01-27-2017, 03:06 AM
Kerrigan paused for a moment, suppressing a grin.
She had to admit, she didn’t think the Night elf had a sense of humor, or at least, that he’d beat his chest with such amusing alliteration.
“Today they shall see the Storm rage!” Sarah repeated mockingly to herself. Her reflection on Illidan’s last name and it’s related puns was inaudible, of course. The screams of terrified refugees and the howls of the demons chasing them down rang far too loudly in everyone’s ears.
The assault on the outlying villages were pitiful skirmishes - the defenders, and the few reinforcements they garnered, had been precious few. Though some secondaries did rise up to defend their homes, the defenders of Darkshire showed a heightened, if not surprising, level of sense. Kerrigan had hoped for a less intelligent defence, but this fell well within her expectations. It would have been nice to catch a prime or two unawares within a honeyed trap, but she was content with removing a dozen or so defenders of Darkshire. Brave soldiers, if allowed, became brave veterans. Besides, the true prize was being herded towards Darkshire’s gates this very instant. A yelling, screaming herd of humans, making their way on foot, by carriage, by coach, or by panicked mule… anything to get away from the hell-fire the demons and specters nipped at their heels with.
Kerrigan smiled. The forces Illidan had lent her had actually exceeded her expectations. The horde of rabble he’d assembled were actually quite competent at listening to orders - for beings without a telepathic link, at least - and held to their assigned roles competently. Given their obvious, unending thirst for bloodshed and warfare, she’d expected a less organized squadron. She wondered if that was due to some natural discipline or because of Stormrage's hold over them.
As a result, things were going exactly according to plan, as dozens of refugees scrambled for the safety of the walls only a few kilometers away. The shining bastion gleamed like a promise from god to the battered survivors, and they ran with a desperate energy only granted to the truly helpless. Kerrigan smiled, before making a swift motion forward with her hand.
The chanting of shrieking banshees and other ghastly apparitions synchronized to form a wailing cacophony of demented chanting. Bright globes of flames appeared in a circlet of flame above the ethereal spellcasters the size of horses, coming to life with the sound of a thunder-clap. The burning balls of death rocketed forward, barraging the Terrified mob of refugees with magical napalm with a barrage of brilliant crimson explosions. The screams of the burned and broken echoed loudly enough that Kerrigan imagined even those waiting in the walls could hear the carnage occurring right outside their walls of stone.
Kerrigan wondered with a smirk if fear or anger was what emanated from that place. Either one would cause the enemy to fall within her waiting grasp.
Kerrigan’s thoughts, however, were interrupted by the last thing she expected to see above-ground: A pale disk reflecting Skeletor’s face (or at least, where Skeletor’s face should have been) hummed to life in front of her without warning. As communications go, he was certainly the ostentatious type, as he relayed what he needed from the zerg monarchs’ forces. Kerrigan silently acceded, her zerglings and banelings all burrowing into the nearby earth.
She thought of replying, but figured it would be far more amusing to simply let the skeletal overlord sweat - her forces augmented Skeletor’s own soldiers, but they followed her orders, and her orders alone. It would be good to let the “Master of Evil” dwell on that fact for himself. Still, the warlock was making better time than Kerrigan expected. At this rate, their plans would synchronize quite well.
The Queen of Blades looked up to the blackened mud in front of her. Some of the men, women and children in front of her were nothing more than blackened, charred sculptures now, frozen in their last moment of desperation. The less lucky ones were crawling forward on whatever limbs still listened, hairless, charred mockeries of a human being, red and black scales of burnt flesh and skin dotting their bodies. Further ahead were the refugees that had escaped the blast well enough to run; Those who had not walked, but instead taken on any carriage or coach they could possibly find in their quest to get away, sped on towards Darkshire’s gates. Here was the home stretch, and the salvation in front of them was only a few meters away.
With a curse and a glare, Kerrigan put up a hand to halt her forces, her face twisting into an ugly glare. Inwardly, however, she was chuckling. As her men paused just outside of the distance where blunderbuss or crossbow could strike them down, the Refugees put out one last disorderly dash for the opening portcullis, confident that they could get through before the oncoming horde pushed in.
