It was a rusty, dull hook that pulled John away.
He was like me,17, new to the Dawn, overly-eager, as our Captains and Champions remarked. They would say things like "Best to let death find you, rather than seek it, boy", and "Eager to join the scourge?". We thought, and to a degree knew this was just meant to spur the young ego, fuel the fire while containing and disciplining the flames. We hadn't grown up together but we quickly became comrades. He hailed from Westfall's coast originally, myself of course a son of Darkshire, though I never stay put for long.
Our tenacity had afforded us the privilege of joining advanced units more quickly than our comrades, which meant we finally had the chance to join the both famed and infamous patrols. Their fame stemmed from small dispatches stumbling upon lesser Scourgelords, slaying them before they could establish themselves, and attaining rank and reverence in the process. The infamy however was far more prevalent, perhaps not for me and John who saw a world bathed in light, waiting for a few candles to disperse the last of the shadows. Patrols would often not return on schedule, and if night fell before they returned, we knew we could expect the patrol to return with slacked jaws and the moans and screams of a being both eager to kill, and more eager to die. Commanders said that their humanity had been lost the moment they turned, but John and I had always expected that was a rouse to prevent us from halting our blades when the time came...
Our first patrols were relatively quiet, small groups of two or three scourged assailed us with their typical reckless abandon. Champions and veterans quickly rushing to the front and sweeping them away like so much dust. We were, of course, in awe of their skill and utilization of the lights power, but we still craved the physical feeling of tearing rotting flesh from yellowed bone, and for me specifically, of putting the walking dead to rest. It was said when you killed a member of the scourge, sometimes, but not always, you heard the faintest whisper of gratitude as their soul ascended to join the Light's grace. Ever since my days of Darkshire apathy, I longed for that.
John had attained the rank the rank of Secondary Patrol Captain and Squad leader by the time we reached our 18th name day. His skills with a pike gave champions a run for their money, and in our sparring matches it always came down to his reach and stoicism versus my fervor and guile, my impatience more often than not my faltering point. I'd over-extend and feel a thwack on my head of leg, and then the small of of his pike-handle placed triumphantly on my back accompanied with his loud and familiar laugh.
Thus on our patrols, he stood just in front and to the left of me, there was no rank within squads other than solider of cleric, but other's knew I was Johns right hand, and the captains and commanders....they must have seen, I think maybe they let these kinds of bonds pass, as often they served to benefit the soldiers in times of battle and hardship rather than harm.
It was a cold winter that graced the plaguelands, and though snow rarely fell here, it did this day, as silent as the moons rising. Day's were becoming shorter, and thus our patrol was just a passing along the territories border before doubling back. The land, even before its defilement, had always been hilly, so several outlying scouts with horns flanked the main patrol unit, and would signal any unforeseen scourge or impending ambushes. Whether that solider had been taken out silently by a lich lord, or fumbled his horn with the pressing scourge, I will never pretend to know, but like a broken damn scourged surged fourth over the left flank, and suddenly we were engaged in battle. With an unspoken command we formed a half-circle and engaged the mindless horde. We all had our own disciplines, and lights magic, bow, and sword alike slew the uncoordinated onslaught with unforgiving fervor. One could tell that when the scourge was in such disarray, it meant the lack of presence of an upper-echelon Scourgelord. While this sign was clear, it was ambivalently odd that their forces simply kept pouring over the left flanks hill, the forces dispersed but unending. Our stoicism began to falter, and John, at the behest of the patrols Captain, ordered us to begin to move back, our formation opening a bit as we fought our way backwards towards the the chapel and fortification.
At this, John moved himself to the forefront of the group, whipping the pike about with the grace of a Kal'dorei Sentinel as he allowed his brethren to regain composure and begin the retreat. As a matter of instinct I joined him, and side by side we moved back, slowly and surely, slaying minion after minion of the encroaching tidal wave. In a brief reprieve he looked at me sideways, and in a commanding yet familiar tone he barked "Stan, Crescent".
The Crescent is a tactical retreat used against the Scourge that involves two or more parties running in opposite direction in a 180 degree curving arc towards one another 20 or so yards down, meeting and doing so again in the opposite direction for as long as necessary. This tactic, especially without the presence of Scourge Leadership, is extremely effctive as Scourge often falter in both who they go after, and are also notably uncoordinated in switching directions.
We initiated this maneuver, and after the third arc we appeared to be catching up to our compatriots, a volley of arrows and magic sweeping up the pressing advance of scourge. As he passed by me this third time he winked and gave the smile that was so characteristic of John.
I will remember that smile forever.
As he returned his gaze to the maneuver, and me mine, I heard a short burst of a scream, and turned to see John grasped by the hook of an abomination 15 feet in height. Within a mere moment, the creature yanked John as if he were a falling leaf in the wind's gust, his body flying through the air and tumbling just a few feet in front of the abomination. I quickly turned and advanced, felling scourge with a quickness I wouldn't repeat until my days in the harsh north years later, only to get a clear view of the abomination lifting John, hook through his sternum, to his infested-eye level. All of my fervor, all of my passion left me in that moment as I knew what would happen next.
Dundren Mercer, a dwarven bowman of great renown was an accompanying squad leader, but was known more grimly as 'mercy'. When a Dawnsmen was overwhelmed or killed by the Scourge, if possible, it was Dundrens job to end their suffering, and make sure they could not return from the grave. That is exactly what he did. An arrow flew high across the hilly landscape, and landed squarely in the side of John's head, his neck whiplashing in reaction as his spear dropped and fell to the ground..rolling down the hill a bit before stopping at my very feet. I’d reach to grab it....
