World of Warcraft®

“Think it’ll work? It’d be smarter for them to just wait for us to come inside the city,” Valtherimas growled. That seemed to be the way he spoke these days, but it shouldn’t have been too surprising to Cyrus who was standing right next to the large worgen. Valtherimas bared his teeth and clenched his axe in his right hand. Cyrus could hear the gauntlet on Valtherimas’s right hand tightening around the hilt of his weapon, an axe made of bone he had claimed as a prize from his time fighting in Icecrown.

“Relax, Val. They’ll see us out here soon enough,” Cyrus said rather calmly.

Cyrus was a rather large Draenei, both in muscle and in height. His eyes were covered by a blindfold, since the pain had gotten worse. Valtherimas looked over to Cyrus, eyeing the strip of black cloth on the Draenei’s face. “When you plan on taking that off?”

Cyrus considered for a moment. “When the battle starts. I don’t want to see any longer than I need to.” Not wanting to push it, Val nodded, looking back to the gate. Quite a large force of Ocheliad and other volunteers were standing behind them, prepped for the upcoming battle. Cyrus turned to the forces behind him. “We need to buy as much time as possible for the extraction teams to find Faithe and pull her out of the city! Be prepared, because it’s just us against whatever comes out of those gates…” Turning to the gates again, Cyrus heard drums. The Horde were announcing that the enemy had been spotted. A few curious guards were at the entrance to the city, but they were waiting for more to join them before the assault began.

The following few minutes felt like hours. One by one, the Horde were gathering in the gates in preparation for some sort of advance from the Alliance forces that faced them. Drawing his weapon, Cyrus pointed his sword directly ahead at the assembled Horde. The sword was jagged, created to tear at opponents he managed to dig it into. The Horde saw this and started at a jog which the Alliance forces mimicked. As the Horde broke into a run, both sides’ close-range fighters were soon at a full sprint.

Knowing the enemy was near, he pulled off his blindfold. Blinking away the glare, he looked straight ahead. In front of him, the enemy’s eyes were squinting since they were facing the bright sun. Cyrus could only see one particularly large orc in the center of the pack that he was going to wind up colliding with. As the two groups came within about twenty yards of each other, Cyrus felt like time was moving so slowly. Behind him to his right, he could hear Val’s deep and hasty breaths.

In a meeting of metal and bodies, the two sprinting groups crashed into each other hard enough to shatter bone. Cyrus, his luck not failing, ran full speed into one of the bigger orcs and wound up on his back. He’d underestimated how committed to that run the orc had been. Shaking his head to clear out the dizziness, he looked straight up at the orc who stood over him, axe held high. Cyrus lifted a hoof and kicked straight into the orc’s left kneecap, snapping the leg backwards at an unnatural angle. The orc would have screamed longer, but he was cut off as a worgen thundered into him, knocking him off his one good leg and onto his back.

Valtherimas stood up, looking back to see if Cyrus was unharmed as the orc lay screaming in agony on the ground. Satisfied that Cyrus hadn’t been wounded, Valtherimas returned his attention to the downed enemy. Hefting that bone-axe above him for the death blow, Valtherimas grinned with anticipation of his earned kill. Just as Cyrus had managed to get back to his feet, Valtherimas buried the axe into the orc’s chest to end that incessant yelling.

Cyrus glanced around and was surprised. “Damn, it’s hard to see…” He muttered. The fighting forces were kicking up walls of dust, reducing the visibility to just a few feet in any given direction. Through this dust, Cyrus could see a faint blue glow. He knew it was in the general direction of the Orgrimmar gate, so it was most likely hostile. Valtherimas saw it too and reached to a holster at his side, drawing out a large revolver and pointing it over his right shoulder at the source of the light. His axe was still buried in the dead orc, and Valtherimas had not let go of it.

Valtherimas fired once at the source of blue light, but it had been unsuccessful. A loud crack and a flash of light was all Cyrus had registered before Valtherimas’s gun exploded in his claw. Lightning had torn through the shroud of dust, striking the explosive weapon. The ensuing explosion had thrown molten metal in every direction and blown a sizeable hole in Valtherimas’s right shoulder.

Cyrus staggered away, bits of molten metal embedded on his neck, face and armor. This, however, paled in comparison to Valtherimas’s condition. Though he had pulled himself onto his feet, the worgen was bleeding heavily from the shoulder wound and trying to escape the conflict to recover. The dust kicked by up by the other combatants had Valtherimas guessing as to where he needed to go. Cyrus took a step over toward him to point him in the right direction, but that glow had returned.