They were right, of course. With the lead Kerrigan had allowed the refugees, the Men in the walls had time to spare to welcome the wagons and carts of the dozen or so survivors before the demons could catch them on foot. The Wraiths could dart forward fast enough, of course, but cannonfire, crossbow bolts, and musket blasts would hasten them to a second death long before the small number Kerrigan had gathered ever reached the walls.
Instead, an onslaught of demons howled with anger and frustration at the escaped villagers Kerrigan had allowed to get away with their lives, and the men within who stood ready to receive them. Stout men stepped in front of the portcullis as it began to close, Broad Axes drawn in case the demonic host attempted to use these last precious seconds to push through and past the gates. Thankfully for them, that moment didn’t come, and Kerrigan could see the gradually improving mood of the soldiers who had received the refugees. The soldiers staring down at Kerrigan from the walls above did it with a straighter back, and confident glares.
Kerrigan smiled, even as Skeletor’s image spoke once again beside her.
“Bring Darkshires defences crumbling to their knees!” the otherworldly magician decreed.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Kerrigan quipped back, her rage switching to an even smirk, a telepathic burst of information being released at the same time Kerrigan snapped her fingers.
Kerrigan couldn’t see within the now closed Gates of Darkshire to witness the expression on the faces of the Darkshire civilians, but as the Infested terrans she’d hidden within the carriages and coaches of the Darkshire villagers, hours before the demonic onslaught swept through, metamorphosed into explosive plasma, and set off a series of explosions originating within the gatehouse, and leading up the streets of Darkshire itself, she had to imagine it was quite the spectacle of flame and smoke.
A secondary set of explosions soon followed the first, however, and Kerrigan knew she had far better seats to this spectacle. The dim “thud” of a muffled explosion echoed for a brief second, before the wall in front of Kerrigan began to begin to crack. A terrible rumble could be heard above the din, as the wall shivered and shook. Finally, a great piece of the wall shattered with the sound of a thunderclap, a hail of meteors thrown in every direction as the wall section, and those unfortunate souls still upon it, were flung in every direction.
The new gap in Darkshires wall was filled only with blood and gore that had once been defenders of Darkshire, and the pulverized remnants of the wall they believed would protect them. Kerrigan didn’t wait for either to hit the ground before she urged her forces forward.
She had to admit, she didn’t think the Night elf had a sense of humor, or at least, that he’d beat his chest with such amusing alliteration.
“Today they shall see the Storm rage!” Sarah repeated mockingly to herself. Her reflection on Illidan’s last name and it’s related puns was inaudible, of course. The screams of terrified refugees and the howls of the demons chasing them down rang far too loudly in everyone’s ears.
The assault on the outlying villages were pitiful skirmishes - the defenders, and the few reinforcements they garnered, had been precious few. Though some secondaries did rise up to defend their homes, the defenders of Darkshire showed a heightened, if not surprising, level of sense. Kerrigan had hoped for a less intelligent defence, but this fell well within her expectations. It would have been nice to catch a prime or two unawares within a honeyed trap, but she was content with removing a dozen or so defenders of Darkshire. Brave soldiers, if allowed, became brave veterans. Besides, the true prize was being herded towards Darkshire’s gates this very instant. A yelling, screaming herd of humans, making their way on foot, by carriage, by coach, or by panicked mule… anything to get away from the hell-fire the demons and specters nipped at their heels with.
Kerrigan smiled. The forces Illidan had lent her had actually exceeded her expectations. The horde of rabble he’d assembled were actually quite competent at listening to orders - for beings without a telepathic link, at least - and held to their assigned roles competently. Given their obvious, unending thirst for bloodshed and warfare, she’d expected a less organized squadron. She wondered if that was due to some natural discipline or because of Stormrage's hold over them.
As a result, things were going exactly according to plan, as dozens of refugees scrambled for the safety of the walls only a few kilometers away. The shining bastion gleamed like a promise from god to the battered survivors, and they ran with a desperate energy only granted to the truly helpless. Kerrigan smiled, before making a swift motion forward with her hand.
The chanting of shrieking banshees and other ghastly apparitions synchronized to form a wailing cacophony of demented chanting. Bright globes of flames appeared in a circlet of flame above the ethereal spellcasters the size of horses, coming to life with the sound of a thunder-clap. The burning balls of death rocketed forward, barraging the Terrified mob of refugees with magical napalm with a barrage of brilliant crimson explosions. The screams of the burned and broken echoed loudly enough that Kerrigan imagined even those waiting in the walls could hear the carnage occurring right outside their walls of stone.
