The Campaign Begins

The Tomb of Sargeras

Alliance warlocks tried to say that fel energy was just another source of magical power.

Everyone posted to the Broken Shore knew better. When they woke after hours of nightmare-ridden sleep, they would cough up vivid green and black globs of something in the morning, increasingly laced with blood and pieces of things that looked like they were things the soldiers would one day miss.

Even looking at the Black City, or worse, the Tomb of Sargeras, hurt. A green outline of either building burned itself into the retinas, and would remain there, sometimes for several eye-watering hours.

The 7th Legion had never shirked in their duty, not even after the disastrous defeat at Theramore Isle, but this deployment, in some ways, was even harder than Northrend.

“Mail call!”

Boots were set down mid-polish and bowls of chow were put down half-eaten.

“Icebeard! Urik! Quarterflash! Windstryke! Hallard! Flinthammer!”

Durkon Flinthammer took the proffered letter and sat down on a rock to read it, his back to the Temple of Sargeras.

“Hello, big brother. I hope this letter finds you well and intact.

“Beli and I are alive and well, and I reckon eating better than you are. The battle against the Burning Legion …”

Several paragraphs were then blacked out by the censors. Durkon could never figure out whether Ringo didn’t understand that he couldn’t write certain things in letters sent in a war zone, or whether he just did it to irritate the censors.

“Frostmaw and Beer Run actually seem to enjoy the Broken Isles. At this point, they’re both pretty used to getting shot at and if it wasn’t for the Legion, (redacted), elf ghosts and (redacted), this would be a pleasant place to live. Maybe after this is all over.

“The in-laws tell me that the 7th Legion helmet you sent to Bael in Stormwind was a big hit with your nephew. The split where I reckon a Legion blade shattered it just makes it better, I’m told. I won’t ask if you survived, since I know your head is harder than any helmet.

“But it does all of us, both back home and here in the isles, to know you’re at the tip of the spear. I keep up a brave face for Beli and Bael, but the end of the world feels closer than it ever has. One of the few things that gives me comfort is that I know one of the bravest, strongest and smartest soldiers I’ve ever known — my big brother — is standing between the Legion and all we hold dear. (Save this letter, because I’ll never admit to having said any of it.)

“I don’t know how long this campaign will last — has there ever been a war we weren’t told would be over by the Feast of Winter Veil? — but I have faith that your bravery, that of our other brothers, and whatever the blessings the Titans can bestow on us (redacted), we will get through this.

“Keep your head down and your powder dry.

“Your brother, Ringo.”

Durkon smiled, and folded the letter up, carefully tucking into a pocket in his tunic, alongside all the others.

“All right, ladies,” he called out, standing and turning back to the camp. “Let’s go kick some Legion ass.”


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