Chapter 176

Alonsus Faol, Archbishop, and founder of the order of the Silver Hand, was having a very bad day. 

Ever since he had awakened as an Undead, he had found himself under the control of another. 

Three days ago, when his accursed master had perished, he found himself amongst a misguided flock of crazed priests and paladins. 

They hyped him up to be some great dictate. A scholar that promoted peace, and understood the nature of the universe. 

His followers were sadly under the misguided belief that he kept his mouth shut because when he did, the Void and Light magics conflicting within his body created an astoundingly powerful effect. 

After accidentally destroying an entire section of a fort's wall when speaking casually, Alonus had sworn to himself that he wouldn't say another word, lest he destroy his comrades, or harm the innocent. 

These poor souls had nothing but faith to cling onto, and Alonsus feared that they would transform into rabid monsters should he abandon them. 

And so, it was with a heavy heart that he had allowed them to congregate around him. The lost, the weak, the frail, he provided succor to these damned minds and tortured souls. 

How he pitied the Undead. 

It was this compassion that had him gather at Stratholme, where he heard many of the recently freed, former Scourge forces were holding a meeting. 

When he had arrived, Alonsus was stunned speechless. This was no gathering of the dispossessed seeking a new path forward! 

No, it was a gathering of the most heinous, willing participants! 

One thing had led to another, and somehow he had found himself leading an assault against the High Elves of all things. 

Currently standing on a balcony overlooking the fight, Alonsus grasped the railing with cold, bony hands. 

The mindless Undead were dying in droves, and he could see the writing on the wall. 

Soon, the Elves, Men, and strangely enough, Light worshipping Kobolds would reach him, and smite them into naught but ash and grime. 

Internally, Alsonsus was at peace with such an outcome, however, his flock of 500 were a tight knit community, and were terribly fearful of death. 

No one rightly knew what happened after one passed, but it was often believed that one would ascend to the realms of the Titans, or maybe one of the ancient less talked about Gods. 

However, one rumor ran abound. That none of these deities would take a soul that had been tainted, one that had mindlessly slaughtered and committed sin. That, in fact, it was more likely for them to end up in Oblivion, or the Twisting Nether. 

The memories of murdering the innocent were still fresh in Alonsus's mind. His actions whilst taken under the thrall of the Lich King were heinous. To him, whatever hell awaited him, he would not be mad. 

Yet the men believed in him, and as much as it pained him, he did not want to see them suffer. 

Even though he possessed no lungs, Alonsus sighed to himself as force of habit. 

The Elves were drawing ever closer, and something had to be done if he was to save his people. 

Motioning with his hand back to one of the priests within the Necropolis, Alonsus wanted to get his attention, and instruct him to surrender to the Elves. 

Whilst it was a long shot, perhaps they would recognize his name, and be open to negotiations. 

‘Ah, Jackson, he was a fine choir boy back in the day, yes, he will do nicely as my interpreter.’ Alonsus thought to himself and cracked a grin. 

The robed ashen grey skinned Undead man came over, and showed a wide grin full of grotesque grey-green teeth. 

Alonsus ignored the ugliness of the flesh, and cracked a smile, hoping to be welcoming. 

“Ah, master, you are looking as grim as ever. The men are electric, and cannot wait to witness your next sermon.” 

‘Sermon? No, no, I called you over so I wouldn't have to speak!’ Alonsus thought to himself as he wildly gestured and waved his arms in a panic. 

“Oh, aye? You wish to bring your woes upon the enemy? To let them feel our pain, our suffering. To let the High Elves of Quel'Thalas-who have long lorded their immortality over us for centuries-finally have a taste of despair? You are a visionary, my lord.” Jackson deeply bowed, his voice tinged with respect and a hint of fear. 

Crossing his arms, Alonsus mimed writing on paper, and slightly growled, hoping another one of his flock would come and replace Jackson. 

“I see, I see. You are a cruel one, wishing to crucify them, then write their crimes on their bodies. But I am a simple follower for my Lord's grand plans. It shall be as you say, Archbishop.” Jackson bowed once more, then turned to cup his hands towards the inner hall of the temple. 

“Hey! Hey everyone! The Archbishop is about to preach! As soon as the Elves draw near, we'll head out of this place, and give them a piece of our minds!” Jackson said, and was jet with roars of approval. 

“Those roaches are just as bad as the nobles!” 

“Fame and beauty are overrated, the revolution of the unclean is at hand!” 

Various replies and shouts of incitement spread throughout the ranks, causing Alonsus to place a hand on his forehead in embarrassment. 

He swore that they were good boys. It's just that their deaths were so incredibly violent, and the acts they committed as Undead led them to fear for their immortal souls. 

Alonsus just needed a few more months to help them process these new feelings. 

“Yeah, and after we kill the Elves, we'll make every last living person just like us, so that they can experience the same redemption that awaits us!!!” A radical voice was louder than all the rest, and gathered the most attention. 

“One of us! One of us! One of us!” Nearly the entire group of Undead priests and paladins chanted. 

Alonsus stared blankly at the miscreants as anger slowly welled within him. 

He was a man of faith, one who wholeheartedly believed in the tenants of the Light. 

