Making History
(( DWC November 2025, Day 6, Echo/Wilt, @daily-writing-challenge CW: none ))
The Plaguewood. One of the most enduring harms upon the Eastern Kingdoms, second only to the dead scar. Oppressive heat and humidity at all times thanks to the twisted, poison fungus that had overcome so many of the trees, and consumed the other plant life. Restless dead constantly restored by the plague that infects the very soil. Every creature within, living and unliving, a vector for the plague that claimed Lordaeron.
This was the face of the enemy, Dolraan thought as he sat atop his charger, hearing the officers ready the lines. The necromantic cults, the undead, they were symptoms. The plague was the source of it all, and this was where it bred and grew. But now, thanks to their friends among the Earthen Ring, and Cenarion Circle, they were ready to fight back. He looked to the north, spotting the Sindorei contingent that had agreed to support the operation.
"It's a smash and grab on a large scale. We've identified several key points that can provide the samples our experts need, but they need to be taken at the same time, and with most of the skilled adventurers in Khaz Algar, that means we need to do this the old fashioned way. We have what and whom we need to get the samples, but we need every skilled soldier we can get to secure the objectives against the undead while they work."
"An audacious plan, Highlord, but we will all benefit from its success. The Regent-Lord has authorized two companies of foot soldiers, and I will personally lead a third company of blood knight cavalry to guard the northern flank, as per Lady Liadrin's command."
Dolraan tightened his grip on the reins, feeling the anticipation in the air. He checked behind him, and saw Rhianon at the head of the recovery company, ready to charge in their wake to claim what they needed with all haste. She smiled and nodded at him from atop Quincy, and he felt his heart soar. Today would be a bloody one, but they had trained the Crusade well. He looked out on his forces, members of every race and creed, united in purpose. This was Azeroth at its finest.
All too quickly, it was time. He heard the calls of readiness, and felt the eyes upon him. He drew his blade, lifted it to the sky, and with the Light infusing him, ordered the charge.
The Crusaders, resplendent in silver armor and white tabards, roared and charged, and the Plaguewood rose against them. Skeletal and rotting undead emerged from all angles to meet them, and steel met flesh and claw across the whole line as they collided. The undead were ravenous, feral, hungry for the flesh of the living, but the Crusade was united, and the line held, shields holding the dead back as the blades and pikes of those behind them struck out, smashing bone and skewering rotted flesh. Flashes of light and arcane energy rang out as the support teams unleashed their magics against the dead, blasting them to cinders with flame and radiance. Dolraan surged his charger forward, leading his elite cavalry up the middle, drawing the undead in. His blade struck true, again and again, as his mount crushed decrepit bones under hoof. A sickening roar caught his attention from the north, as a plaguehound the size of a house emerged to challenge them, only to be skewered by the charge of the Blood Knights flanking it from behind. The dead fell in dozens, but surged forward in hundreds, as they had every time the Crusade had sought to crush the undead. But their training held. Every Crusader who fell was seized and hauled to safety by those behind, and replaced on the line before the dead could surge through. They couldn't keep this up forever, but they would last long enough.
"Fight on, Argents! Fight on, Sin'dorei! The Light is with us!" Dolraan yelled, smiting an abomination with his blade, and leading the charge for another surge.
Hours later, the companies had retreated from the woods, and the pursuit of the dead had been broken upon the defenses of the Northpass tower. Exhausted and filthy with the blood of the endless hordes, Dolraan listened to the reports from the officers. Thirty percent casualties, but miraculously only seven dead among their number, and none of them left behind to be claimed by the scourge. They would be mourned, but at least they would not be used against their fellows. Then came proof of their victory. The shaman and druids drunk on adrenaline, discussing the various liquids, root samples, and fungus they had claimed; keys to their next stage of experiments. It seemed a small thing, but understanding the enemy was the first stage to eliminating it.
Someday, the Plaguelands would need a new name. It was operations like this that would make it so.
