The Last of the Bloodline

Never have I poured so much into my writing as I have with this below— I have poured my heart and soul, my very essence into. I am grateful in many respects that I have decided to do this: I have learned that it is emotion of your own that makes your writing heart-wrenching for others, and I, like so many before me, believe every good story has closure, it is by this piece of writing, I have truly realized this. I only pray you enjoy it.
They all fall into place. . .
They had fought —given strength at the thought of finally ridding this world of another of the Lich King’s lieutenants— within the shattered remains of an old Second War ship that had sunk below the ocean’s waves off the cliffy shores of Arathi Highlands. But the last of Epion James Striveheart’s valiant men died to the vile protector; their limbs swayed eerily in the water like ghosts, at the mercy of the slight current, dying from various gruesome and grotesque wounds, or simply dying painfully from loss of blood that most of the time lingered around the corpses of his men like rain clouds.
And finally, alone, facing the formidable guardian, amidst the corpses of his men that had been so easily dispatched by the last obstacle between him and the monster’s demise, guilt surged through him, was it worth it? All these slain men; were their lives really worth the end of the monster who had consumed his son? He attempted to roar only have bubbles escape from his mouth and ascend upwards to the surface and he shook his head as violently as he could, no, these would be last lives to fall because of that Lich!
The battle was rough on Epion; his attacks were slowed down by the water pressing-in on him from all directions, where the Shade wasn’t affected at all. He was slashed at and pushed into what remained of the ship’s wall; feeling his armor scra pes against the wood alerted him of the presence of the wall, and he, with some effort, bent his legs inward and planted his feet to the wall and thrust forward with his sword as he kicked off toward the guardian as it reeled back to fend him off with a vicious assault. The guardian was caught before it could defend itself and roared upwards in silent death and faded away.
Epion swam, with his quickly diminishing breath and strength, to the mast of the ship and dug the tip of the blade into the rotting wood and easily chipped away at it until he found what he was looking for; the Phylactery having been magically sealed away within the confines of the old and sea-worn mast, it was exposed.
He wretched his blade away and slammed it back into the scabbard; the water swirled and pressed in around the metal and he lunged forward at the phylactery with desperation in his eyes and movement for the precious air his lungs were burning for and kicked upwards toward the surface.
---
Epion had been an aged man for quite a while it seemed, his muscle and strength had never failed him before despite his age, but the fight at the shipwreck had taken its toll on him. His face was lined with wrinkles and scars and he only had his right eye to peer out of. His hair was now receding, giving way to baldness at the top, but where it did grow it grew long and thick gray hair. His face always radiated wisdom and heart-felt care as he viewed you, but his men could tell he was beyond emotion now— he was impassive, but an unusual deep sorrow seemed to radiate from him, and it affected his men to their very core to see such an old and wise, battle-hardened soldier so affected by a battle on the horizon. Epion’s full and considerable armor adorned his person as he sat astride his battle-charger, reins in hand as he stared off into the distance with a reserved air about him; it was as if he was being sent to his death as he rode to the Plaguewood.
One of his captains at last mustered up enough courage to converse with his solemn leader, “M’lord?” He gave a nervous look at his commanding officer as he finally caught up to him with several ‘Ayah!’s and kicks of his heels into his battle-charger.
“Yes, captain?” He said flatly and gave a half-hearted glance as he acknowledged the captain’s presence.
“M- m’lord, are you,” The captain paused, looking for the right words to say, “are you alright?”
Epion gave a restrained sigh as the captain inquired. “No,” he replied with a dead voice.
The captain didn’t say anything after that, he merely rode. He would ride with his Lord till the ends of the earth, to even fight the Lich King himself!
--- 
Every inch of Plagueheart’s body was covered with the savagely inflicted marks of torture. From the crown of his head, thick dra pes of greasy, blood-stained hair of black hung. His eyes were sunken into his head and huge bags aligned the bottoms. His visage was continually contorted in anger and hatred, and his teeth gnashed and gritted against each other continually.
