Chapter Two:

In the darkness, the sound of a heartbeat becomes all the more audible. Especially when there is only one person in the room who breathes at all, the heart becomes all the more prominent. Even inside her head, in the gloom, obviously a captive, Ysida could hear her own heart and nothing else. Even her own thoughts were drowned out by the dull lullaby of her own faithfully beating muscle. The smell of where she was, the scenery itself, was all hidden behind the curtain of her eyelids. She knew of nothing, as if she could wake up and it would all be a terrible nightmare. One that she'd be able to push to the back of her mind and never think of again.

Those quietly subdued ideas were pushed away rapidly by Ysida finally waking up groggily. Her eyes slowly fluttered open, she found difficulty seeing in the enclosed room. She had assumed it was a room, or at least some building, she was in due to the lack of wildlife sounds or wind. Then again, the Plaguelands was a desolate place and the wind only picked up if pushed by a set of unholy wings. Nothing good or fortuitous ever came of wind picking up in the Plaguelands...

Blinking a few times, Ysida was able to take in her surroundings carefully and silently. She found herself locked in a heavy iron cage. In a way, she had to think to herself that it was indeed a blessing. Better to be locked up than chained up where ghouls could eat you. A glance about the room finally revealed piles of bones in the very dimly lit room. They were stacked high and all around near and far from her cage. The torches that provided a solemn and poor light burned a green and purple shade, they smelled horribly even from a distance. The center floor of the small chamber was scratched roughly, drowned in blood, and lined properly with skulls as well. Ysida knew, without the help of the flipping her stomach did, that this was a foul and twisted place.

Ysida willed herself not to faint. She pushed the nausea that was building back into her stomach. She allowed herself to breathe in small gulps of air, but almost as if to prevent herself from greedily breathing in the intoxication and infection that permeated the dead city. Her heart however remained at that dull and soft beating, slowly fading off so she almost couldn't hear it. Her large brown eyes focused ahead of her, but she couldn't help but feel watched.

Keeping as alert as she was, she failed to notice or hear the shuffling about outside the rather small chamber. Outside, a small battle seemed about to rage. A band of mad and completely insane Scarlet Crusaders decided to push forward. Only about five of them, but their brains obviously falling victim to a fever in their blood known by the names of 'Pride' and 'Obsession' which almost every human alive should be familiar with. Appearing to have gone against orders, or perhaps even their leader was completely lacking a sane mind, the suicidal group charged in this far into the gauntlet. They hadn't even reached the gate that would lead to the Slaughterhouse, and none of the crystal ziggurats had fallen, but Rivendare apparently decided that he'd have a little sport before his small songbird would wake up. He deliberately cleared the streets of his troops, cleared out the patrolling gargoyles, and left only his invisible 'eyes' to remain vigilant.

The Crusaders were, of course, completely puzzled and perturbed by what they had been met with. Certainly the resistance here was far stronger by their previous scouting missions; why now was there almost nothing here? Not even a bone or a shred of flesh from a severed limb littered the streets other than ashes and the occasional grisly looking cinder coated corpse, frozen and locked with an expression of fear and anxiety that transcends time. They did what no one in Stratholme should ever do. They split up to search the area alone.

The three towers remained with their unholy humming. The necromancers were encased in the building as if it were their mother's womb. Protected only by a faint barrier and no guards at the doors, the members of the cult continued their spell to hold the gate to the Slaughterhouse locked. Within one of the ziggurats, the necromancers had but a moment to speak with one another. A young woman looked to one of her fellow acolytes, she appeared fresh from the recruitment by the looks of it and had simply been stranded within the burning ruin.

"What exactly is he planning to do?" She said in a hushed tone as she was referring to Baron Rivendare, uncertain as to what may be happening and why they were so vulnerable. Another acolyte, perhaps more experienced by the looks of it, turned her head to the younger.

"If you're wondering as to why our defenses are down, they are not." she stated flatly, before continuing to take a quick drink from a small bowl of foul smelling liquid. The younger necromancer looked at her, completely baffled. Sure looked like they weren't very well protected.

An even older looking acolyte nodded, "The Baron is most certainly not a fool. He wouldn't do anything to endanger the Slaughterhouse unless the Lich King gives a direct order to do so..." And they left it at that. No more words at all for their quick drink to hold their powers strong had ended.

Outside and patrolling the streets on the back of his mighty steed, the Baron's hawk-like gaze surveyed the twisted roads. The skeletal mount shifted warily and the Baron took note of his companion's actions. Keeping at a slow walk allowed the Baron to keep his movements hidden under the cover of the rather low and eerie sounds of burning wood and cracking foundations. He spotted the first Scarlet Crusader, a confident looking one at that, and most certainly bearing the garments of a priest. A sly and twisted grin formed underneath the navy blue scarf that shrouded his lower face. Without a word, as if rider and mount were one and the same, Death charger let out a whinny that sounded more like a bloodcurdling scream and charged for the priest. Before the man could turn his head completely, Rivendare had already come up behind the man and sliced his head off with an elegant swing of his blade. The head rolled a short way from its now draining and twitching body, the countenance one of terror. The eyes were wide open and the mouth letting out a silent scream.

Twisting their heads in the direction of the cry of terror from the priest, all of the Crusaders came running forward to aid their by now dead comrade. Rivendare was no where to be seen, the head of the priest missing with his body drowning in a pool of his own blood. A smaller woman among them, perhaps a hunter or a trainer of their hounds, raised her bow with an arrow notched tightly. She let fly the feathered projectile in the direction she heard a set of hooves beating the cobbled street. It missed and landed in a vacant area near a small wooden crate. Her eyes scattered about, looking for the enemy becoming her priority more than that of her comrades. She drew another arrow from her quiver with a lightning fast motion, terror beginning to well up under the surface of her skin. The dead priest, the lack of enemies, the fact she actually missed her target for the first time in years...

