Fhaliona

Before the Storm

The Lightforged woke well before dawn. She had not slept much the eve before their march, but this was normal for one haunted by the things she'd seen and done. At least today, the spirits and voices of the past would be kept silent. She began pulling on her clothing, first linen and then layers of leather that protected her skin from the heavy plate. She drew back the tent flap and took one last deep breath of fresh air. There was a very large chance she would not make it out of this battle alive; a deep sense of foreboding told Fhaliona that the Warchief once again had something up her sleeve.

“Endal no Talah,” a Kaldorei addressed her with some reverence as she exited the tent. Fhaliona regarded the Elf with a nod and made her way to the mess tents, reflecting on the nickname she'd received on Argus. Wind of Death, a Gnome had told her. She was sure it was a loose translation, but one accurately describing her on the battlefield.

The cooks were already awake and had begun preparing breakfast. It was not a grand ordeal, but still better than most of the meals they'd had on this campaign. For many, it would be their last. Fhaliona grabbed a plate and began picking through the items that had finished cooking; meat to provide staying power, eggs and starchy vegetables for bursts of energy, fruit to cleanse her palate and offer a minor indulgence of sweetness, and a stein of coffee to chase the remaining fatigue from her mind. She ate her meal in silence, watching the rest of the camp rouse from their slumber, before leaving the empty dishes on a table outside the mess tents and returning to her own to put on her armor. She buckled and tied the plates into place, and slung her greatsword across her back. A short distance away a teal-haired druid was helping another Lightforged secure his armor, and the Ren'dorei who gave her a cigarette the night before stared at a Human boasting about what he would do to the Horde that day. If he even lasts five minutes. The man was a complete imbecile who clearly knew nothing of close combat.

Soon the horns began to sound, and King Anduin Wrynn addressed his armies. “War is a dreadful thing.” The din of the camp stilled at his words. “There are those in this world who do not know peace and cannot accept a life without fighting. We are not those people, and many of you may lose your lives this day, but we will not allow the Alliance to cease existing. Today, we stand up to right a terrible wrong. Today, we take back what is and has been rightfully ours. Today we march on Lordaeron! For the Alliance!”

The entire camp erupted in cheers as the King spurred his steed toward the city gates, his general following and the rest of the Stormwind invasion force falling in behind. The siege towers were already in position and had begun their assault on the walls. The Horde leaders stood upon the battlements, looking down as the armies clashed.

Fhaliona sprang from her white warbear into the fray, blade whirling, cleaving a swath through the Undead masses. Putrid juices and formaldehyde sprayed into the air in fountains wherever she went, raining down on enemies and allies alike. No effort was wasted. Every strike landed true. Many of the Alliance soldiers began calling her a demon, but she did not hear them. She was lost in the battle, cutting down every enemy who dared to stand before her. She did not hear Anduin's order to take down the Horde war machine, nor Sylvanas calling for the release of the blight. She only slowed when the poison gas burned her lungs and blurred her vision, and even then she only paused long enough to snatch a gas mask from a fallen Troll. Wounded, dying, rescuers... nothing mattered to the Draenei other than destroying the Horde who dared to destroy her neighbors' home. Her colleagues dedicated to removing the fallen from the battlefield watched her in horror; they had never seen her fight on this scale. Their faces were a mixture of concern, disgust, and the slightest bit of awe.

Jaina Proudmore appeared with her father's galleon and cleared the blight with an explosion of ice magic, blasting open the walls with her arcane cannons and creating an opening for the Alliance forces to pour into the city. The call came to pursue the Horde further, and Fhaliona put herself on the front lines. She had seen Saurfang up on the wall with Sylvanas and had made it her personal mission to take the green-skin's head. The Tauren chieftain shouted “Retreat!” and once again the Banshee Queen released the blight upon the Alliance, and a paladin grabbed Fhaliona by the collar of her breastplate, pulling her back. He was lucky he did not fall to her blade, such was her fury and lust for the battle. With a growl she climbed into the nearest flying machine in pursuit. She would not be denied her vengeance, for her people and for the Kaldorei. She continued to charge forward, ahead of most of her allies, and when she entered the inner courtyards Saurfang stood alone. She would finally have closure, an end to this pain and an end to her curse.

“You are alone, old Orc,” she spat. “Not a wise decision.”

Saurfang simply watched her approach, ignoring her words. Nothing she would say could wound him more than his own memories.

Fhaliona crept closer, barely containing her rage, blade at the ready. “Your kind destroyed my second home, and your Horde brought ruin to an innocent people. I will not let you commit those crimes a third time! For Draenor, and for Teldrassil!” With a war cry she charged, closing the distance between them with lightning speed. Sword and axe clashed again and again. The Orc may have been aged, but he moved with precision and vigor belonging to one much his junior. Fhaliona felt herself tiring and barely dodged Saurfang's flurry of strikes. She underestimated him and was outclassed. A low sweep cut through her leg armor, laying flesh open to the bone, but she ignored the wound and struck out with a flurry of her own mixed with a pillar of Light, causing the Overlord to step back. Soon the Alliance soldiers caught up and joined the fight, and collectively they subdued him. Fhaliona held her greatsword over her head, prepared to take the killing blow, when a wave of dizziness hit her like a tram. Blood loss finally caught up with her, and she toppled over into the arms of the paladin who had hauled her back from the second wave of blight. Warmth from a healing spell washed over her before she unwillingly succumbed to the darkness.

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