face for our allies and a fearsome visage for our enemies. They must not suspect our weakness. Do you understand?"
"I do."
"You do…"
"I do, my lady," he said with a bow. She dismissed him.
------------------
Executor James Kriger. The idea was both attractive and repellent.
James sat at the edge of the court in the ruins. It had been cleared and cleaned diligently and virtually no trace of the carnage that had taken place here remained. James sighed slightly. Once, a lifetime ago, he had been put to death here for rape and murder.
Now he was an officer in an army that had committed one of the greatest atrocities in living memory, thrown the chief culprits under the wagon and merrily gone along their way.
James settled down onto his knees and, for the first time since he had awoken in that pitch black coffin-
"Blessed Light, please let me not become a monster…"
"I, James Kriger, do solemnly pledge my loyalty to the Forsaken and to my queen in assumption of the office of Executor.
I will protect my people from all enemies, foreign and domestic.
I will carry out the duties of my office with all diligence and haste.
I will allow no obstacle to impede my path.
I will let stand no affront to my people or my queen.
With solemn mind and able body, I swear to faithfully uphold my office until my queen dismiss me, or death take me."
What a crock of shit.
-----------------------
-Fourteen hours earlier-
"Lok'tar Ogar!" the orcs bellowed as the sounds of battle filled the air. James largely ignored them, ducking a slash from his opponent before driving the blade of his axe into the forsaken's torso. The traitor apothecary dropped to the ground and James moved on to the next one.
The ruins of Lordaeron were filled with combat as the forces of the Horde fought tooth and nail to reclaim the Undercity. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the city beneath, a dread lord named Varimathras was laughing at them.
The Warchief himself led the charge. James had never seen Thrall fight before. It was a terrifying sight. The orc was like a one-man wrecking crew, his hammer smashing skulls and crushing ribs, lightning flying from his fingers as he moved.
James couldn't spare much time to watch him. He had fighting of his own to do. All around him were his countrymen, the loyal army of the Forsaken. They smashed into the renegade forces like a steel boot onto a roach, leaving bodies and carnage in their wake.
At least, until the demolisher machines and the massive, grotesque forms of their abomination troops moved in to support them. Like the flipping of a coin, suddenly the battle went hard for the amassed Horde troops as they were pounded, each moment passing in a storm of steel and blood.
"Power! Power to the Forsaken!" James heard a Forsaken voice bellow. Now that one, he knew.
"POWER TO THE FORSAKEN!" they chorused in reply.
"Power to the Forsaken!"
"POWER TO THE FORSAKEN!"
The loyalist Forsaken rallied, stubbornly meeting the assault of the abominations and their accompaniment troops. Both James and his axe were covered in blood and he took a moment between the waves of assaults to wipe it from his face.
They were in for a rough night.
------------------
The Banshee Queen reclined slightly upon her throne, her blackwood bow resting across her knees. All around her gathered the royal guard, the red-clad Forsaken handpicked to serve as her bodyguards. To James' eye, Lady Sylvanas needed no one to guard her. He had seen firsthand the power and wiles secreted within that darkly seductive body.
Around the circumference of the room were about fifty or sixty Forsaken, gathered up in groups ranging from five or six to fourteen or so. James stood alongside eleven other men and women clad in the heavy armor of frontline soldiers. Like them, he wondered just what in the hell the Banshee Queen had in mind for him.
"Apothecaries," the woman said aloud, her voice carrying throughout the room like a clarion. Seven people stepped forward from the throng, all wearing the garments of the Royal Apothecary Society. James felt bile rise in his throat as he looked at him.
"You have failed me," the Dark Lady said shortly. "You allowed your fellows to fall under the sway of a traitor and nearly cost me my throne."
The apothecaries began to protest, but Sylvanas waved them down sharply. "Know that you have lost my favor. Begone, and be quick to redeem yourselves." The RAS representatives needed no more urging. They all but fled the room, leaving James utterly nonplussed. That's it? That's IT? He couldn't believe his eyes. Sylvanas wasn't even going to punish them for the atrocity they had helped create?
"My war-priests," Sylvanas called.
A man James recognized as Father Lankester and a few others dressed in the regalia of the church stepped forward.
"You aided me in leading my forces to victory. I am pleased with your results as well as your loyalty."
"My warlocks."
"My mages."
One group after another Sylvanas called them all forwards, commending or dismissing each in turn. Finally, only two groups were left.
"Deathstalkers," Sylvanas said evenly.
Six men dressed in dark leather armor and ringed with weapons stepped forwards. James saw the royal guard move subtly closer to the queen and he felt his guts clench. "Your organization was created by a traitor," Sylvanas said, her voice even. "I am tempted to be rid of you along with him."
The leader of the group squared his shoulders. "Varimathras created the Deathstalkers," he hissed, "but our loyalty is to the Dark Lady and the Undercity. Test us if you will."
"Be cautious," Sylvanas hissed back. "You tread upon thin ice. Get you gone from my presence. Know that my eye will be upon you at all times."
