"..Grrr casting 9,074 (rough estimate) Perfect Storms starring George Clooney wasn't going to save this one."
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| WarCraft: Outbreak | | | Author: | | | IP: | bess-proXXXX | | Date: | 09/24/02 10:09 | | Game Type: | Warcraft 3 | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 1, Max: 7, Min: 7
Lifetime Rating for Merkava: 7.0000 |  | Formerly TheyAre, my revenge is upon you... This will soon appear on SCLegacy.com's Absolute Power Productions section. Bwahahahahahahaha... And if you don't believe me go to www.sclegacy.com/power and look at "upcoming projects" and you'll see WarCraft: Outbreak right there.
WarCraft: Outbreak
Prologue
The Plague is spreading, unchecked.
A battalion created by order of King Terenas himself was placed under my command, with orders to halt the raids of the rogue troll chieftain Zuljin, and to investigate an epidemic raging through the northern province of Dura. Accompanying us were the Paladins Aias the Warrior, Acetes the Healer, Badon the Quick, and the provincial representative from Dura, Count Lerim. In Dura, we discovered that the disease was far worse than could have been imagined. People grew ill, died within hours, and then rose again… as Undead. We discovered an army numbering in the thousands gathering in the vast uninhabited forests near the border with Quel’Thalas. When we reported this to Lordaeron, we were ordered by a cabal of nobles seeking to usurp King Terenas’ power to ‘sterilize’ any towns that showed signs of infection. We refused to obey those genocidal commands.
The Order of the Silver Hand has been disbanded, thanks to our insubordination. Its once-swelling ranks have dwindled to a few hundred, and the remaining members have been branded as traitors and are ostracized wherever they go. But we have left that all behind. Using the treasury from the now-ruined provincial capital of Durasbrad, we have purchased three aging Elven Destroyers, those once-valiant Elven craft that helped win the Second War, and a dozen Transports. They will take the remains of my battalion and the survivors from Durasbrad to the enigmatic continent of Northrend… the source of the plague.
We don’t expect to return. But the people of Lordaeron, Azeroth, Khaz Modan, Kul Tiras and all other nations must be warned of the evil that is encroaching upon them from the north. They must be warned… must be told to prepare for war. Or we will all be shackled into unholy slavery forever… or die.
—Major Dahn Asche, Lordaeron Imperial Army
Chapter One
Terenas watched as thousands of Orcs and Humans clashed outside the massive walls of Lordaeron. A stalwart line of dented and bloodstained steel was between the King and a mass of green that stretched to the horizon. Standing on a low rampart, the King could easily see the sparks that flew when pitted and scored battle axe and longsword met before the two weapons slid past one another. So far, the Orcs had been kept outside the walls that kept the city safe, but the defenders were outnumbered ten to one. The Horde had to number in the tens of thousands, and it was only a matter of time before the men were overwhelmed…
“Milord?”
Terenas’ head snapped up, the vision of the battle dissolving into a view of the Grand Hall of Lordaeron, meeting place for the Congress. Millions of dust motes floated through the hall, illuminated by shafts of sunlight that lanced through the stained-glass skylights emblazoned with scenes from the Second War: a lone Knight on his steed, watching as a long line of Orcs trudged into one of the dozens of internment camps constructed after the war’s end; a Paladin healing a Footman who would surely have died from the wound in his chest were it not for the holy warrior’s regenerative powers; Terenas himself at a table, an Orc at the other side, presenting the King with a slip of paper on which was written the terms of surrender for the Horde… it had been a fine day for all.
“…Milord?”
“Yes, what is it?” Terenas snapped irritably, rubbing his eyes and feeling all the aches and pains in his joints making themselves known as he stretched. The Grand Hall swam into vision again, and this time there was one significant difference: the gallery facing the King was filled to the brim with nobles, all of them watching him. Damn! What had been on the schedule for today? The reports from the provincial representatives from the northern vassals, wasn’t it? Terenas sighed. More executive minutiae that, while necessary to keep Lordaeron running, was all so very boring. Nothing important had happened since the end of the Second War almost fourteen years ago, and Terenas had been old then. He was ancient now, and felt like he’d wasted the last decade of his life on nothing.
