MorgoâBoondax: Exordium
                       Exordium 
The golden city, grand was its majesty. It glimmered before his eyes, eyes that now lay behind lenses of distress and unease. With a hand still clasped on the door, he glanced over his shoulder and shouted a final warning, âBarricade de doors nâ donât let nobody in! If it ainât me, dey ainât safe.â The prelate wouldnât stay long enough to see his demands met, for as soon as the words left his lips, he stepped outside and slammed the door behind him. It was as if he feared that for every vestige of strength he hadnât put into securing the door, his foes would take their due. Donning his mask, he glided down the intricately-paved roads with all due haste, tossing fleeting looks from here to there in an attempt to see if the enemy had risen past the cityâs first line of defense.
Luckily for him, all his gaze caught onto was a familiar lone sorcerer, plagued with fatigue, and he supposedly had a message for him, if the standing salute had anything to say.
âSoldier!â The prelate announced. âWhatâs de situation at de flank?â
Oddly, the sorcerer shook his head, his response bedeviled with baited breath, âNah, mon! Dey be attacking from de docks now! Nazmir was just a ruse.â The prelate looked on with sudden horror, as his counterpart continued, âOur forces gonna need time ta reconvene at de stairs!â
âBy de Loa,â He said grimly. âHurry on den, witâ me! We gotta be reinforcinâ da forward line.â With a nod from the sorcerer, they pressed further into the city. Somewhere along the way, the prelate regarded the troll at his side with a warm smile, as he knew the man from battles long since fought. Raptazi, was his name.
It wasnât long until they spotted the first signs of resistance. The duo came upon a bridge, and on said bridge, a small skirmish was taking place. Zandalari warriors, a pair, were holding their own against their oppressors to the best of their ability. They were outnumbered by several Alliance paratroopers, all varied in race, though one amongst them was a Pandaren. The prelateâs heart sank at the notion. It was he that once traveled across the sea in an effort to see the maddened prophetâs vision fulfilled, and yet, here they still stood, on opposing sides of a war. Despite this, the Pandaren, as well as the rest of his comrades, were still taking part in assaulting the city, his city, and his honor be damned if he let them lay a finger on his kin. So, he met their bloodlust and animosity with that of his own, bounding into the fray and joining the melee alongside his companions.Â
The confrontation went surprisingly well at first; he landed a strike here and a jab there, ushering in the crimson tide of his foes. However, they were still outnumbered seven to four, and he and the men he led slowly grew overwhelmed by their adversaries.Â
Rumble, rumble. What was that? Rumble, rumble. The sound grew louder as it got nearer, and soon enough, in the distance, the prelate could spot a familiar face atop an armored Direhorn.Â
Brandishing a finely-decorated broadsword, the troll atop the beast called for his mount to ram into their flank. The ivory of its horns glistened with blood as it shredded through their ranks, providing the Zandalari the edge they needed to turn the tide completely.
The prelateâs features brightened beneath his mask, so much so that he felt inclined to show his glee wholly by removing the faceguard and hooking it onto his brooch. âHakolho!â He exclaimed, with an emotion unlike what the situation would portend: happiness. âKnew ya couldnât stay away.â
Hakolho, as he had been revealed to be, met the optimism with a wily grin, hollering out in response, âIf it ainât JorgoâBoondax!â and with that, he swung out the broadsword and leapt down from the Direhorn to finish the deed. With his aid, the allied forces triumphed.
Although Jorgo desperately wished for a moment of respite to catch up with Hakolho, a troll that he hadnât seen for far too long, the conflict all around him only worsened, so in agreement with his better judgement, he pushed reunions aside and barked out the order, âRegroup! Everybody ta de steps!â His command was followed. The battalion assumed formation at the prelateâs back as they barreled to the docks, drenched in sweat and gripped with exhaustion. Nearly thereâŚ
Fear and disquiet took their hearts once they laid eyes upon the horrid sight, the sight of the port and its Alliance infestation. They were countless, endless, merely a wave of steel-clad men and women with that same azure tabard and that same lionâs crest, wielding an insurmountable arsenal of swords, bulwarks, and firearms. Boomsticks, they called them, a machination that Jorgo had come to find dishonorable and cowardly. A bow required a hunterâs senses, a keen eye, and the strength to nock an arrow, but these things, they accomplished the same goal, just with the added convenience of pulling a trigger. For an instant, JorgoâBoondax embraced the calm before the storm, as he lifted his spear to a sky clouded with smog and cried out, âFah Rastakhan! Fah Rezan!â
A cacophony of war cries and thunderous cheers echoed out across the field of slaughter, as steel clashed against steel and plate grinded against plate, a tide of human, dwarf, and elf descending upon the small battalion, though despite their struggle against overwhelming odds, they held strong at the top of the steps, which would soon be flooded with blood. Even still, Jorgo fought on, for behind him were the homes of his people, his family, and the families of his men. The burden on his shoulders was heavy,
But it was necessary that he hold this position until reinforcements return from their foolâs quest in Nazmir. The situation was growing unsalvageable as their enemy gave no quarter. One by one, his men began to fall, as their shields cracked against the onslaught of steel and left them exposed for attack. A warrior was felled by what felt like a thousand blades, as another was struck with arrows like needles to a pincushion.
An outrunner had slipped past his defense and deftly avoided the halberd aimed at them, a dagger emerging from their sleeve and tearing through a warriorâs backside. The crimson result gushed onto the prelate, only delving him further into a senseless battle trance.
Everything went out of focus, as he blindly drove his spear through the outrunnerâs neck, then another, then another. He lost count, eventually. The more that came within his reach, the more corpses that landed at his feet.
An agonized shriek ruptured from the Direhornâs throat, which, notably, was now deluged in both its own and its enemyâs blood. It was difficult to tell which fluid took the majority on its hide, but either way, it thudded forward and sluggishly swayed to the rhythm of its own death, sliding onto its side, and eventually, down the steps themselves, which hurled Hakolho from the saddle and into the ravaging maw of the Alliance masses.
Try as he might to aid Hakolho in his time of need, he was all too preoccupied by the torrent of Alliance dogs he was being forced to single-handedly deal with. The spark of hope within him was at last fading as his deterrence was continuously breached, but, when all seemed lost, the rallying cries of his reinforcements finally met his ears, to which his faith was instantly reignited. If he was to die here, he wouldnât die alone.
With his load lightened, he took the time to stumble behind the newly-formed frontline of Zandalari and tend to his wounds, calling upon his Loaâs light⌠except nothing would answer. Each attempt led to a measly flicker within his palm. He clenched his hand into a fist.
Something was off. âPush forward!â He called out, unsteadily, and yet the feeling did not expire. Something was wrong.
He looked off the right. Nothing.
He looked off the left. Nothing⌠or so he thought.
Among the last things he saw were the barely visible silhouettes of the archers atop the pillar and a despondent, bloodied Hakolho ascending the stairs, just as the sharpened tips of arrows dug into his chest and sent him spiraling to the ground.