He knelt before a chaotic, shadowy portal as a personage spoke to him through it; he kept his head bowed in reverence and respect as he was addressed. He whispered softly, “I shall, Lady Stormbringer. . .” something like sorrow laced in his usually smug, almost sadistically happy voice as the portal slowly faded from the Ziggurat, leaving in its wake unholy residue, which in turn, dissipated too.
He slipped a hand into his robes and withdrew an object swaddled in a blackened fabric, he uncovered the object; the Skull of Gorefang gave off an ominous dark radiance as the cloth left it. He stared at it greedily for a long moment until he slipped one of his gloves from his hand and palmed the surface; his eyes closed instinctively as his bare skin touched it and gleamed with an unholy radiance.
His hunger was sated, for now— he would draw upon its limitless power later. He scooped up the charred fabric and dra ped it over the skull and deposited it in his robes and gloved his hand once more.
The Necro-Lord planted his hands onto the cold, dank stone below him and pushed himself up. His inconsolable eyes flitted around the Nerubian structure which was, as always, dismally dark except for the faint sickly green illumination given off by the intoxicating, liquefied plague that steadily streamed down into two great basins of it on either side of him as he walked down a ramp and headed out of the building. His echoing steps were slow and firm as if he headed to a funeral.
The Necro-Lord waited quietly, surrounded by the restless dead, given unlife by necromancy, with his arms folded over each other above his chest; his head was bowed in concentration as the maddeningly whispers of the Lich King raced through his head.
The undead were completely silent, awaiting command to attack the interlopers, they did not stir nor worry over their creator, the Lich that stood surrounded by them; they were only tools.
His sunken eyes opened upon the reverberations of horse hooves in the distance; his flames-for-eyes were dimmed considerably— he was obviously not looking forward to this enmity-driven encounter.
The Necro-Lord placed a hand to his neck and felt something there and he shut his eyes—he flinched painfully and then removed his grasp from the locket. He gradually opened his eyes and heaved a sigh once, before bringing forth his spell book from the belt fastened about his waist; chains clinked as he situated the tome in his hands and began to flip through the pages.
He found the spell, slid a finger across the line and uttered the incantation under his breath. He stood there a moment with nothing happening, and as the seconds passed his body grew rigid and impassive; he fell over, quite literally dead from the incantation.
Suddenly the impressive form of a Lich rose up into existence. A skeleton, wrapped in an elegant but distinctly sinister robe which rippled eerily in a seemingly nonexistent wind, while the Lich hovered above the ground, a chilling mist surrounded it; enough to make any man’s blood run cold.
---
Epion and his men finally saw the Ziggurats, and slaughterhouses of the Plaguewood silhouetted against the crimson sky, mingled with the noxious fumes that seemed to give off from that horrifying place without reprieve.
They arrived at the gate leading immediately to the Plaguewood, swaying banners of the Scourge adorned each vine and fungus -covered pillar, and only undead were there to greet their sight. They fought valiantly and ruthlessly, giving the undead no honorable, final deaths as they were hacked, smashed and burned; these undead would never be used again.
They made it to one of the last Ziggurats pressed up against the rocky mountains that surrounded all but one of the angles of this noxious wood like walls of a cage. And there he was . . . the monster; the monstrosity who had consumed his son. 
Epion started to shake with suppressed rage. He brought his trembling, armored hand to his sword’s hilt and yanked it out, the sword gleamed a vibrant green and he rent the noxious air with a slash upward into the sky; pointing the blade toward his foe and the hordes of undead surrounding him, “YOUR TIME HAS COME!” He roared triumphantly as if he had already won the battle, “Soldiers of Alliance, draw your weapons—" his voice broke as he spoke to his men, he was sending them to their deaths, “FOR THE LIGHT!” he yelled and they charged on their warhorses to the Lich surrounded by the mass of unliving. The Lich slowly and lazily pointed his skeletal hand toward the approaching warriors and the risen-dead shifted as if they were a single entity and surged forward to be trampled under the hooves of the horses. If any survived the unconditional fury, they were quickly dispatched by the warriors atop the animals.