“Milord, we need your leave to begin the reports…”
“Alright, alright,” Terenas said, raising his hands as if to ward off the lackey. “You have leave to begin,” he said, yawning. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we can end, I suppose.” Thorold was a good man, but he had a tendency to be picky… Terenas was King, after all.
“…I think so as well, Milord,” the lackey said uncomfortably. He’d been standing there for the past ten minutes, bent over the throne, trying to wake the aging monarch. Now he raised his voice and said, “we have leave from the Crown to start. Noble Azghad, begin.”
A tall, thin man in his late fifties stood and began to speak. Terenas soon found himself on the verge of slumber again, as noble after noble rose and began his report. It’s all necessary, he said over and over again in his mind as the representatives droned on and on about harvests and livestock and the occasional raid by bandits or trolls on some remote village… Terenas yawned, earning a glare from the man talking, who’d been going on and on about how an early freeze had ruined the harvest in his province… but as he struggled to stay awake, one noble piqued the King’s interest. Terenas shifted in his seat, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
From what he remembered of the reports from three months ago (which wasn’t much, Terenas had to admit), the noble’s name was Count Lerim, from the province of Dura. Lerim was looking about the Hall impatiently, fidgeting in his seat. As far as Terenas could recall, nothing had been wrong in Dura three months ago… so what was happening up north? Dura bordered Quel’Thalas on one side, the northern sea on the other, and a seemingly endless expanse of forest on the two others. Unless troll raiders were getting bolder, nothing really happened up there. As Lerim’s turn came closer, Terenas found he was becoming more and more alert, and he began to pick up bits and pieces of the reports.
The north did not seem to be so idyllic as Terenas had thought before he started paying attention. The rogue troll chieftain, Zuljin, had managed to gather a sizable force of trolls and renegade Orcs and was raiding larger and larger villages and towns out in the forest, taking advantage of the vast expanse of pines and the remoteness of the towns to strike quickly and then disappear. Each representative whose province was near Quel’Thalas reported at least one attack, and many had lost nearly half a dozen settlements. A new division of reserves would probably have to be called up to deal with it, which would not sit well with the nobles in the Imperial Court. And Terenas could not take hours-long arguments every day anymore, not with his heart.
At last, Lerim’s turn came. He looked at Terenas, who was staring intently back at him. “With the King’s leave,” he said softly, before he raised his voice and said, “Count Rema sends news most dire from Durasbrad. A disease is raging through the outlying towns in our province. People grow ill, die within hours, and then… the bodies disappear. This disease is not flesh-eating; it does not speed the rate of decay. Even then, bones would remain.” He paused for a moment before continuing. Terenas shifted again, this time standing up and leaning forward. This was interesting.
“Troll raids are also more frequent in Dura than the other provinces. Over thirty villages have been sacked by Zuljin or wiped out by the disease. Durasbrad itself could become vulnerable to Zuljin and his renegades if our population continues to fall at the current rate.” He stopped, watching as the other representatives and Terenas began to respond.
“Thirty towns?”
“How is the disease spread?”
“How large is Zuljin’s band?”
The din continued until Terenas could no longer distinguish one voice from another. “Silence!” the King roared. “The news from Dura is quite troubling, and acting like a bunch of damnfool Alterac officers during the Second War isn’t going to help!” He stopped, breathing heavily. “Count Lerim, please tell us what help from the Crown Duke Rema requires.” The nobles fell silent, some of them sulking, the others waiting for the end of the conversation.
“Thank you, Majesty,” Lerim said. “Rema asks for a team of Paladin experienced both in healing diseases and in the art of war to come to Durasbrad with me, accompanied by a detachment from the Imperial Army. Hopefully they will be enough to stamp out this plague and bring Zuljin to justice.” He bowed. “Duke Rema sends his greetings and hopes your health is doing well.”
“It is, and I send Rema my regards, Terenas replied. “As for the help, I will personally order the formation of a special battalion and a team of Paladin who will escort you to Durasbrad. As for the possibility of the disease spreading to other provinces… Dura is placed under a full quarantine. Nothing comes in, nothing comes out, without my permission. By that, I mean not unless you’re physically standing before me and I say yes. Is that understood?”
