The Ironsong Tribe

The Scourge Huntsman sniffed the air. He smelled the blood. He saw the smoke from the wreckage.

He was a tall undead creature not unlike a Deathknight but more hunterly in appearance. Blue eyes glowed from behind a large grey helm as he took a long wicked bow off his back and strung it with a black arrow. He hissed. and the pack of undead hounds that surrounded him bounded off towards the crashed wreckage. Soon they would feast on souls and he would bring more corpses to his master. More servants for their unending crusade to destroy all life on Azeroth.

A gunshot echoed off the snowy mountain peaks. Zlinka woke. Her head throbbed. Her chest was tight with cold, and every breath seemed to burn her chest.

She opened her eyes. The bright snow dazzled her, made her eyes water. The cold froze the moisture on her lashes.

Zlinka rolled onto her stomach and heaved herself up, struggling through a powdery blanket of snow. Pain radiated up from her ankles and lower legs. She remembered falling, falling endlessly, crunching feet-first into the snow, shattering pain, bending, folding, rolling and then nothing else.

Around her, she saw holes in the snow. Movement in the holes. Arms waving, bodies struggling. And here and there, holes that were silent and still, filling in with white flakes that did not melt.

And behind them all Zlinka glimpsed broken boards, chunks of dark cargo, and torn, flapping canvas.

Downslope, Zlinka heard barking and howling. Dim shapes, hounds, galloped up the hill towards the wreck. Behind them, lumbering slowly through waist-high snow, came a dark, undead figure.

Grimacing, Zlinka pulled herself onto the crust of snow. Her fingers were stiff and numb, but she fumbled two frostweave bandages from her pack and wrapped them, clumsily, around her ankles.

She eyed the hounds and huntsmen and crouched. She fumbled with the hilts of her daggers and pulled them from the sheaths.

She vanished. A set of bare, Troll footprints appeared in the snow, little dents of darker white. One by one, the footprints crunched their way downslope toward the hounds.

End of ACT I


BEGIN ACT II - THE BATTLE

Oryx leaned heavily onto his water totem, his arm lost in the swirling cloud of frost that surrounded it. The visible survivors of the fall had been patched up as well as they could be, and the souls of those that could still be revived were gradually returning to an awareness of life. Many were too far gone for aid, especially the goblin crew of the ship, who had in many cases been crushed inside the ship as it collapsed to the ground.

He was exhausted. Without the spirits of water, earth, and fire to sustain, support, and warm him, he would have collapsed face-first into the snow, falling into the never-ending winter. The snow, whipped by the wind, had risen into almost a whiteout. His ears were filled with the roaring of the wind, his eyes with unending white.

A sharp cry broke him from his stupor. Sharp-sighted Jadox, standing atop a piece of wreckage, called the alarm and raised a gun to his shoulder.

Seconds later, they could all hear the baying of hounds, the sound whipped and torn by the wind, but obviously coming closer by the second.

The Ironsong Tribe quickly adopted a defensive formation, working together with the unconscious skill of shared years. Those warriors and paladins who remained grimly set their shields, as the spellweavers and sharpshooters arrayed themselves in a fighting wedge behind them. Oryx took his place in the healers' echelon, breathing deeply and drawing the essence of water from the swirling air to replenish his energies. The unconscious bodies of those who were still recovering, including Coranda and Dispaya, were sheltered behind them all, under such shelter as they had been able to construct from wreckage.

A long moment passed... and another. The baying of the hounds grew louder, and louder, mixing with the blowing wind, becoming a shriek of soulless, unending hunger and pain. It rose, and rose, to a fevered pitch, and then, suddenly, the wind dropped to a whisper. Oryx heard the creak of leather on swordhilt, the sound unexpectedly loud across the frozen mountainside.

And then -- a snarling, snapping, biting wave of hounds emerged from the snow, smashing into the wave of sturdy defenders, their distended jaws lunging for ankle, hand, and neck. Ironsong's warriors met the charge with a challenging roar of their own, and the small band of heroes felt their spirits soar on the strength of their cry.

Oryx set his totem and raised a roar of his own: "Earth, wind, and fire, heed my -- OOOOPH!!!" A plaguehound slammed headfirst into the tauren's gut, staggering him, and knocking him onto his back. The plaguehound raised his head back to strike at his face, but was suddenly caught neatly on the chin by a leather-clad black foot. The hound reeled back, and its neck suddenly spurted with blood as a long shining dagger slipped across its width.