She never realized she had wandered from the group, down towards another ziggurat. She saw him, much further down the road. He spotted her, his horse pawed the ground with its hoof impatiently as if it were waiting to trample her with glee. She let the arrow fly once more, a miss. She fired again and again as the Baron began to trot casually over to her. Each time her arrows failed to hit him. The horror and madness this place generated had most certainly affected her aim, her lips trembled and her green eyes wide. She reached hastily for another arrow. Her hands seemed to have spasms of a terrible degree, she patted almost every area of her open quiver.

Empty. She let out a whimper before drawing her own blade. It was of no use. An archer with a sword against a seasoned cavalier? A horseman who no doubt was trained from the start at how to run over his enemies and sever their limbs without hesitation or flaw? He stood in front of her trembling form, the smirk from earlier gone. The archer's character was far different from the priest. The Baron loathed archers and crossbowmen with an unwavering resolve. He pointed the blade to her throat, "Coward... you'll be last. Find your friends, or what will be left of them when I'm through..." he said with his windswept voice, his tone quiet but harsh with agitation. The horse even seemed to growl at her, its empty eye sockets with their unholy glowing glared.

The archer fell over backwards, scrambling about and running down the ash covered street with uneven steps an a sense of urgency. She darted this way and that, the twisting road making her wish to scream into the darkness and dimly illuminated city. So, she screamed. She screamed so loudly that it would have made living ears bleed, including her own. She closed her eyes, hoping against all hope that her friends would hear her and come rushing to her aid or to comfort her. She was met with silence, no one had heard her. No ears at least that she had been hoping to hear. Instead, she heard a ghostly sigh behind her causing her body to freeze. Turning her head, she was met with a dark shadow of a man. It's glowing eyes stared at her with hollow and lucid energy before it raised its slender and bone thin arms to the blackened sky.

"THE LIVING ARE HERE!" it screeched with its ghastly and ethereal voice. The archer ran, she didn't dare combat the roaring of the monstrous set of eyes. She came towards a corner only to find Rivendare, a pile of corpses, and the last paladin of the group. The paladin's mace and his shield blocked the Death Knight's savage blows weakly. Scraps of the Scarlet Crusader's armor had fallen off, blood and sweat oozed from the wounds of the near to death paladin. His face was agonized and his eyes showing animal-like attributes.

Live. Live. Live. I need to live through this! Seemed to be all that the last two Scarlet Crusader's could be thinking. The paladin couldn't manipulate the Light any longer, his mana was drained and his spirit broken as he knelt before the horseman. He looked up to the knight who remained mounted, the runeblade now was placed to the paladin's throat.

"I had hoped you'd prove better quarry, but it seems that almost anyone can be a paladin in these times..." The Baron said with disappointment. "Such a pity. No fire within any of you other than that frantic and pathetic will to live. Why not give in? Why not join us...?" The voice of the Death Knight was smooth, but the sound of leaves rustling remained within his voice. The air about the three of them went from the hellish heat of the city to a deep freeze within a matter of seconds after the Baron spoke such words. The paladin looked up to him, questioning and yet severely weakened in every way. The eyes of the Baron and the idea that perhaps there was something good to come of being part of the Scourge seemed to come into the mind of the paladin. The archer on the other hand, she bit her lip in worry and simply remained silent and dumbfounded as the Baron slowly turned his head from the paladin to the archer with disgust. For a coward of an archer, even she wouldn't give in to the false promises of the Scourge so easily. "We can end the pain. The suffering. We can end everything and start it again..." The Death Knight said with that underlying chill to his voice.

"... I-I'm at the Scourge's will to command..." The paladin murmured almost in a trance as he looked to the Baron with dazed eyes. All he wanted was for everything to end, the alley's of Stratholme drove the once holy warrior into insanity, doubt, and fear. Trembling before the Baron, he held his throat willingly to the blade. The Baron gave a sigh, he lunged the blade into the man's larynx causing it to split right down the middle. There was no way that if they brought him back from the dead that he would ever speak, unless someone decided to equip him with a new voice box. The paladin fell to the ground, the Baron staring at the lifeless body before sighing once more. He looked towards the archer now, his eyes darker than usual and his voice now growling practically.

"As for you..." The Death Knight dismounted, sheathing his blade and seizing the loosely held one from the young archer. He tossed it halfway down the winding road and brought her face to his by mercilessly gripping her collar. "I want you to run screaming back to your master. Tell him that I want a real challenge. You all are starting to finally make this little game of ours boring... and I will terminate it when I see fit should I not be amused in the near future..."

The archer nodded her head furiously, she had no idea if there was a meaning behind the Baron's cryptic and almost childish message for all she could see was his eyes and behind him the heads of her slain companions on his steed's saddle wrapped together as if they were to be a grotesque present. She felt him let her go gruffly and she made a break for the gates leading back into the churchyard and down the narrow streets towards the Scarlet's barricade.

The Baron grumbled something that only Deathcharger seemed to hear. The undead horse made a snort of approval to his master's comment and together they wandered to the gates of the Slaughterhouse once more. The Death Knight muttered to his dark horse as they did so until reaching the gates where he then bellowed for them to allow him entrance. Deathcharger and Rivendare then went weaving between the horrid and towering abominations that made their 'home' outside of the Slaughterhouse, and then through the corridors of the building towards where he kept his prisoners.

Ysida said not a word, and the Baron ignored her existance as he tossed the three Scarlet heads to the nearby bone pile. Immeadiately they lost their flesh to a small band of rodents and insects that seemed to thrive in the dark and hostile conditions of the burning city, leaving the three newest additions looking like their predecessors. Somehow, Ysida felt her fate may very well be the same.