The Lich observed this with a tilted head and continued to float there eerily as hordes of living dead, undoubtedly answering the silent call their master, marched into place around the Alliance soldiers, surrounding them and charging without pause.
Epion fought fiercely and without care for his own personal safety as he launched himself into scores of undead and brought them down with a single sweep of his the High Blade or a smash of his stalwart shield. He roared incoherently and rent a hulking abomination’s leg with a strike from his sword. It reeled back and fall flat onto its back; crushing unsuspecting ghouls in the process. Epion leapt up and decapitated the monstrosity with a jerk of his wrist.
The clink and clashes of metal sounded within the battlefield like death knells, as Epion dazedly swept his gaze across the fields of blight, this fight was no longer a battle—it was a slaughter. The last of his men were being massacred from all sides, but their agony didn’t stop there, they arose unwillingly mere seconds later as the demented corpse; their bodies teemed with unholy energy of necromancy as they bolstered and added to the ranks of the Scourge forces.
Epion stood on the corpse of the abomination, his chest heaving up and down, drawing ragged breath during the moments the battle abated. His eyes filled with regret for what he had subjected his men to. As the battle continued, he slashed and sliced his High Blade across the limitless waves of undead until finally they drew back. I’m no better than the Scourge . . . these men deserved better, tears swept down his always calm, reserved face.
A howling, echoing voice seemed to rip through the battlefield like the fiercest of winds, “Minions of the Scourge, stand down! This interloper . . . is mine.”
Epion turned slowly to face the abomination his son had become, sheathing his High Blade into its scabbard as he brought both hands to his helmet and raised it up off his sweat-drenched face. He saw Apolyon Plagueheart through his one good eye for the first time and shuddered involuntarily.
Plagueheart brought both of his skeletal, claw-like hands together in a strangely slowed manner. His clasped hands began to emanate a deep blue and he gradually brought them forward; gesturing toward Epion, who brought his shield upward to ward off the attack that was surely coming. The jagged splinter of ice made a colossal din as it impacted with the warrior’s shield. He was thrown off the abomination’s corpse and landed upon the ground with a great tumult as the pieces of his armor clanged against each other and the earth, it drowned out all other noise— the wind was knocked out of him and his vision went black.
A youthful father in his twenties, short brown-haired, smooth-faced and untouched by markings of age or war, Epion James Striveheart, and his little boy sat astride a regal palomino horse. They trotted up the road that was flanked by rolling hills of lush grass and beautiful timber-made houses as the child spoke finally, breaking the relative silence of the sound of hooves on cobblestone. “Daddy,” He pleaded and tugged on his father’s arm, “We almost there?” His eyes were wide in child-like anticipation, given life by the young father’s fascinating description of the place they were traveling to.
The father’s pained visage softened and his mouth curved upward in a warm smile as he peered down at his boy, “We’ll arrive at Stratholme soon enough, Epion, my son.” he answered kindly.
The son’s hunger for knowledge was seemingly sated as he fell silent and eyed the road and its occupants as they passed by. The father chuckled and patted his son’s brown-haired head. 
Epion was back in the Plaguewood, sprawled on his back with his shield held loosely by his left hand and his helmet thrown off somewhere— he did not know where. But he was standing defiantly back up, to smite the monster, to end his reign of terror and destruction!
---
Plagueheart watched as his father was thrown off the abomination’s corpse and hovered closer— to make sure the job was done, so he could finish his unlife’s work of destroying the last of the Striveheart noble bloodline, he sneered to himself within his mind.
He came closer and closer until he saw the motionless body of his father, and a giddy sense of triumph surged through him. He would destroy his father’s corpse and be done with it— NO MORE. He extended a fleshless hand toward the corpse, reaching for it like it was some twisted prize to be had, when it began to stir, but not by use of necromancy— NO!