“Damn!” Cyrus shouted in frustration, planting himself firmly between Valtherimas and the source of the lighting. The hidden attacker fired again, but Cyrus was ready this time. He tucked his sword behind him and held out his hand toward his opponent. The lightning struck the palm of Cyrus’s hand, which was protected by a common form of magic defense for death knights, the anti-magic shield. Focused down to just his palm, this shield was strong enough to extinguish hostile attacks.

The lightning was being channeled by his opponent, and Cyrus was doing his best to hold it as he gave Valtherimas time to escape the line of fire. Red-hot bits of Cyrus’s gauntlet were spraying everywhere, so he knew he couldn’t keep this up. He closed the protected hand, and the lightning that had been gathering in his palm erupted into a smaller explosion which mostly just kicked up even more dust and smoke.

“Val, you alright!?” Cyrus shouted, glancing back behind him while the black smoke hid him from however it was his opponent was seeing him.

Valtherimas was nowhere to be seen. For now, Cyrus had to hope he had escaped. Facing back in the direction the lighting-wielder, Cyrus flung out his arms in both directions. A frigid wind erupted from him, not doing any damage to attackers, but clearing out the inhibiting dust for a solid forty square yards. The vast majority of the combatants could now see each other clearly, some even taking a moment to blink away the dust and dirt in their eyes. The offending orc with the lightning attacks was now visible.

“Oskor.”

Cyrus knew exactly who he was dealing with. The last time they’d met, Cyrus had inflicted a serious wound to this orc’s side and walked away victorious. That, however, had been after the orc had been fighting most of the day. Cyrus didn’t know how much of a fight he’d put up when he was fully rested.

Oskor took a solid stance between Cyrus and the front gate, his expression stern. They weren’t going to speak, but the message was clear. Cyrus would advance no further toward the city until Oskor was down. One thing always intrigued Cyrus about the old orc. His left hand been entirely replaced by a mace, meaning he’d once been in the Shattered Hand.

Eager for another round, Cyrus leapt forward toward Oskor and punched a fist toward the old orc to dissuade any lightning tricks as he closed the distance. Oskor lifted the back of his mace, knocking the frost attack straight up where it hit the gate, but did no visible damage. Cyrus had expected Oskor to keep his distance and wear him down with different spells shamans tend to know, but Cyrus was surprised. Oskor stepped toward him, meeting Cyrus’s sword with his left wrist.

Instead of Cyrus’s sword sinking into the orc’s flesh as he had expected, he heard only a loud “clank.” That mace must have a covering under the shawl that was also metal. Oskor grinned, slamming his wrists together. From the sleeve of his shawl, two long fangs ejected out over his right fist, making what looked to Cyrus like a claw. Oskor punched the claw toward Cyrus, since his mace hand was still occupied in holding Cyrus’s weapon at bay. Realizing that Oskor’s intent had been for a close encounter, Cyrus opened his stance in preparation to take a blow.

Oskor’s free fist punched into Cyrus’s side, right above his waist. The two long fangs punctured and dug right into Cyrus’s flesh underneath his armor. Wincing, Cyrus was now aware of another trick. He was losing the feeling on that side of his body. Oskor was channeling electric currents through that claw and deadening Cyrus’s nerves.

Cyrus’s left leg began to shake as he gradually lost control of that half of his body. His left eye closed tightly as he tried to endure the pain. Cyrus simply let go of his sword, reaching past Oskor’s defending arm and seizing his neck. A mild look of surprise crossed Oskor’s expression at seeing Cyrus release his own weapon.

Leaning his head back, Cyrus slammed his forehead into Oskor’s, splitting open the skin above the orc’s brow. Oskor’s offending claw pulled out of Cyrus’s skin and the dazed orc staggered back. He had to be seeing stars after that.

Cyrus had no time to waste. He knelt to the ground, retrieving his weapon and trying to shake off the numbness that was hindering the responses of his left arm and leg. Oskor hadn’t stayed dazed long and managed to close the distance between them in only a few strides. He rose his left mace-hand high above him, swinging it downward to bury it in his kneeling opponent’s head, but was met by Cyrus’s right hand. The orc’s mace had been caught by Cyrus’s hand and stopped cold. The large Draenei was as strong as he looked.

Oskor hadn’t gotten a chance to try anything with the other hand. Cyrus swung his sword upward at the orc and tore a rather nasty gouge across the top of his arm. Oskor immediately backed off, instinctively laying his mace defensively over the bleeding wound. Seeing his chance to recover, Cyrus stood to try at a follow-up attack. He brought down his sword toward the shoulder of Oskor’s damaged arm. The old orc saw it coming, however, and blocked it with his mace. The clash had been hard enough to cause a ringing sound to fill both their ears.

