Gravesite

Ald stood behind Tazeria and Ito as they sat beside the freshly dug

gravesites. The little gnome placed his tiny, warm hand upon her shoulder

and gave a minute squeeze in a gesture of concern and comfort.

The smell of the raw, newly exposed dirt filled his pudgy nose and the damp

 air of the Darkshire gravesites chilled his short frame. Gnomes were no

 strangers to the cold, actually, they preferred it to the heat, however this was

not cold in the air this day- this day, there was a chill, and for Ald, that made all the difference in the world. His slight frame shivered and try as he might, he was unable to shake off the dreadful feeling of something or someone, was watching him.

Maybe it was this place full of death and sorrow? Maybe it was the multitude of unanswered questions that flooded his mind?

Or, was it a premonition of things to come?

So much information to consider these last few days, he didn’t know how to begin to sort it all out. He made a mental note to talk to Snuff privately once they returned to the retreat in the Stormpeak.

The last week had been traumatic for all of them, filled with funeral arrangements and ceremonial events for those they had lost at the temple. There were many now gone, naught to return.. holes that would never be, COULD never be filled…. Brave and valiant souls, lost and forever absent from the ranks of the future, these survivors humbly laid their dead to rest…..again.

‘Bree sat across from the trio, staring off into the distance. She took a long pull on the bronze flask, which was covered in dwarvian rune markings (surely filled with some sort of alcoholic beverage) retrieved from a specially sewn pocket of her leather pant leg.

To her left stood Roxell and Nightlock both clad in their new leathers for the solemn occasion. Ladowsond and Chango, freshly gemmed and enchanted in their raiding armor, stood like matching bookends, at the foot of this grave, both their heads bowed and looking no one in the eye.

The rogues were all here. THE rogues. All of them… even Stillstay, who like Odage did not often leave the shadows to be seen amongst the public.

Never in recent history had such a gathering occurred. Some called them murderers and thieves; some called them protectors of the Alliance; a gang of the deadliest most notorious, brilliant masters of the shadow and mist as had ever graced Azeroth.

They came to bury their own.

As Ald looked at each of his comrades he took note of their weapons; skillfully crafted silver daggers, heavily runed- marked maces, sparkling fist enhancements and swords too beautiful to describe in mere laymen’s terms graced the hips and backs of these fine soldiers.

The weapon defines the rogue, BUT the rogue gives the weapon life... a life, which was meant for death.

Among them was the glaive…. THE GLAIVE…the one Odage had taken from Illidan Stormrage himself, the one glaive that had brought this destruction and now the separation and possession of one of their own, upon the families.

Ald eyed the large blade strapped to Ito’s back carefully. It had an essence about it that almost gave it a smell to Ald. The gnome wrinkled his nose a bit as he studied the finely crafted weapon.

There was a feint glow and iridescent glimmering around the precisely honed edge, and if he looked at it close enough and long enough, it seemed to breathe in a movement so slight as to go unnoticed by any casual observer.

There was evil on that blade. He didn’t know how it got there, or why it got there but it was there nonetheless.

The small gnome lifted his gaze with effort and noticed the gathering of priests at the edge of the graveyard. They were standing closer together than any rogue would have stood to another and some had a glow about them and had hands outstretched to the other.

Ald didn’t understand priests, but he understood communication. The priests were joining together; they were forming a front line of defense, but for what?

For whom?

A large, black cloud began rolling atop the hillside of Ravenhill Cemetery. It folded over upon itself in waves and froth like black water.

At that moment a ear deafening CRACK! Snapped the solemn groups into smart attention and a howl of wind rushed their faces as all eyes whipped to the ebon cloud overhead.

The horns began to form from the cloud, solid and spiraling forth from a bronze colored forehead that was lined and had the look of old leather. Its wings were gigantic and spread wide as they emerged from the black abyss of the cloud in the sky.

Slowly its shape formed from the black boiling mass and soon it bore its’ full body forth. Muscled chest and biceps; pointy –tailed, ox-blood colored skin with sharp fanged row of teeth over thick chiseled lips- violet eyes – sharp with spectrum vision.

In its left claw-like hand the demon held a bloodied whip made from tightly woven orc muscle and it made a loud SNAP! CRACK! as he whipped it through the misted air.

A low rumble made the ground upon which Tazeria and Ito sat, quiver as they watched the cloud give birth to the creature. The rumble became a growl and the sound grew until it threatened to deafen the entire funeral party.

They shielded their eyes and clasp their hands over their ears, as the rumble became a din of growling and gnashing. With a roar he made his full presence known to all of them, he WANTED them to know he was here and what he Had- HE OWNED, body and soul and without question.

His howl shuddered the whole of Darkshire.

“I AM SPAWN.”

And Balyon rode his back.