The man that haunted his nightmares was not dead. He watched as his father stood up once more and beheld the Lich before him with contempt on his face.
Plagueheart drew back as if burned and roared in a fit of blinding rage as Epion drew his sword from his scabbard and launched forward with it. The Lich’s skeletal arm was cut into by the blade, sending reverberations across the Lich’s body. He wrenched his arm back and rattled a beckons to his minions and they came seconds later to defend their master— cleavers, claws and spells on the ready.
Plagueheart eyed his gray fleshless arm. Part of the bone had been rent apart by the enchanted blade and the gray of the bone seemingly began to dominate his sight altogether, ascending to a level of thought above the mundane battle. . .
They were almost to Stratholme. The gates and magnificent buildings were already visible as they neared the end of their long and arduous trek to safety. He glanced down at his boy, just to be sure he was there really there.
He gave his son a reassuring squeeze as they made their way into Stratholme, as the boy’s wide eyes darted around the bustling city with blurring speed, trying to take in all the new sight: a large building with children and an old lady amidst them, fruit stands, jugglers, salesmen, bars, and shops aplenty.
They made it to a beautiful chapel after they passed under a large gate. Priests and paladins scurried from various points of a large square. A paladin approached them with his adorned full plate and mail armor, “Ah, Epion,” he said in a warm, welcoming tone, as both the son and the father looked up at him.
“Lord Tuvir, an honor, I trust you got the message.” He greeted the Paladin and gave him a rueful grin as Lord Tuvir chuckled, obviously appreciating the touch of humor in such a solemn occasion, “I, uh, just need a second.” And the Paladin nodded in understanding and walked off respectfully.
He began to get his off his horse, taking my son with him; I set him gently onto the ground and stooped down onto one knee. The child was cheerful and bright, still inquisitive above the large walls and building around him, “Epion, my son, listen.” The child’s eyes fastened onto his father’s, “I must leave—”
“But, daddy, we just got here, where’re we going?” he asked ignorantly.
The father diverted his tearful eyes. “You’ll be safe here, my son . . .” he whispered, and locked eyes onto his son. “And I’ll be back,” the father promised and glanced up at the paladin approaching once more. He quickly kissed his son on the head. The paladin arrived and offered his bare hand to the boy to grasp.
“Daddy?” He said with a confused expression.
And the daddy unhurriedly mounted his regal palomino heaving with agonizing sobs, and he rode off, leaving his only son, the last of his bloodline, the last of his family, in Stratholme.
The Lich shook his head like he was trying to swat an annoying fly from his head and stirred from the horrible, false memory.
He would end this, once and for all, no more would he hide behind his minions; he would fight his father in his old form, to make his last dying moments of seeing his son kill him that much better. And he would do so with his Runeblade—to steal his soul, and watch it squirm in pain the rest of his days!
His consciousness was aloof for a moment as his Lich form faded from the battle, and then he felt himself wake within his frail body. He was adorned in his plate armor as he stood up with a hand to his knee and brought another to the hilt of his Runeblade. He slowly withdrew it and walked with purpose back to the battle ensuing around his father.
The last of the undead were sliced through, their many parts strewn across the battlefield as the almighty Epion James Striveheart clutched at his chest-- victorious.
Plagueheart made his final steps toward the warrior and gradually brought the blade to eye-level and directed the tip of the blade toward his target.
Epion shook his head, “Give up, please.” He pleaded with a broken and tired voice. 
“Good bye, father.” He gave his answer as he adopted his fighting stance. Epion shook his head again as if he’d expected it and regretfully took his stance for battle.
“You leave me no choice.” His father croaked seconds before Plagueheart charged forward; he lifted his sword up into the sky and slashed through the air downward onto his father. The blades clashed loudly as the metal convened in a shower of sparks with sickening speed.