Oryx shook his head and blinked, focusing on the slender blue hand that grasped the dagger.

"More care, dear!" Zlinka said with a quick grin, and leapt away, her blade already spinning into a new target.

Oryx grimaced and raised himself back to one knee, glancing at the rogues's back. "Thanks."

With less ceremony, he set to arraying the spirits in the battle. Water for healing, earth for strength, fire to keep the frozen winds at bay, wind to speed the blows of the fighters.

The first wave of hounds was repulsed, and a quick wave of healing energy washed from the shaman to mend a slashed warlock's hand, a rent rogue's arm, and the broken halves of a warrior's forearm. The Tribe's defensive wedge had held, and they gathered their strength for the next wave of attackers.

"Is that all they've got?" Hargrim muttered, shadows dancing across his fingers as he peered into the white.

The answer came as a massive black arrow, its shaft emblazoned with glowing green runes, whistled out of the snow and smashed into his shoulder, hurtling him backwards.

"She is some fighter!" Trance exclaimed as he carefully fired off another round into a charging hound. "Is she yours?"

Oryx nodded proudly as he prepared another spell.

***

A short distance away the Scourge hunters gathered. Together their packs increased their numbers as wave after wave of undead hounds charged at the wreckage survivors.

One of the Death Hunters suddenly stepped on something half buried in the snow. It was a corpse of some kind.

The spirit wolf tried to charge to save it's master but before it could leap the Hunter extended his hand and the wolf suddenly stopped powerless to move. Then he pulled the dead body of the hunter Krell from the snow and pulled him upright with one powerful arm.

"Ahhh...a hunter I see. You will do nicely." The Death Hunter then grabbed the Orc with a powerful surge of necrotic energy and the corpse of Krell suddenly moved again.

((Krell...I'm taking some license here. If you don't like this passage let me know and I will change it))

Krell felt wave after wave of energy and power flow through his body...and when he stood he felt stronger and more alive than he had in quite some time. Flexing his hands he could tell they felt different, that he felt different, and then he heard a voice from behind, "Feeling better?" asked the Death Hunter.

Krell turned to face the voice, and could only choke out, "I live to serve...." and with that they group of Hunters moved closer to the group of survivors.

"We will flank them, and take them by surprise...do NOT release your hounds until we are engaged with them" exclaimed the Death Hunter. "They will have no time to react, and we will take them one by one."

Krell trudged forward, following the scent he was picking up. He never realized that each Tribe member had such a distinct smell that he could pick it up from so far away...

Krell stopped and motioned to the other Hunters to hold. "We are very near, they are just around this hill, and they are growing tired. What is it you wish? I live to serve." The leader of the Death Hunters' eye seemed to glow madly as he responded, "I want them all dead...at least for the time being. Attack them. NOW!"

At the command the other Death Hunters lurched forward to move into combat positions, and as they moved past him Krell took up a position near the lead Death Hunter. "Together," Krell said, "We finish this. I live to serve."

Coranda awoke slowly. That in itself was odd; she'd never had trouble waking, even after dying. To have trouble after mere exhaustion was unheard of. That was the first sign something was wrong.

The second thing that was wrong was that her head was pounding. Her body had always repaired itself while she rested, restoring itself and her energies to perfection. Now, though ... now she felt like one giant bruise topped with a pulsing star of pain. Her eyes took a while to focus, first going fuzzy, then squinting in self defense against the blinding white of the snow. Pain lanced through with every glance, every breath, every beat of her heart. She wanted nothing more than to lay down in a ball and will the world away until she felt better.

Instead, she looked around and saw that she was needed. Somehow, she had awakened behind a line of Tribemates, and they were in dire need of her healing. She reached for her healing energy and ... stopped.

That was the third and last thing. The connection that had always been so deep, so easy, so natural ... the connection so deep that she conversed with the Earthmother verbally from the time she could walk ... was blocked. Not completely gone, but tamped down to a fraction of what she was used to. Oh, she was functional enough - healers more skilled than she was had made do with less - but it was like a part of her had died. She reached and reached and reached, and could not get through.

Then she began to cry. All of her restraint, her veneer of motherly calm ... in that instant, it broke. Slumping in the snow like a toddling calf falling as it leans to walk, she burst into tears so completely that had the circumstances been less dire, would likely have caused a similar level of mayhem in the guild hall. There was no duty, there was no call to honor, there was no tugging cord of compassion, only need. Only loss. Only emptiness. She was alone.

