End of Errik, The

The End
 * -''by Errik

The fires burned beside him, lapping at the ochre sky like hungry dogs. The Lord Archon, Errik Von Lossart the Third, Prophet and erstwhile savior, sat on a malachite throne. His faithful were legion, and behind him, miles upon miles away, Stormwind burned, its populace long since put to the sword and devoured as the resisted. Before him, lay the last link, the last key in the events he had started.

"And here, lies the path to our Golden Land, my faithful. Here lies the path to Ascension. We shall be above reproach, we shall be as gods amongst the lesser folk who still run from our righteous fury. The Burning Spirit swells with pride at our actions, at the purity that we have wrought here and now, then and there." He gestured wide with a crimson clad claw, his eyes burning with felfire.

"This is the gate, and we have naught to do but open it and seize our prize. Our reward for such faithful service. Millions have been sacrificed for this moment. The Barrens have been scoured of all life, burnt to cinders in our passing. Undermine lies cracked open to the beauty of the Holy Fire, its populace used to slake our thirst. And the Human cities lie in ruins, their peoples either purged our added to our number. The Dwarves still cower in their mountain, the elves in their Trees. We are made sacrosanct, we are a nation unto ourselves. We are peopled from all the races of Azeroth! We are the best of this world. We are on the brink of a great change, of a great becoming."

Before them all, lay the edifice of change, of power, of destiny. It stood higher than any man, nearly as high as a giant, ringed by hundreds of fallen Demons. The Dark Portal stood, yawning lazily in the cracked light of the Blasted Lands. The stones were slick with blood. The sacrifices were on going, their bones torn red from wet flesh to fashion thousands of the Eight-Pointed Stars. Skulls hung from crags, decorated armour. Screams were rising like a symphony, in tune to steady drums. Chants spiced those tortured sounds, extolling the virtues of the Word Bearers, of the Lord Archon himself. From his throne, Errik could do not but grin.

And then, with a shuddering, shaking motion, the gates between worlds began to open, quickened by books plundered from a thousand sources, from the Necropoli of the reeling Scourge. From the hands of the great Lich himself. Light spilled forth, and the Stars were lit aflame, the prisoners nailed to them writhing in unearthly torment. Fire, gold and black and blue and red, spewed forth, turning day into a nightmarish clash of colours. Words boomed forth, in the hearts and minds and ears of all for thousands of miles. The portal.....stretched....with His girth, with the power of the figure who reached through, hazpazardly. A great bronze hand, riven with flames of hate and rage, breached the portal. The chants rose to a fever pitch, as a prodigious finger clawed at the ground, bringing forth the very blood of the world itself. Azeroth screamed, as it felt His touch in full.

"Behold....the Burning One..."