Each of their hands tightened their hold and tried to push back their opponent; something more than muscle and weight seemed to push against each other as they fought to gain the upper hand-- an old man’s many years of grief, of woe, of agony waging a matched war against the will to snuff out the last remains of Plagueheart’s falsely alluring past.
Plagueheart gnashed his teeth and snarled angrily as he fought desperately to throw the last of his ancestors back.
They both broke apart at the same moment and both reeled back to slash at each other-- their weapons met and a spray of sparks shot off.
They exchanged blow after blow-- equally matched in their rivalry.
They both staggered back from another cataclysmic union of steel and personified seemingly years of enmity into the glares they now gave each other. Epion spoke, “For years, I wondered what had become of my son— for years I fought, I waged war, and I scr aped from the jaws of death itself to see you, to see the Paladin my boy had turned into— NOW LOOK AT YOU! You’ve turned into what you fought against!” Silent tears flowed down his stricken, sweat-drench, dirt-covered face as he tried to talk sense into a monster, “My son . . . if you can hear me . . . please, listen to me! Look at what you’ve become!” His mouth trembled, all vestiges of composure forgotten in his all consuming grief, “EPION!”
Plagueheart was dumbfounded as he stared glassy-eyed at the grieving face of his father. . .
The father rode, still crying into his hands as the clamor of the city seemed to dim around him. The horrible sound of his son crying still was echoing in his mind. He shook his head and wiped the tears from his eyes, and he whispered, with emotion threatening to usurp his ability to form coherent words, “My son, I will always love you.”
Plagueheart blinked back tears and diverted his eyes, “Father. . .” he pleaded in a hushed voice as his eyes stared down at the locket. The whisperings of his Master were already drowning out all other thought as the Lich King sensed his awakening; he snapped his eyes shut from the pain and grasped his head. The whisperings seemed to come from everywhere, and they momentarily plunged Plagueheart back under the dominion of him.
“He can no longer hear you, father.” His voice broke and he fixed his gaze onto the figure the whisperings told him to eradicate.
And the father closed his eye as his lips trembled, and a single tear rolled down his cheek, “Epion my son, where ever you are, I love you.” And he regretfully took his position to clash one last time.
And they both ran toward each other, weapons raised— ready to attack.
“For the Light!” Epion shouted zealously and as his sword came down upon his attacker, who stared in paralyzing shock as it was ablaze in righteous fire. It gave off awe inspiring, blinding light as it pushed back the darkness and the shadows—
The father, old and grizzly-haired, battered and scarred, stood within the sanctified halls of the Cathedral of Light. Pure white-stone pillars flanked both sides of him and lined the path until the exit. The ceiling was high and spacious, and at the other end dazzling stained-glass windows cascaded light down onto him as he viewed a paladin before him with bated breath while he spoke, “I trained your son; I saw great potential in him,” he let silence fall for a moment as Epion nodded, “He gave me this . . .” He extracted a wrapped-up blade from within one of his satchels and offered it to Epion, “I think he wanted you to have it.”
Epion stared in shock as he unfolded the wrappings around the now obviously broken blade, the blade that he had given to his son, Striver's Heart. A giant shard of the sword was shattered off near the tip of it. He glared back up at the paladin, “What has happened to my son?” He managed to choke out.
“Your son . . . is dead,” he said bluntly and strode from the Cathedral.
Epion didn’t know how to react to this. He had expected to see his son, to see what a great paladin he had turned into. Before he knew it, tears had leapt from his eyes. Heads turned, casting sympathetic looks onto the old man as he cried— he did not care. He brought his hands shakily to his face and covered it as he gave his first pent-up sob.
— Plagueheart snarled and lashed forward viciously at his father, having seen an opening, he felt blade sink deep into his father’s chest, and he saw the scarlet as the Light-imbued sword came down over him as if in judgment.