Krell shielded his eyes from the fiery explosion, more out of habit than any real desire to protect himself, and used this moment as his chance. He turned to leader of the Death Hunters and almost whispered to him, "Now I attack.....I live to serve." And then he screamed at him, "The Ironsong Tribe!" As the word Tribe soared from Krell's lips he plunged a dagger deep into the torso of the Death Hunter. A thin smile appeared on his face as he watched the life force slowly flicker out, and he couldn't help but think "Zlinka would be proud."

Krell reached down and quickly gathered the fallen leaders Bow and supply of Arrows and turned to assist where he could. He stood up to his full height and exclaimed loudly and proudly, "I am Krell, Hunter for the Ironsong Tribe. Your power cannot hold me now. ALL MY LOVE AND POWER!" And with these words several of the remaining scourge turned to face the new threat. Salvo after salvo was traded and the remaining members of the Tribe worked feverishly to cut down any remaining threats.

Krell stood for as long as he could, firing arrows in protection of his Tribe. One after another, arrows sank deep into his flesh, yet he continued fighting. Soon, he spotted a loose hellhound heading straight towards the area where the badly injured Tribe were laying. Slowly, he nocked one final arrow, took aim....and....."For Dispaya".....fired. The arrow found its mark and the hellhound collapsed in a heap before reaching her.

Images started to swim and blur, and Krell crumpled to the ground. His fight was over.

A white hand caressed the face of Krell as the mage Dispaya looked into the eyes of her fallen friend.

Around her a battle was raging but the scourge numbers were begining to drop. Now all that was left were a few minor skirmishes here and there and her tribemates seemed to have the matter well in hand now.

Gracefully she knelt by the large orc and gently opened one of his large eyes. It now glowed and pulsed with necrotic energy.

"The energy is doing it's work." she whispered. "Soon there will be no saving you."

Gently Dispaya lifted the body of her dear friend and cradled him in her ams. Tears began to form in her eyes and Dispaya knew what she had to do.

"I wish you could know my dear friend, how often I have thought that if I had been born a female orc that you and I would surely be mates. But I am dead and so I can never be that to anyone. You deserve better than what I could ever give...but I will not let you die this way. I will never let you become like me."

And so she kissed him.

She pressed her lips against Krell's in a kiss that could only have born from true love. She squeezed the large orc's jaw so his mouth would open wider and her lips did the same.

Krell's eyes burst open with a sudden burst of the necrotic energy that threatened to take him over. Dispaya drew her lips away slowly but the necrotic energy continued to flow out of the orc and into herself. Drawing upon skills she had not used since her time with the scourge, Dispaya drew the energy from the body of her friend. Once all was absorbed she dropped him back to the snow.

Someone called for healing and Dispaya was suddenly surrounded by tribe. Someone knelt by Krell and a spell was cast to sumon him back from the dead. She did not know if it would be enough. Scourge magic was incredibly strong.

Her friends voices now seemed a million miles away as the necrotic energy crept through her trying it's best to take her back. Dispaya's will was strong but perhaps this time it was not strong enough.

As her eyes erupted with a burst of sickly blue energy Dispaya dropped to her knees and threw her head back...and screamed.

"I wish you could know my dear friend, how often I have thought that if I had been born a female orc that you and I would surely be mates. But I am dead and so I can never be that to anyone..."

It was like someone had lit a bomb within Kardwel's chest and it had finally decided to explode. He watched as she had leaned in, his fear of the moment becoming dread. The kiss had perhaps only lasted for a few seconds, but it was an image the Sin'Dorei would only repeat in his head a million times.

He had been so relieved to find the undead woman half-buried in the snow. Dropping to his knees, he had dug her unconscious form out of the frozen floor, praying to the light she was still alive. And she had been. He had gently laid her down by the wreckage after discovering the others and tried to let her recover as the Scourge threat moved in. Although his armor was battered and broken, he still continued to heal whoever he could.

He was surprised to see how much more drained he felt after using some of his normal healing spells. Dergash was putting off a lot of fel energy, and Kardwel couldn't help but notice some of the damage reflected back onto the warlock. So he had continued to heal, stopping only when he saw that Orc hunter among the scourge ranks. The one he'd tried to save before.

A traitor?