“Of course,” Lerim said. “If it were not from the disease…”
“I understand,” Terenas said. “Anything else, count?” Lerim shook his head. “Please, take your seat, noble representative,” Terenas said. “Scribe!” A scholarly-looking man rushed forward, quill in one hand and a pad of paper in the other. “Take this down and give a copy to General Talys as soon as I’m done,” the King said. “A battalion of the finest men in the Lordaeron garrison…” he went on for some time, noticing Arthas, his son, entering the Hall through a side entrance. The Paladin leaned against an ornately carved wooden wall, scanning the gallery. He said nothing until after the last representative had spoken, although all the reports sounded dull and mundane (which they were) after Lerim’s cry for help. “I thank you all, and may the holy light bless you,” Terenas said when the last man had sat down. “Go out and enjoy a few days in our great city before heading home. Good day.” The nobles bowed and filed out, leaving Terenas, Arthas, and the King’s most trusted manservant alone in the cavernous hall. Terenas sighed. These meetings were really starting to take it out of him.
Arthas approached his father and kneeled at his feet, bowing his head. “Father,” he whispered. Terenas smiled, looking down at his only son.
“Rise, my son,” he said, cupping Arthas’ chin and lifting his head up. “Why aren’t you at the Cathedral with Sir Uther?” Terenas asked.
“Father, I wish to go along with the expedition to Durasbrad,” Arthas replied. “I have focused on healing my entire life as a Paladin. I feel I would be suited to accompany Count Lerim to Dura.”
The King frowned. “What is troubling you, Arthas?” he asked. “Is it still that nonsense about Jaina?”
“Yes,” his son whispered. “It is not her or myself, Father…” he hesitated. “The populace is overjoyed that the prince of Lordaeron has found love in the daughter of Daelin Proudmoore. The nobles in the Royal Court, and the Archbishops in the Order… they are another thing.”
“Those pledges you took?” Terenas asked, and Arthas nodded.
“They say I must break it off or they will bring up a vote to disbar me from the Order,” he said. “Sir Uther and Archbishop Faol support me, but it may not be enough anymore. And if I’m disbarred…”
Terenas laughed. “Ah, yes. The… implications on the throne,” he said. “If disbarred, you feel you would not be able to, in good conscience, take the throne when the time comes.”
Arthas shook his head. “It’s not that,” he said. “Its…”
The monarch tried to wait, but at last he said quietly, “it degenerated into an attack on me, didn’t it, Arthas?” He didn’t wait for a response. “What did they say about me?” Seeing the scared look his son was trying to hide, Terenas said, “son, ‘shooting the messenger’ went out of practice during the Second War, and only Gilneas did it then. Not enough messengers, and too many reports of bad news. Say what you think, son. Your constitutional rights demand it.”
A smile flickered over Arthas’ face, for just a moment. “If you really want to know… Archbishop Zerod was quite eloquent in calling you a ‘senile old fool,’ and if that wasn’t enough, ‘if that old bastard can’t even reign in his son, what is he doing on the throne of a nation as important as Lordaeron?’ Those were his exact words, Father, edited for grammar, and, of course, for decency.” He looked at Terenas warily, expecting an outburst of some kind.
The King smiled. “Well, if you were looking for an explosion, you’re going to be disappointed,” he said. “As for being a ‘senile old fool,’ just because I let a few more pounds of gold slip into some provincial budget so it can go into some Duke’s personal coffers does not mean I don’t know they did it and that I won’t remember. Acting, well, senile part of the time lets you see who’s truly loyal to you. When I step down from the throne in a few years, I’ll give you a list of names and what those names have done. I expect you to take care of it then. Okay?”
Arthas nodded.
Terenas laughed and slapped his son on the back. “As for going north, I want you to stay here with me. What would happen if I die and you’re unavailable, eight hundred miles away? Nothing good, Arthas. Lazarus, run to the Cathedral and tell them to prepare for my arrival. Inform Sir Uther.” The manservant nodded and rushed out of the Hall.
The King and Prince went out a private entrance in the rear of the Hall. Lazarus rushed toward the Cathedral—but not before he reported in to Archbishop Zerod, who’s offices were on the way. He would never make it out of that office, though. He gave Zerod what the Archbishop needed—a decision by the Crown that would be publicly unpopular. One clumsy stumble while shaking the manservant’s hand, a knife in the heart—all that was left was to call the guards to clean up. |
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