Plagueheart lay upon the blight covered ground, pain spiraling up and down his body as his blood emptied from the grievous wound on his chest. His fingers convulsed as they clawed at the earth as if he were trying to find some anchor to this life, his jaw was slack and his eyes were wide-- filled with tears as he stared transfixed up at the crimson sky. He groaned loudly and his back arched out of the agonizing pain, “Rrragh— Ahhhh!” he bellowed through gritted teeth.
Plagueheart stood amongst the shadows of his mind, darkness swirled all around him, fluctuating this way and that-- chaos as he glanced down at his transient form, unscathed and unmarked by the torture and the battles of his unlife. He clenched his hand into a fist. He continued to stare, mesmerized, as his body flickered to normalcy, the scar-covered, brutally misshapen form he had grown so accustomed to. Bitter resentment surged through him, and then a longing, when seconds later, he felt the weight of Striver’s Heart affixed to his belt. He stared dumbfounded at it until gaining enough sense to unlatch it from his belt and grip the hilt. He admired the clean, untarnished blade before the whisperings came . . .
The Lich King leisurely strode from the tangible shadows of his consciousness with Frostmourne in hand.
“I no longer serve you.” The defiant servant desperately proclaimed to his Master, “I no longer answer your call!” He yanked his fist across his vision, to get the point across that he was through!
The embodiment of the whispers merely laughed and it echoed eerily around the confines before he raised Frostmourne, and gestured to Plagueheart, “You always were a thorn.” He sneered.
Plagueheart snarled and brought both of his extremities together to fasten their grip around the hilt of Striver’s Heart. He squared his shoulders and took a long, tired draft of air and exhaled once, his breath escaping from his mouth in a swirling mist. He was prepared for his last battle . . . the battle for his freedom.
He ran toward the Lich King with all the strength he could muster— putting everything he had into this final charge. The Lich King reeled back with his dread Runeblade and sent it with devastating force down onto the assailant, who thrust his blade in front of the other’s, an enormous clash echoed.
After an intense struggle, Plagueheart threw the encroaching sword off and lurched back from the imposing figure of the Lich King. His eyes narrowed for but a second before launching himself back into the fray . . .
He heaved a ragged cough as he stumbled back from another unrelenting, bone-shattering attack from the powerful Frostmourne; hopelessness engulfed him. How am I able to combat him, he’s a god . . . Everything seemed so lost and fruitless when suddenly the presence of a man he had never thought to witness within his psyche stood side-by-side with him, a rebellious, persistent but grim expression on his face as he looked up at the intimidating figure of the Lich King.
The son could not believe what he was seeing, but he turned to face his foe.
“Father and son, at last, let us relinquish his hold on you, and free your soul from his insidious grasp for good!” Epion shouted defiantly his expression still holding that same determined look.
“Father and son.” Echoed Plagueheart, and at the same time, they dashed toward the Lich King, weapons raised high as they did, when they reached him. They both delivered the edges of their blade down upon the entity who had kept them apart for so long.
And the flames that usually burned with malice, hatred, and utter loathing finally dimmed until they faded away completely, the whisperings of his mind having abandoned him, leaving him free during his last seconds of life, “Free . . . at . . . last. . .” he fleetingly managed to whisper as his hand grew cold and motionless against the ground, no longer seeking to affix himself to this existence.
The corpses of the both the scourge and the alliance littered the battlefield as Epion desperately dragged himself to his dead son. His hands inched forward and sunk into the dirt as with all the power he could muster, he would drag himself closer to his goal, the repetitive process would repeat itself until he made it to his son’s corpse. He stared into the faint eyes of the last of the Striveheart bloodline— his gaze desperately searched his boy’s face— some signal that his last dying breaths were free ones. His eyes welled up with tears once more as he unrelentingly examined his face, “Epion, my son, I- I love you.” He said weakly and collapsed next to his child.
The original thread with comments
Category:Stories
Category:Roleplay
Category:Cult of the Damned
Category:The Scourge