No, the Orc's battle cries for Ironsong that shortly followed the battle proved that thought wrong.

And then...Dispaya had found him.

Even as she drew the scourge energy from the orc's body, Kardwel could only remember her softly spoken words. Even amidst the battle, he had heard what she was saying. A feeling he had not known in years was slowly creeping back into his chest, sinking down towards his stomach. He wouldn't know if anyone was paying attention to the look of horror and sudden anguish that covered his features. He swallowed hard as the kiss ended, the energy flowing to the undead woman.

He wanted so badly to turn away, to get as far from this scene as he could. And just as he started to, a scream rang throughout the field. He immediately turned back and looked, expecting to see a monster tearing the screamer apart. But it was Dispaya...and Kardwel quickly realized she was not suffering a physical battle. He had to help her, but how? How could he heal what was on the inside? Regardless, his hand flew forward out of instinct, a calming wave of holy energy washing over the woman who only continued to let out cries of suffering.

Let it work...please let it work...

*snuffle, snuffle, snuffle*

Food. Fresh food. Good food and good hide, maybe for trade. "Just a little closer, little one. I need your life." Ephebe stayed still, so the food wouldn't run away while it foraged. It was slow, searching for food of its own under the snow, but food was always slow, and she was patient. Patient meant life.

BOOM! CRASH! Screams and zaps and danger smells. THUMP! CLANG! World shaking, big tumbling ... rolling and falling and tangled up in furs. Food running. Everything turning around while the ground heaved and twisted.

Stillness.

More smells ... burning flesh, evil energy, blood and bowels and brimstone. A bit of something else, like spring ... just for a second. Then war and death and bad magic, with little pulses of light. Light smelled like clean. Like electricity. Light was good.

Ow. She wasn't used to noise any more. The mountains were quiet, except for the food, and the occasional traders. But people were there, and evil was there, and those things didn't belong here in her woods.

Stand up, put furs in order, gather pack. She ran down the list and shook her head to clear it. People. She remembered how to deal with people. She had lived with people before the Bad Things happened. You stood up and smiled and looked them in the eyes, and talked. Talking was hard. She hadn't needed to talk more than a few sentences a year in ... ages. But she had the words, somewhere, and she could use them. She just needed practice.

She ran a hand through her tangled mane, separating the loose locks she kept it in, and tying it up with a bit of leather. That was more like people. Green people wore their hair like this, all twisty and tied up. Green people were nice, and didn't mind much if she didn't speak proper orcish all the time. They didn't even mind that her hooves were cracked and pitted and not pretty like the others she saw.

Then there were the furs. Armor was nice to fight in, but it made you stand out, and scared off the food. It made you a target. So she'd covered it with fur and hide, with a sweeping cloak made of the whitest fur and a big fur lined hood. Traders said it was pretty, like something the Tuskaar or Taunka might make. One even said that humans living in the islands way in the north wore clothes like that, but everyone knew that humans didn't live in the north, and they would never wear anything that bulky.

Now she was ready. She put her pack on her back, under the cloak, and started walking toward the noise.

There was a terrible shriek, a sound only made from utter distress. There was an echo that blasted from some point on the mountain-side and echoed through the valley below. Many small creatures heard the echo and darted for cover under any form of shelter they could find. And there was one who didn't move except for the swivel of the head.

A figure wearing long, black cloaks thick to protect against the cold stood watching. The figure stayed put, instead keeping eyes toward the noise. Usually, the wind howled through this valley formed between two high-peaked mountain ranges, and the snow could easily blind any passer through this land. However, both the wind and snow were unusually light this day. And this allowed the figure to see rings of smoke ebbing and flowing from a particular peak some distance in front of them.

