Prelude to Part IV:

Travels of the Four, Part I: Displacement

Travels of the Four, Part II: No Mercy

Travels of the Four, Part III: The Bulwark


(Written by Rynath)

How could have this all had happened.

The thoughts raced through the ebon haired, pale skinned, Gilnean man�s head as he laid still, not a breath coming to his lips.

We -won. We won the fight. The cowards…

The sounds of the gates slamming, the arcane shield having seemed to falter under the betrayal within the ranks of the Kirin Tor. He had remembered fighting toe to toe with several orcs, relying on his quick reflexes and wits to keep him alive.

Then the beast inside him had come, and not before long his long and sharp canines were buried into the throat of a Troll. Rynarth was not a man to often use his beastial side for such primal fighting, but they needed to have turned the tides.

It was not before long that the Horde had been driven out, with the combined efforts of the armies of the 7th Legion, the Templars, the Theramore guard and every other proud color that stood beside them.

Theramore was ours. Theramore was defended… and then that damned ship.

He recalled looking up through one blind eye, the other staring in fear at the arcane sparking, large bomb hung overhead. He stood there in fear, long past the adrenaline rush of his worgen shift, back to the much smaller and not so feral ways of his own uncursed body. He remembered a sudden grab to his shoulder as he was thrown into the nether of a portal that had been summoned seemingly out of nowehere.

Now there, laid Rynarth. The unmoving body in the embrace of cold.

I suppose this is death. I was always told that death�s embrace would be warm at times.

This is cold… Almost like…

�Snow…� A voice spoke up. �This was set for Stormwind…�

Rynarth�s eyes split open immediately, a heavy breath coming from his lips as he pushed out from the snow. His body was shivering and shaking. How long had he been laying there?

Minutes? Hours? He did not know.

He began to peer around, taking note of each person that stood there with him in the white wasteland.

Sielic Trugran, a shadow walker like himself. He had never spoke much with the reddish haired man before, only nodding briefly when their paths had crossed. He knew that he had been the one that had pulled him into this portal, possibly even have summoned it himself.

Sigmar Vaughan, a war aged veteran that sported a bald head, Rynarth was never sure if it was shaved due to age or for battle. He looked over the golden armor that the Paladin stood in that seemed to shine brighter in the snow than it had in the sun.

Finally, Jarrick Mason, around the same age as both himself and Trugran, a large shield and sword strapped to his back, the welts and dents in his shield obvious of the battle that had happened just moments ago.

Injuries, blood and bruises coated each man�s body from the battle, shock and confusion on their faces of where they were, as well as what had became of Theramore.

Rynarth stared between the three and then back behind him briefly for any sight of the portal that they had come from, any sign of life around them.

Nothing. Nothing but a barren wasteland of snow and ice.

�… Bullocks.� Rynarth spat a mouthful of blood into the snow.

Author Jarrick
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