The Anvil
By Nukhan
Featuring Nukhan

None in the scarred plague lands would assist him in his trek into the citadel for some time. The Argent Dawn was spread thin at the moment, and their newer recruits were nothing more than pups waiting to get weened off of their mothers. Sharp little teeth and enough bark, but no substance.

He had faced bits of the army with a few from the Coalition. The new recruits would have turned before laying eyes on the portal itself, let alone able to hold their swords and shields up to face the soldiers of the lich. Many of the Coalition group were seasoned enough in the ways of how a lich may work, and what to expect from their undead warriors. Even they were taken aback by the sheer power flowing through the citadel. Everyone could feel it in the air, ready to choke the very life out every one of them. Wave after wave of soldiers they fought, only to be replaced by more, just as hungry as the ones before.

It was one of the greatest of battles that Nukhan had been a part of. It was also one of the most taxing on he and everyone else in the party. Many were grateful to have made it out alive without the detection of the lich. In the way all of their combined pride blinded them of his minions, they could not possibly imagine the power this thing wielded had it come for them.

Nukhan was most surprised by the one elf Roweadowyn showing up. The troubled elf that he had almost killed in the Crossroads some time back, but was ready to be at his side when called upon. Even in these destroyed lands, where the trees that taunt him cry out the loudest, he braved the cries to heed only one. The orc didn't think he would make it, but Rowe came anyway. Perhaps aided by the one named Zel, but there nonetheless. Nukhan wondered just how much his old friend Washoe might have told him.

The tauren was talented in the path that chose him, the spirits lended their hands to him freely. Nukhan could feel that he knew more than what he let on, but couldn't be sure if he had told anyone yet. If the tauren did know a few bits and pieces, he was sure that he wouldn't betray his trust. Perhaps Rowe's own friendship with Washoe was enough to bring him to the orc's side.

The night air was once again filled with the sounds of stone hitting metal, the chorus was becoming more and more prevalent in the area. The orc was slowly becoming a regular sight, checking back regularly to see who would fight with him, to fight the battles that haunted him, that others had forgotten. More often than not he was greeted with denying gestures by the humans he could not understand as well, but he would not give up. He would be the one warriors trained to be like, the weaker would stand behind. Sooner or later he would face the face that sought him, alone, or with forty others at his back. Sooner or later, one would meet his fate.