Kerrigan wondered with a smirk if fear or anger was what emanated from that place. Either one would cause the enemy to fall within her waiting grasp.
Kerrigan’s thoughts, however, were interrupted by the last thing she expected to see above-ground: A pale disk reflecting Skeletor’s face (or at least, where Skeletor’s face should have been) hummed to life in front of her without warning. As communications go, he was certainly the ostentatious type, as he relayed what he needed from the zerg monarchs’ forces. Kerrigan silently acceded, her zerglings and banelings all burrowing into the nearby earth.
She thought of replying, but figured it would be far more amusing to simply let the skeletal overlord sweat - her forces augmented Skeletor’s own soldiers, but they followed her orders, and her orders alone. It would be good to let the “Master of Evil” dwell on that fact for himself. Still, the warlock was making better time than Kerrigan expected. At this rate, their plans would synchronize quite well.
The Queen of Blades looked up to the blackened mud in front of her. Some of the men, women and children in front of her were nothing more than blackened, charred sculptures now, frozen in their last moment of desperation. The less lucky ones were crawling forward on whatever limbs still listened, hairless, charred mockeries of a human being, red and black scales of burnt flesh and skin dotting their bodies. Further ahead were the refugees that had escaped the blast well enough to run; Those who had not walked, but instead taken on any carriage or coach they could possibly find in their quest to get away, sped on towards Darkshire’s gates. Here was the home stretch, and the salvation in front of them was only a few meters away.
With a curse and a glare, Kerrigan put up a hand to halt her forces, her face twisting into an ugly glare. Inwardly, however, she was chuckling. As her men paused just outside of the distance where blunderbuss or crossbow could strike them down, the Refugees put out one last disorderly dash for the opening portcullis, confident that they could get through before the oncoming horde pushed in.
They were right, of course. With the lead Kerrigan had allowed the refugees, the Men in the walls had time to spare to welcome the wagons and carts of the dozen or so survivors before the demons could catch them on foot. The Wraiths could dart forward fast enough, of course, but cannonfire, crossbow bolts, and musket blasts would hasten them to a second death long before the small number Kerrigan had gathered ever reached the walls.
Instead, an onslaught of demons howled with anger and frustration at the escaped villagers Kerrigan had allowed to get away with their lives, and the men within who stood ready to receive them. Stout men stepped in front of the portcullis as it began to close, Broad Axes drawn in case the demonic host attempted to use these last precious seconds to push through and past the gates. Thankfully for them, that moment didn’t come, and Kerrigan could see the gradually improving mood of the soldiers who had received the refugees. The soldiers staring down at Kerrigan from the walls above did it with a straighter back, and confident glares.
Kerrigan smiled, even as Skeletor’s image spoke once again beside her.
“Bring Darkshires defences crumbling to their knees!” the otherworldly magician decreed.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Kerrigan quipped back, her rage switching to an even smirk, a telepathic burst of information being released at the same time Kerrigan snapped her fingers.
Kerrigan couldn’t see within the now closed Gates of Darkshire to witness the expression on the faces of the Darkshire civilians, but as the Infested terrans she’d hidden within the carriages and coaches of the Darkshire villagers, hours before the demonic onslaught swept through, metamorphosed into explosive plasma, and set off a series of explosions originating within the gatehouse, and leading up the streets of Darkshire itself, she had to imagine it was quite the spectacle of flame and smoke.
A secondary set of explosions soon followed the first, however, and Kerrigan knew she had far better seats to this spectacle. The dim “thud” of a muffled explosion echoed for a brief second, before the wall in front of Kerrigan began to begin to crack. A terrible rumble could be heard above the din, as the wall shivered and shook. Finally, a great piece of the wall shattered with the sound of a thunderclap, a hail of meteors thrown in every direction as the wall section, and those unfortunate souls still upon it, were flung in every direction.
The new gap in Darkshires wall was filled only with blood and gore that had once been defenders of Darkshire, and the pulverized remnants of the wall they believed would protect them. Kerrigan didn’t wait for either to hit the ground before she urged her forces forward.