The rogues bowed and left, leaving behind one last group.
"Warriors of the Forsaken," Sylvanas called to them.
------------------
James felt his head erupt with pain as he banged it on the flagstones of the old court. Through the haze he saw the abomination lifting its arm, ready to bring its massive cleaver down onto him. James lifted his axe and used the haft of it to stop the descent of the mighty weapon, feeling his arms shake bonelessly as the vibration went through them. Swinging his weapon to the right James thrust the enemy's substantial weight aside and scrambled to his feet, chopping the abomination's arm off before it could recover.
Before he could start to feel any sense of victory, a second abomination moved up to join the first. James cursed under his breath. All along the battle line the loyalists were hard-pressed. If they were having such a hard time just taking the ruins, how would they ever get down into the Undercity where the real enemy awaited?
That was when the sound reached his ears. It was a woman's voice, smooth and sultry, pitched at just that perfect level to reach across the battlefield. It was…singing.
For a moment, James forgot himself and looked over his shoulder. There, standing atop a broken pillar, was the Banshee Queen herself. Clad in her dark-stained armor, Sylvanas bore her trademark bow in one hand, but she wasn't using it. Instead she pressed a hand to her breast and sang aloud, her voice a clarion call over the noise of combat. A siren's song.
James felt a deep, primal surge of desire rise up from inside him. His attention drawn by movement, he turned back towards his opponents just in time for one of them to swing at him. With spilt-second precision, James stepped back to avoid the swing, leaving the abomination off-balance.
James Kriger went to work. His axe struck over and over again, his enemies' blows sailing past him harmlessly. Everything seemed to resolve, to sharpen, each breath dilating into an eternity until it seemed like his enemies were mired in thick mud. Sylvanas' song filled his veins and he became a veritable engine of death, his frenzied assault mirrored all up and down the line as the loyalist forces were suffused with power.
The rout of the traitors was inevitable.
------------------
"Thrall and his orcs may have assisted us," Sylvanas said, "but without the warriors of the Forsaken, this battle would not have been won. Yet even so, we have lost many. The Forsaken stand upon the edge of a knife. The smallest push at the wrong moment may destroy us." The banshee slowly turned her bow over as she spoke. "I have need of new leaders. Each of you have been selected for the position of Executor of the Forsaken forces."
James was shocked. Him, an executor? Was she crazy? Then again…
"My lady," one of the warriors said, stepping forward slightly. "May I speak?"
"You may," Sylvanas replied.
"This is…a singular honor," the man said. "But...I feel I must refuse."
"Explain yourself," Sylvanas said.
"My lady…this civil war…what happened at the Wrath Gate…I feel that…" the Forsaken paused briefly. "I feel that we are going too far in the name of revenge. We must not become that which we seek to destroy!"
"It is unfortunate that you feel so," Sylvanas said calmly. A moment later there was a thunk of flesh and suddenly, the man who had spoken was sporting a long, black-feathered shaft from the front of his throat. James started, realizing that Sylvanas' bow had lifted from her knees. He hadn't even seen her move!
"Are there any other refusals?" the Banshee Queen asked.
There were none.
"Kneel."
------------------
They had fought their way through the Undercity and all the way to the throne room. And there he was, the arch-traitor himself: the dread lord Varimathras, standing upon the dais of the Banshee Queen, potent and powerful. His hands were cupped around a purple glow, his eyes closed. From the glowing ball led eight long streamers of shadow energy, each pointing to one of the great arches that decorated the room.
"What's he doing?" someone whispered.
As if it had been a cue, the dread lord opened his eyes and closed his hands. All around the room, eight great black portals opened.
"Oh, you gotta be f**king kidding me," James sputtered.
Moments later, the bulky green forms of daemonic pit lords erupted from the gateways, charging towards the assembled host. Someone bellowed and the forces of the Horde swarmed into the room to meet them. Once again the world was full of blood and fire as the Horde sought to bottle up the Legion forces, preventing them from gaining a foothold. In the center of it all the Warchief and the Banshee Queen fought the sneering Varimathras, a truly horrifying contest of speed, martial prowess, and sheer will.
Diving sideways to avoid being crushed beneath the falling bulk of a dead pit lord, James looked up to see the ex-majordomo's vulnerable back. Unbidden, images came to him of the atrocity at the Wrath Gate, the stricken refugees of the Forsaken, the bloody memories of every crime the Burning Legion had ever committed-
He growled and began to move forward, faster and faster with every step as he raised his axe. "VARIMATHRAS!" he roared as he broke into a full charge across the room. His axe bit deeply into the dread lord's leg, spraying blood. The daemon roared and without hesitation swatted James Kriger like a fly. He didn't even turn to do it, just extended one wing and slammed the leading edge into the Forsaken's body, sending him flying across the room.
Ow.
