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Iron	By : RotSeele Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 1172 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own World of Warcraft. I do not make any money from this story. The lyrics belong to Woodkid. Spiderbite belongs to my best friend.

Chapter List
- 1-Iron
- 1
(Extra Disclaimer: The lyrics belong to Iron (for which the story is titled) by Woodkid. If you've seen the Assassin's Creed: Revelations trailer, then you'll understand my obsession/inspiration.)

The air was filled with the smell of blood and death, of viscera and bodily fluids, of the stink of fear and animals. Spiderbite took a healthy swig of ale as he wiped sweat and blood from his forehead and face, staring out across the battlefield at the fighting – and the still – bodies. The carrion crows were already feasting in some areas of the fields, and his superior hearing could pick up the ghostly voices of the dying. He almost flinched each time there was a scream or a baying for aid. He flexed his metal arm; his gaze dropped to the black steel to remind himself it was still there, that it was still that false limb and not the flesh and bone one, that he wasn’t back in Stratholme all those years ago, when he was just a kid and –
Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away
Where innocence is burned, in flames
A million miles from home, I’m walking ahead
I’m frozen to the bones, I am…
He ripped his memory away from those thoughts, those images, those memories. The ghosts of his brother, his mother, his father, his friends, faded before his eye and in their place rose more physical beings. Men and women in plate armour etched with the symbol of the Argent Dawn or the Argent Crusade, even Stormwind moved around him, ahead of him, behind him. They were covered in blood and viscera as well – some were even missing limbs. He looked back out onto the field – onto the machine that made more ghosts to haunt the living - and prepared himself to take to it again. He didn’t want to; he hadto – not just for his sake, but for another’s, another still out there beyond his reach, still fighting, possibly dying. He felt the change, slowly controlled this time instead of rapid and in a fit of rage. Flesh became fur and nails elongated into razor knives. He gained height; his shoulders hunched slightly. He swallowed the howl that wanted to escape as his bones shifted, grew, rearranged. Spiderbite the worgen let out a snarl and lunged into the chaos of the fight. His knife-like nails – along with his metal claw, his actual knives, and sword – cut into undead and living flesh alike. He knew enemy from ally upon scent, so even in the chaotic rhythm of the battle, he knew exactly whom he was killing. He surged on alone, moving further and further away from his allies.
A soldier on my own, I don’t know the way
I’m riding upon the heights of shame
I’m waiting for the call, the hand on the chest
I’m ready for the fight, and fate
The worgen rogue twisted to the side like lightning, allowing a spear’s metal tip to skim harmlessly past the left side of his chest. He followed through with a swift, mid-air roll, and lashed out with his foot and caught the spear-wielder in the helmet. The cracking of bone was muffled by the screech of denting metal. His opponent went flying into the ground and didn’t get back up. The helmet, dented and battered, scored by nails harder than diamond, crashed into the ground beside its bearer and Spiderbite didrecoil this time. A Forsaken, a mere boy, stared up at him with sightless eyes, his face half crushed in, flesh hanging off bone in tattered ribbons. The boy’s image blurred - became his brother’s - Spider lunged around again with a barely muffled howl, in his hand one of his holy water bombs. He let it fly, screaming in denial and rage; the undead creatures howled when it made contact with their skin, melting their flesh from bone and finishing what nature couldn’t. Spider dodged the blade of a massive sword and snarled in the face of the orc wielding it. He ducked into the guard of the orc and grinned at the monster’s look of utter surprise. His metal hand tore open the orc’s chest and as Spider followed through on his attack, his knife opened up the orc’s throat from ear to ear. The massive creature clutched his throat as blood bubbled and spurted between massive green fingers. The orc gasped out something but only blood bubbled at his lips. Spider hesitated for a split second – a second that cost him. Something crashed into the rogue’s back, sending him sprawling to the ground. There was ringing in his ears as Spiderbite slowly recovered. His bones shook as the ogre bellowed and stamped the ground with feet the size of a tree trunk. He dug his claws into bloodied dirt and hauled himself forward by a few feet. He twisted at the waist to gauge where his adversary was, then struggled to try and scramble away from the massive club aimed for his head and away from the ogre that wielded it.
The sound of iron shocks is stuck in my head,
The thunder of the drums dictates
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead’s
The rising of the horns, ahead
Blood pounded in Spider’s head as he dodged the stone club but he couldn’t regain his footing. The mud/blood/viscera made it too slippery for his paws to get traction. He managed to drag a few of his enemies in the path of that club, but the ogre wouldn’t give him the damn few minutes he badly needed to gain his balance, to just stand up. Spider collided with something soft and malleable. He spared a glance to his left. A dead worgen’s visage greeted him, lips pulled back from bloody teeth, as if a macabre fortune telling for his immediate demise. Spider looked back at the ogre when the creature let out a victorious bellow, the club raised high to squash the worgen rogue into a tiny, visceral pancake. Spider inhaled sharply – somewhere, a horn blew, but to signal a rally or retreat, he didn’t know –
The back of the ogre’s head suddenly exploded into bits of blood and bone. It staggered to one side, listed then regained its balance.
The ogre twisted to stare stupidly at the creature that had attacked it – Spider caught a glimpse of bloodied and dented plate armour – and the ogre raised the club again with an angry bellow. A hammer made of bright, golden light crashed into the creature’s face, quickly followed by a physical hammer that crushed the creature’s shoulder, forcing loose its grip on the club. Spiderbite scrambled to his feet as the ogre started to fall and nearly crashed into another orc. He dodged the creature’s strike with a broadsword and dodged once more a Forsaken as she attempted to take his head with a wickedly curved scythe. Spider backpedaled – he tripped over the ogre’s dropped club and landed hard on his back – his breath escaped him in a rush. Above him, the Forsaken witch raised her blade to take his heart. Spider raised his metal hand, as if that would stave her off –
– her head crashed against his chest, her ichor splattering against his fur. Her body crumpled to the ground, revealing the rogue’s saviour.