Strange things happened in the North all the time these days. The figure had grown accustomed to hearing odd stories and seeing strange things about the land. But there was something very different about this event. They could sense something. Something they couldn't quite put their finger on, that was for sure. It was a mass of sudden curiosity that made the figure step forward. It began to move swiftly, even though the depth of the snow here could easily slow the average man down to a snail's crawl. And it continued, step after step, its ever slightly hunched form making a rapid progress. Perhaps it was because the figure was familiar with this land or perhaps it had something to do with the necrotic energies seeping through its very being.

~~~

With his dark armor, Melikar was sure he could've been spotted from a mile away. He was sure he couldn't hide for long among this mountain's ridges, knowing that eventually...something would come for him. He lay where he was, staring at a bleak gray sky. He hadn't moved since he regained consciousness after falling and sliding down a snow-covered bank on the side of the mountain in question. He felt hurt, that was for certain. Instead of panicking, however, he let his natural regenerative abilities slowly start to bring him back.

There was word that the troll shamans and other magic-gifted types could regenerate a lot quicker. He had no talent in magic, instead focusing all his effort on his strength and ability to protect his friends and kin. He remembered Jabadue. That troll was missing a finger and it had never grown back. So, did the troll shaman really regenerate quicker or better than he could? Instead of answering his question, he had another one. Why was he asking himself such questions when his tribe could be laying somewhere dead?

His mind went blank as he continued to stare at the sky, a single snowflake falling into his right eye and making him abruptly shut it, as if winking towards the cloudy mass above his head. With a slight groan, he began to roll onto his right side, knowing he couldn't stay in this position for long. A quick turn of his head may have been what ended up saving him as he continued to roll. His shoulder dug into the snow, which suddenly gave way.

He stopped in a heartbeat, his reddish-orange eyes glaring down a sheer drop. He couldn't even see the bottom from where he was laying, the mist of snow and moisture blocking any kind of view. A few loose pebbles under the snow had fallen and he watched as they disappeared below the mist. Trying not to look much longer, he rolled back the other way.

Sitting up, he realized he was on a very dangerous ledge. Going any way but to his left would surely be a fatal move, if not, cost his life. Taking a brief look around, he noticed the snow sloped at a slight angle to his left, leading up to where he most likely originally fell before sliding down here. He slowly stood up, dusting as much of the snow off himself as he could. He stood straight and tried to pop a kink in his back, but it didn't go. Grimacing a little, he began to slowly start the climb to get back to the top.

At first, he had a hard time getting his footing right. The snow continued to slide out from under him and it made the going difficult. Some time later, he reached the top, glad to see flat land. He had to take a moment to rest, but knew sitting out in the open like this was sure danger. He remembered all too well what had happened on the zeppelin. Which is why it also struck him as odd that not a single piece of the machine could be seen from here. All he could see for as long as the white went on, was pure, undamaged snow. Some darker objects loomed in the distance that the troll could only assume were trees.

Nodding once to himself, the warrior set off. He should be able to at least rest up there and hopefully start finding the others once he felt capable. And then he would have to find a way off this mountain. He began to walk, his arms crossing to keep himself warm in his already freezing plate armor.

What he never noticed, was a figure clad in dark clothing, watching...and following...

After about five minutes of striding purposefully through the snow, Toranda stopped, smacking her hand to her forehead in chagrin. No matter how dramatic and right it seemed, she wasn't going to get anywhere useful on hoof in the snow. With a sigh and a snort, she pulled out her whistle, summoned her kodo, and started on her way again.

There was no life before this battle, and there would be none after. Zlinka's entire existence was the now.

Bristles parted to expose vulnerable houndflesh. Zlinka drove her dagger in. The blade grated on bone. She wrenched it free. Blood pulsed warm on her hands and burned dark, smoking holes in the snow.

All around her, the Tribe fought. Blows thudded on strong shields, arrows hissed from above, red fireballs burned through the Scourge ranks. Somewhere, an infernal crumbled to the ground, its energy spent.

Zlinka stabbed and slashed until the last hound crumpled, lifeless and still. Its steaming body melted a dirty hole through the snow.

The silence rang in her ears. For the first time in an age, Zlinka's eyes focused on something further than her own arm.

Her Tribe was gathered by the airship. Some stood, some knelt, some lay still on the ground. Over it all, the wind brought a terrible, anguished screaming.

Zlinka hurried toward them, her legs breaking through the snow. Something soft yielded under her foot. Zlinka knelt and brushed the powder away -- it was Anca, warm but still. Heart pounding with fear, Zlinka lifted the child over her shoulder and carried her toward the wreckage.

She passed a Tauren, slumped and sobbing, dark mane flecked white with snow. Coranda. Zlinka bent over her, but she could only understand a few of Coranda's broken sentences... Earthmother, where are you?... Do not leave me alone... in the dark....

Zlinka grabbed Coranda by the hand and hauled her to her feet. She took Coranda's chin in her hand and looked into her wild, frightened eyes.

Zlinka indicated the still form of the child on her shoulder. "Anca needs you, Coranda. Can you help?"