Oskor knew he had to make Cyrus back off, so he dropped down to a squat. He swung out a leg, trying to sweep out Cyrus’s feet from under him, but the Draenei saw it coming. Cyrus lifted a hoof, bringing it down with all his weight on the orc’s ankle. Oskor grunted, refusing to show pain to his opponent. With Oskor in such a vulnerable position, Cyrus used his free hand to connect a brutal punch with his plate gauntlet to Oskor’s jaw.

The orc fell from a squatting position down to laying flat on his back. Cyrus attempted to finish this quickly, sweeping his sword down sideways like a golf swing. This was met by Oskor’s forearm guard above his mace hand again, and did no damage. The blow had been strong enough to make the orc do a complete rollover. Cyrus rose his weapon to try at a downward strike, but he was not fast enough. Oskor jutted out his right fist and lightning erupted from his hand.

The bolt itself sailed right past Cyrus’s head, burning the tip of his ear pretty badly, but the point of the attack had been to merely make Cyrus back off. It had worked, and Cyrus staggered to the left in surprise with how close to that lighting he’d been. Oskor lifted an elbow and slammed it against the ground. A foot-long rock popped up from the dirt, as if by command, and Oskor punched it.

The rock made solid contact with Cyrus’s left cheek, causing him to drop back to full defense. Oskor was recovering too quickly, and at this rate, was going to get the better of Cyrus if he didn’t think of something. Cyrus’s cheek had been split open and he was bleeding from it. Oskor was now on his feet, static arcing between each finger. Cyrus regained his stance, sword held firmly in front of him as Oskor fired another bolt of lightning toward him.

Cyrus kept his sword raised, and the lightning struck it. His eyes closed, Cyrus absorbed the attack into his sword. This visually mystified Oskor, but Cyrus capitalized on this moment’s hesitation. He swung his sword, the lightning re-emerging from the weapon. As fast as the lightning itself, Oskor pointed his mace at the attack.

The moment the lightning made contact with his mace hand, Oskor pointed his right hand skyward. The attack Cyrus had unleashed toward the orc passed through his body harmlessly and bolted into the sky. Even though he had redirected lightning, Oskor’s eyes were still locked dead on Cyrus. Those eyes, despite the damage he had endured, showed no sign of faltering.

Cyrus took only one step toward Oskor, but stopped. Behind Oskor, from within the city, a flare was travelling up into the sky. Retreat had been called for. Either the extraction team had been successful in securing Faithe, or someone was telling the distraction team to retreat. Either way, this had to end. Oskor and Cyrus were both breathing hard, but Cyrus tried to assess the damage. Oskor had a gouge across his arm, his forehead that had been split open and he was favoring his left foot. Something was likely broken in his right ankle or foot.

Cyrus’s wound to the left side of his body was bleeding badly down through his armor. Blood was tricking out from his shin-guard. His left cheek was also bleeding and his left hand was still tingling. Neither of them wanted to admit it, but they looked like hell.

Cyrus, at first, debated continuing this fight with the orc, but a voice from behind him stopped those thoughts dead.

“Captain Cyrus! That’s the signal for retreat!” A voice called from behind. He’d hesitated too long after seeing that flare. They needed to pull out now.

He hadn’t recognized the voice, but a portal was open behind the Alliance forces. He had more than himself to consider right now. He was supposed to lead them, and could not be selfish now. Looking straight at Oskor, Cyrus shouted, “Retreat!” Taking a few steps back, he made sure each Ocheliad soldier had made it back through before stepping back through it, himself.

The dust was settling again, and the various responding Horde were already assessing wounds and trying to tend to downed comrades. A fellow shaman approached Oskor to see about his wounds, but was quickly turned away as soon as she realized Oskor had no interest in medical attention yet.

Just as abruptly as the attack had begun, the Alliance forces were gone, leaving many Horde warriors wondering what had provoked such a random attack at their gates. Oskor turned toward the gates of Orgrimmar, his thoughts heavy with what this attack could have meant for the future.

((For the record, Oskor proofread this and said he rather liked it. Feel free to post with comments, questions, or just saying whether you liked it or not! Other than that, the event was a lot of fun! Thanks to all who participated!))

((Very well written, Cyrus. I enjoy the personal stories of players in the events because it gives us a full view of what is happening in different voices. I'll link it to Going Home so more people will read it.))

Ciellia sighs, slinking off into the shadows grumbling about men and their wounds.

((Very nice. I really enjoyed the story. By the way, quit getting hurt.))

Fantastic write up Cyrus! I think you have a lot of talent!

I certainly want to see how this turns out.

((Great story Cyrus! Mind if I put this up on the Cenarion Circle Wiki?))

((Sure, Cray! And thanks for the support fellas!))

Cyrus, stop getting hurt. That's an order.