------------------
"Rise," the voice of the Banshee Queen commanded. James Kriger and ten other Forsaken men and women did so, plate armor softly clinking. "All of you are now my Executors," Sylvanas said, her blood-ruby eyes boring into them. "You are my hammer, my will, and my voice. You will strike terror into the hearts of your enemies and bring inspiration to your fellows." She began to call them forwards one by one, delivering specific instructions and James found himself tuning out, his attention drawn to the gates of the throne room. He'd been standing there when it happened…
-------------------
The throne room was a mess in the aftermath of the battle, the soldiery of the Horde picking their way through the carnage. Only a few of the Forsaken had made it this far. More orcs surrounded Thrall. At least it was finally over.
That was when a royal guard came running into the room. "My lady!" he barked. "Intruders! Men of the Alliance!" James felt cold shock wash through him and he nearly cursed aloud as he ran to be by Sylvanas' side.
They came rushing into the throne room, a dozen or so men decked out in full plate bearing the blue and gold of Stormwind, the tabard of the lion worn over their armor. At their head was the man Kriger recognized as King Varian Wrynn. He had to do a double-take. The man was huge, made even bigger by the colossal armor he wore. In each hand was a mighty sword of elven make. James thought he might have been darkly handsome if his face hadn't been twisted into a look of such hatred.
"Thrall," he said aloud, his voice full of venom. Behind the king, a woman came rushing into the room accompanied by more troops. With a start, James realized it was Jaina Proudmoore. The Alliance certainly wasn't pulling any punches! James felt his anxiety rise. The two forces were roughly equal. Only a small portion of the army had come with the two Horde leaders to secure the throne room, and now most of them lay dead.
"I was away for too long," Varian was saying. His glare was like a weapon unto itself. "My absence cost us the lives of some of our greatest heroes. Trash like you and this witch were allowed to roam free, unchecked! The time has come to make things right. To disband your treacherous kingdom of murderers and thieves. Putress was the first strike. Many more will come."
James found he couldn't look at the man. The words were like a knife to the gut. Putress, you brash fool, he thought. You've doomed us all. The Alliance troops edged forwards around their king and James found himself looking across the at a dark-skinned man standing to Wrynn's left. The man squared his shoulders in challenge and lifted his sword slightly to point at James. Kriger nodded.
"I've waited a long time for this, Thrall," Varian roared. "For every time I was thrown into one of your damned arenas... for every time I killed a green-skinned aberration like you... I could only think of one thing-"
Why doesn't Thrall say something?
"…what our world could be without you and your twisted Horde…"
Sylvanas, say something! SAY SOMETHING!
"It ends now, 'Warchief.' ATTACK! FOR STORMWIND! FOR BOLVAR! FOR THE ALLIANCE!"
f**king hellfire and damnation!
The Alliance force bullrushed towards them and the Horde soldiers swept forwards to meet them. Varian made an impossible leap for a man in full plate and brought his swords down onto the haft of Thrall's war hammer. James swung his axe in a tight arc and the dark-skinned man stopped it with his shield, the metal ringing loudly. He slashed at James with his sword and the Forsaken dodged backwards before he got another smile cut into his neck.
"Enough! Stop!" a female voice shouted. A frozen wind suddenly blasted through the impromptu battle and James felt ice forming on his armor. Jaina Proudmoore held up her arms, hands glowing with magical frost. "I can't watch you do this, Varian!" she snapped. With a flash of light and a bang of sound, the Stormwind king and his soldiers vanished into thin air.
In their wake, the Horde soldiers left behind slowly began to lower their weapons, expressions of confusion and relief on their faces. Thrall sighed deeply and James watched him walk forwards to sit down at the top of the steps, the butt of his hammer resting on the stone. "It ends like it began," he heard him say. "All that we have fought for in this world is lost. The hopes and dreams of my father and mother…by Doomhammer…gone."
Jame felt his lip curl. You limp-wristed, soggy-brained, green-skinned piece of-
---------------
"Executor James Kriger."
He snapped to attention and stepped forwards. "My lady?" he asked smartly.
Her sharp red eyes drilled into his and he felt naked. "Prior to Varimathras' betrayal of me, word came to Undercity that the Argent Crusade prepares a tournament and joust to be held upon the shores of Northrend. Champions of each city of Azeroth and Kalimdor have been invited to attend."
"Sounds like an excuse for a recruiting drive," James said before he checked himself.
One perfect elven brow rose slightly. "Indeed," the Banshee Queen replied. "You will be among the detail I send to represent the Undercity. We will present a strong face for our allies and a fearsome visage for our enemies. They must not suspect our weakness. Do you understand?"
"I do."
"You do…"
"I do, my lady," he said with a bow. She dismissed him.
------------------
Executor James Kriger. The idea was both attractive and repellent.
James sat at the edge of the court in the ruins. It had been cleared and cleaned diligently and virtually no trace of the carnage that had taken place here remained. James sighed slightly. Once, a lifetime ago, he had been put to death here for rape and murder.
Now he was an officer in an army that had committed one of the greatest atrocities in living memory, thrown the chief culprits under the wagon and merrily gone along their way.
James settled down onto his knees and, for the first time since he had awoken in that pitch black coffin-
"Blessed Light, please let me not become a monster…"