This struggle of Undeath was a challenge to that faith, but he was willing to try and live by his principles. Yet his compatriots from the cloth were so much…lesser. 

‘Perhaps death was preferable than to defend these unrepentant cowards.’ Alonsus slumped his shoulders, and hung his head in shame. 

“Ah, don't feel down Archbishop, the lads are all fired up now, and see there, the Elves have hastened their advance and will reach us within minutes. I shall introduce your glory so that they can understand how they have met their demise.” Jackson said excitedly. 

Alonsus put his hand on Jackson's shoulder, hoping the lad would take a hint, yet the choir boy merely grinned that rictus smile of his again. 

“Thanks for the support there, Archbishop. I was a little flustered, but knowing you approve of this does wonders for my confidence. I won't let you down!” 

Jackson then turned to look down the balcony, and magnified the sound of his voice using a Light based cantrip. 

Simply using the weak spell caused Jackson to shoulder and burn, yet he did it all with a smile. 

Such loyalty, devotion and dedication. It was these traits that Alonsus admired in a man, and he couldn't in good conscience pull him back. 

And so, Alonsus maintained his silence, and Jackson began his speech.  

“People of Quel'Thalas! Today is the day of your eternal damnation! You shall know what it feels like to have worms crawling in your belly, the feeling of maggots gnawing on your bones, of having eyes that can no longer close, of the deep seated hunger that never vanishes. This is our gift to you! 

A gift that shall be blessed by our one true master, protector of the Light, the Legendary Hero, Archbishop Alonsus Faol! 

He is the herald of destruction, the demagogue of demise, the-”

“Get on with it!” A powerful, cultured voice demanded. 

It was powerful, because it rocked the foundation, and a serious surge of mana flooded the area. 

An oppressive conceptual weight pressed down upon all the Undead, causing most of them to drop to their knees. 

The balcony shuddered, and Alonsus almost felt bad when he saw Jackson collapse. 

“Wha-wha, I've never felt such pressure before.” Jackson barely spoke in a hushed whisper, seemingly terrified of upsetting whatever thing that had just spoken. 

There, floating above the army of the living was a bored looking Elf man, and woman. 

“Show me something spectacular, show me something worthy of my wife's blade.” The voice boomed once more. 

Seeing that their demise was all but assured, Alonsus opened his mouth to offer their terms of surrender. Yet instead of surrender, Alonsus made a last minute alteration as he recognized the woman. Yes, Syra Greathollow, one of the first paladins on Azeroth, an ardent follower of the Light, and a hero in the Second War. She was one of many he had blessed, and fought alongside, a comrade in arms so to speak. 

The lot he found himself with were rather radical. If there was anyone he would feel comfortable falling to, it would be her. 

“By the Light, forgive us for our sins, we damned men only seek justice for those who have wronged us. Please, my old comrade, Syra, deliver us justice!” Alonsus pulled upon his decades of public speaking, and spoke as plainly, and honestly as he could. 

Yet as he knew would happen, the collision of Void and Light swirling around inside of him reacted in a volatile manner. 

As a result, Alonsus's little speech acted more as a spell than just words. Literal words of Holy Void mana left his lips, and travelled towards the living soldiers with the ability to erase almost anything that got in their path. 

A group of Elven Heroes got in the way of his words, and tossed up a group of powerfully enchanted shields.  

Unfortunately this protection wasn't enough, and without fail, each shield exploded, sending the defenders flying backwards. 

Half the words he said had been destroyed in the process, yet the remaining ones carried forth, intent on dealing significant harm. 

Gripping his fists tight, Alonsus almost hissed when he saw that several soldiers were about to be struck. 

However, Syra had started moving, and unbelievably, she could cut through his power. 

“Unbelievable.” Alonsus muttered to himself. 

Syra was cloaked in the same energy that he was…only, she seemed to be able to control it! 

Only belatedly did Alonsus cover his mouth as he realized he had ‘cast’ another spell when he spoke. 

Syra glared at him, one eye gold, the other purple as she dashed forth, and sliced through his empowered ‘attack’ with ease. 

Five thousand Undead were turned to dust during her forward advance, leaving the dregs on the edges of the boulevard to fight the Elven army. 

Abominations were cut in two, and any beam or bolt of necrotic energy, or arrow shot from on high was cleaved apart as effortlessly as he had cut himself a piece of cheese. 

A Heroic Death Knight rode out on his mount to meet her, but when their swords met, the Death Knights damned blade-one empowered by hundreds of souls-broke, no, shattered into a thousand little pieces. That Heroic Death Knight then shared a similar fate seconds later. 

That man who had once been so impactful in life had his body collapse as if it were nothing more than a twig being stepped on by a boot. 

Alonsus wasn't experiencing fear even though he knew his final death was nigh. 

No, he was excited! 

This was the vengeance that they needed. 

Syra was the blade through which humanity would find its release. 

But there was just one thing. He had to make sure she had the right stuff. That, and he didn't want to disappoint her! As former comrades, he did have some pride on the line. 

‘Alright, Syra, I shall be your whetstone. Show an old friend, and all the Humans, Elbes and Kobold in your army what it means to be a Hero. Rekindle hope in the races of Azeroth!’ Alonsus thought to himself in excitement as he prepared to unleash everything he had.