From the dawn of time to the end of days
I will have to run, away
I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste
Of the blood on my lips, again
Spider lay staring at Nyrrimath as the paladin followed through on his strike, his hammer exchanged somewhere for a sword as he spun toward the orc. The paladin’s helmet had been lost, his silvering hair now matted with blood and other fluid. It had come loose from its customary short tail, clumps of it now framing Nyrrimath’s face. Blood was smeared across his cheeks and forehead – there was a forming bruise on his right temple; dried blood ran in tiny rivulets from rents in his armour, and there was a new scar across the left side of his neck; even his lips were red with blood from where he’d either bitten them or had been punched. His sword’s blade was chipped, and another was wrought into the steel as he blocked the orc’s attempt to cut off his arm. Nyr twisted his blade to the side, throwing the orc’s sword wide and leaving them both wide open for an attack. The orc was fast; Nyrrimath was faster – a blast of light from the paladin’s outthrust palm crashed into the orc’s chest, flaying it open.
Nyrrimath was a burst of movement, his entire body following that thrust as he spun beneath another attack and drove his sword into the body of a blood elf, cutting off the creature’s spell. He released his hold on the sword’s hilt and rolled over the falling body, coming to his feet and sweeping the field before and behind him away with his hammer. He spun once and flung his hammer into the face of the troll about to stab Spider from behind. The moment he saw his hammer connect, Nyr pivoted and caught a downward strike from a sword on his crossed braces. In the moment of surprise, he lashed out with his foot and the rogue heard the snapof bone as he Forsaken’s sternum collapsed in on itself from the force of Nyr’s kick. The paladin continued the forward momentum – the force of his foot coming down in the mud left a hole in the ground - and snatched up a discarded two-handed broadsword. It dragged in the dirt until Nyrrimath created enough momentum to swing it up into the face of his next attacker – the blade cut the goblin’s head in half and Nyr continued the upward thrust, not a movement wasted. When he was finally given a wide berth, he turned to the worgen still splayed on the ground, muscles frozen in remembered fear. Spider stared into the pale blue eyes of his paladin and realized he didn’t recognize this Nyrrimath. He didn’t recognize him at all.
This deadly burst of snow is burning my hands,
I’m frozen to the bones, I am
A million mile from home, I’m walking away
I can’t remind your eyes, your face
This was the man born to stand on the killing fields, the man who answered only to the Light. This was the man who worked for the machine of death, the man who used everything he had at his disposal to make sure he was the one who came out alive, the man who committed to the movement and the rhythm of the dance, who was just one split second step ahead of his opponent, just a millisecond faster. This was not the calm, quiet, gentle man that Spider loved, the man who preferred to heal rather than kill. This was not the man who soothed Spiderbite’s nightmares and quieted his fears. This Nyrrimath was the servant of death, meting out swift retribution to those who came at him without blinking an eye or stopping to wonder at the history of the man or woman he just murdered. This Nyrrimath was more than just a paladin – he was a warrior. This battlefield was his home as much as the shadows belonged to Spiderbite. Nyrrimath spun suddenly, his broadsword cutting through one haft of a spear before he was forced to abandon the weapon altogether. His body became a weapon, his hands closing on the haft of a second spear and yanking it away from its wielder. In a swift movement, that spear spun twice above Nyr’s head before plunging into the back of its owner. The orc went down with only a guttural howl.
“Spider!”
The cry of his name jerked the rogue out of his stupor. He lunged toward Nyr and caught the paladin’s outstretched wrist. With strength that was hidden in the paladin’s slight frame, he all but lifted Spider off his feet and spun him into the Tauren raising a battleaxe behind them. Spider lashed out with his metal claw and took out the Tauren’s bicep. Nyr followed through with the spin and caught the axe one-handed, then buried the weapon in the Tauren’s chest. The massive bull looked surprised that his own weapon had been turned against him in such a manner, then crumpled to the ground, revealing the flowing ranks of the enemy surrounding them.
The sound of iron shocks is stuck in my head,
The thunder of the drums dictates
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead’s
The rising of the horns, ahead
Spiderbite pressed his back against Nyrrimath’s and couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up in his throat. “We be in the worst o’ it now,”
Nyrrimath let out a long sigh. “Are you really surprised?”
Spiderbite fanned his fingers, allowing the paladin to see the assortment of bombs held between the thick digits. “Not really.”
Nyr’s pale eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no signal. None was needed. The moment those bombs left Spiderbite’s grip, the pair were moving, running quickly from the sudden concussion wave. They hit the dirt at the same time, grabbing for each other’s hand. Heat and noise and dirt and limbs and red mist and moisture rushed over them and in another moment, there was only silence.
Nyrrimath slowly rose. Beside him, Spiderbite got to his feet, towering over the human as they looked at the damage wrought. Spider’s eye slowly turned to look at Nyrrimath. The paladin glanced up at him, then just as quickly glanced away. Spiderbite slowly set a hand on the paladin’s shoulder; the plate armour crinkled and squealed under his touch. The pauldron sloughed off a minute later, leaving both rogue and paladin staring at the metal in mild confusion.
“You’re an idiot,” Nyrrimath whispered at last, “rushing off alone like that.”
Spiderbite chuckled softly. “Must be Tuesday.”
A soldier on my own, I don’t know the way
I’m riding upon the heights of shame
I’m waiting for the call, the hand on the chest
I’m ready for the fight, and fate
- 1
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Iron