The Crusaders’ Last Stand Blightmaul strode eastward from Brill, his armor patched and his greatsword sharpened after the previous night’s hunt. The trees of Tirisfal Glades grew darker here, their skeletal branches intertwined above like a canopy of death. The air smelled of damp earth and something acrid-ash, faint but unmistakable. He followed it, his steps steady and deliberate, until the flickering light of campfires appeared ahead. The Scarlet Crusade had claimed a ruined watchtower as their stronghold. Their banners hung defiantly, crimson streaks against the gloom, and the sound of prayers carried on the wind. Blightmaul crouched in the shadow of a broken wall, watching as robed acolytes scurried between tents while armored Crusaders stood guard. Their voices were filled with zeal, but he saw the strain in their movements-the Forsaken were wearing them down. His orders had been clear: disrupt their operations and recover what he could from their cache of supplies. He gripped his greatsword, the weight of the weapon familiar, almost comforting. This was his purpose now, and he would see it fulfilled. He struck just before dawn. The first Crusader never saw him coming, his blade cleaving through chainmail with a sickening crunch. The man fell without a cry, but his comrades quickly rallied. Shouts rang out as Crusaders drew their weapons and charged. Blightmaul met them head-on, his greatsword sweeping in wide arcs that forced them back. The clash of steel echoed through the ruins, punctuated by the cries of the dying. A mace caught his shoulder, the impact jarring but not debilitating. He turned, slamming his pommel into the attacker’s jaw before driving his blade through their chest. As the skirmish wore on, the Crusaders’ numbers began to dwindle. Those who survived fought with a desperation born of faith, their prayers mixing with curses as they threw themselves at him. Blightmaul moved with brutal efficiency, his strikes calculated and merciless. When the last of them fell, he stood amidst the carnage, his breath steady despite the toll. In the aftermath, he began searching the camp. Crates of supplies lay stacked near the ruined tower, their contents a mix of mundane provisions and alchemical vials marked with the Crusade’s emblem. As he rummaged through them, a faint sound caught his attention-a muffled cry, faint but unmistakable. He followed it to the base of the tower, where a trapdoor lay hidden beneath a tangle of debris. Lifting it revealed a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The cries grew louder as he descended, mingled with the scrape of chains. His grip tightened on his sword. At the bottom, he found a grim scene: several Forsaken prisoners, chained to the walls of a crude dungeon. Their hollow eyes glimmered faintly in the torchlight, desperation giving way to recognition as they saw him. “You’ve come…” one rasped, his voice weak. “We thought we were forgotten.” Blightmaul knelt, inspecting the locks. They were simple, hastily made, and he broke them easily with a few strikes. “You’re free,” he said. “Gather yourselves. We leave now.” Before they could respond, the sound of boots echoed down the staircase. Crusaders, alerted by the noise. Blightmaul positioned himself between the prisoners and the approaching footsteps, his greatsword raised. The first Crusader burst into the room, sword raised, only to fall as Blightmaul’s blade caught him mid-charge. The narrow space worked to Blightmaul’s advantage, forcing the attackers to come at him one by one. He fought with ferocity, each strike fueled by a grim determination. The final Crusader, a grizzled veteran clad in ornate armor, sneered as he entered. “You’ll find no salvation here, abomination,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. Blightmaul said nothing, his focus unwavering. Their blades met with a deafening clash, sparks flying as they traded blows. The veteran fought with the precision of a seasoned warrior, but Blightmaul’s relentlessness proved too much. A feint, a sidestep, and then a decisive strike sent the man crumpling to the floor. The prisoners followed him out of the dungeon, their steps unsteady but eager. By the time they reached the surface, dawn was breaking, the first rays of sunlight piercing through the mist. The ruins were silent now, save for the faint crackle of dying fires. Blightmaul turned to the freed Forsaken. “Return to Brill. Tell Magistrate Sevren what you’ve seen here. I’ll ensure the Crusaders don’t regroup.” One of the prisoners hesitated, his gaze lingering on Blightmaul. “You fight like you still have something to prove. Why?” Blightmaul’s expression was unreadable. “Because this war isn’t over.” He watched them disappear into the mist before turning back toward the watchtower. There were whispers among the Forsaken of a place deeper within Tirisfal Glades-a labyrinthine monastery where the Scarlet Crusade’s strongest gathered. If this was to be his path, then he would see it through to the end. With his greatsword resting on his shoulder, Blightmaul strode into the fog, ready for whatever came next.
The Crusaders’ Last Stand
Blightmaul strode eastward from Brill, his armor patched and his greatsword sharpened after the previous night’s hunt. The trees of Tirisfal Glades grew darker here, their skeletal branches intertwined above like a canopy of death. The air smelled of damp earth and something acrid-ash, faint but unmistakable. He followed it, his steps steady and deliberate, until the flickering light of campfires appeared ahead.
The Scarlet Crusade had claimed a ruined watchtower as their stronghold. Their banners hung defiantly, crimson streaks against the gloom, and the sound of prayers carried on the wind. Blightmaul crouched in the shadow of a broken wall, watching as robed acolytes scurried between tents while armored Crusaders stood guard. Their voices were filled with zeal, but he saw the strain in their movements-the Forsaken were wearing them down.
His orders had been clear: disrupt their operations and recover what he could from their cache of supplies. He gripped his greatsword, the weight of the weapon familiar, almost comforting. This was his purpose now, and he would see it fulfilled.
He struck just before dawn. The first Crusader never saw him coming, his blade cleaving through chainmail with a sickening crunch. The man fell without a cry, but his comrades quickly rallied. Shouts rang out as Crusaders drew their weapons and charged.
Blightmaul met them head-on, his greatsword sweeping in wide arcs that forced them back. The clash of steel echoed through the ruins, punctuated by the cries of the dying. A mace caught his shoulder, the impact jarring but not debilitating. He turned, slamming his pommel into the attacker’s jaw before driving his blade through their chest.
As the skirmish wore on, the Crusaders’ numbers began to dwindle. Those who survived fought with a desperation born of faith, their prayers mixing with curses as they threw themselves at him. Blightmaul moved with brutal efficiency, his strikes calculated and merciless. When the last of them fell, he stood amidst the carnage, his breath steady despite the toll.
In the aftermath, he began searching the camp. Crates of supplies lay stacked near the ruined tower, their contents a mix of mundane provisions and alchemical vials marked with the Crusade’s emblem. As he rummaged through them, a faint sound caught his attention-a muffled cry, faint but unmistakable.
He followed it to the base of the tower, where a trapdoor lay hidden beneath a tangle of debris. Lifting it revealed a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The cries grew louder as he descended, mingled with the scrape of chains. His grip tightened on his sword.
At the bottom, he found a grim scene: several Forsaken prisoners, chained to the walls of a crude dungeon. Their hollow eyes glimmered faintly in the torchlight, desperation giving way to recognition as they saw him. “You’ve come…” one rasped, his voice weak. “We thought we were forgotten.”
Blightmaul knelt, inspecting the locks. They were simple, hastily made, and he broke them easily with a few strikes. “You’re free,” he said. “Gather yourselves. We leave now.”
Before they could respond, the sound of boots echoed down the staircase. Crusaders, alerted by the noise. Blightmaul positioned himself between the prisoners and the approaching footsteps, his greatsword raised.
The first Crusader burst into the room, sword raised, only to fall as Blightmaul’s blade caught him mid-charge. The narrow space worked to Blightmaul’s advantage, forcing the attackers to come at him one by one. He fought with ferocity, each strike fueled by a grim determination.
The final Crusader, a grizzled veteran clad in ornate armor, sneered as he entered. “You’ll find no salvation here, abomination,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt.
Blightmaul said nothing, his focus unwavering. Their blades met with a deafening clash, sparks flying as they traded blows. The veteran fought with the precision of a seasoned warrior, but Blightmaul’s relentlessness proved too much. A feint, a sidestep, and then a decisive strike sent the man crumpling to the floor.
The prisoners followed him out of the dungeon, their steps unsteady but eager. By the time they reached the surface, dawn was breaking, the first rays of sunlight piercing through the mist. The ruins were silent now, save for the faint crackle of dying fires.
Blightmaul turned to the freed Forsaken. “Return to Brill. Tell Magistrate Sevren what you’ve seen here. I’ll ensure the Crusaders don’t regroup.”
One of the prisoners hesitated, his gaze lingering on Blightmaul. “You fight like you still have something to prove. Why?”
Blightmaul’s expression was unreadable. “Because this war isn’t over.”
He watched them disappear into the mist before turning back toward the watchtower. There were whispers among the Forsaken of a place deeper within Tirisfal Glades-a labyrinthine monastery where the Scarlet Crusade’s strongest gathered. If this was to be his path, then he would see it through to the end. With his greatsword resting on his shoulder, Blightmaul strode into the fog, ready for whatever came next.