The Highmountain tauren, Ronok Loneoak, stood as an imposing figure. Totems strapped across his back, war-paint across his face, he looked every part the stoic warrior. He spoke words of honour and pride, yet also of camaraderie and the bond of soldiers that can only be forged in battle. In many ways, he was the pinnacle of what the Horde aspired to be. The warriors under his command pounded their chests and roared in agreement and approval as he laid out the plans for battle, ready to fight and die under his command. A sethrak army guarding a field of Azerite crystals was just over the horizon, and Loneoak meant to take it.
Invictus listened to his words of inspiration and courage, and felt nothing.
As the rest of the Horde warriors went to ready themselves for battle, collecting their weapons and armour, Invictus and two other Forsaken sat in the sand. Their lifeless eyes stared into the distance, lost in thought and quiet contemplation. Invictus picked at a piece of mottled skin on his arm, turning to little more than dust in the unforgiving desert of Vol’dun. Is that how a Forsaken dies, then? Their skin retreats from their bones, and somewhere along the way, they simply cease to exist?
The undead on his left seemed to be musing over the same. Her name was Sydney Townsend, an accomplished rogue. She opted to keep the name she had in life as she believed her goals were much the same; the protection of her son. He had followed Arthas into Northrend as a footman, lying about his age in order to enter the military. When the bells began to ring their alarm of an undead threat to the great city of Lordaeron, she stayed, desperately hoping for her son’s return. Her wish was granted, but not as she had hoped; he came back as a mindless ghoul of the undead scourge, having fallen under the powers of Arthas.
When she saw him, shambling and half-rotten, a living horror masquerading as her son, she didn’t shy away from him. She hoped there was still a shred of humanity within that form. That hope cost her her life, as a swipe from the wicked claws of the ghoul tore open her jaw. Now, her mouth hangs loosely to one side, leaving her barely able to speak. Her only wish is to find and kill her son, putting him out of his misery. A mother, longing for the death of her own child… a fate too cruel to contemplate. A fate that belongs to a woman who says she used to paint landscapes. She thought the mills in northern Tirisfal were pretty. Death made her swap her brushes for daggers. Invictus could only shake his head at the waste of it all.
Looking to his right he saw Layton Abrams, a man of the cloth in life and a man of the cloth in death. He says every use of the light burns his skin and sends a wave of pain coursing through his body. The thing he loved the most in life, betraying him, even rejecting him in death.
His last moments were of Lordaeron falling. He stayed to shelter the sick and give them peace before they, too, were taken by the scourge. A devotee of the light, ever faithful until the end, yet it abandoned him just the same. He used to preach about the gifts of the light from the pumpkin patches as the sun set. Now iron rods prop up his left side, ever since the ghouls tore him to pieces and left a gaping hole where his ribs had been. A life of love and peace turned into an undeath of pain and misery. Invictus wondered what they had done to deserve such fates.
When they were raised as Forsaken, all three had rallied under the banner of the banshee queen. They shared in their pain and suffering, finding a place in the world. As their leader rose to prominence, they took pride in seeing what they could still be, even in undeath. Yet even she abandoned them. Their paragon, turned to terror and evil. The one presence the Forsaken had that understood their plight, lived their experience, and fought tooth and nail for their place in the world, had betrayed them. What, then, did they fight for now? Everything that meant something had been taken.
Loneoak took notice of the three undead soldiers that had not prepared for the battle ahead. He had noticed they had hardly fought in the previous engagement, and he would only suffer more losses in his troops if his fighting force was not at full strength. His massive form moved to loom overtop of Invictus, blocking the harsh desert light. “May I sit with you?” he asked. The undead only nodded.
“What happened in the last battle?” the tauren asked, referring to the first skirmish with the sethrak. Invictus knew what he meant right away.
“It wasn’t cowardice,” he explained, his raspy voice made worse in the dry desert air. “It’s not that we couldn’t fight. As we moved towards them, I called out the warcry of our people. Victory for Sylvanas!” He raised a bony fist into the air halfheartedly, letting it swing down by his side. “It’s the first time I’ve called it since.”
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The tauren nodded. He didn’t have to say it. It was a moment of severe shock for the Forsaken as their leader denounced the Horde and disappeared.
“Hearing the words, the fire in my heart - if it’s indeed still in me - went dim. The others, they saw me. They saw my sword arm fall. I believe they felt the same.”
“The others - what’s their story?” Ronok asked. “I’d like to hear how they came to be and found their way to the Horde.” As Invictus explained, recounting their tales, Loneoak listened intently. Then, he asked how Invictus found his end. The undead told his story.
---
In life, he was a city guard for the kingdom of Lordaeron. He wore the white and blue of the city with tremendous pride, believing in the values of duty and honour that were required of him. While days and weeks passed with little action, he didn’t much mind; he had a task that was given to him, and he would perform it admirably. That task was simple. Protect the city from any threats that may occur.
Those threats became all too real when the undead scourge descended upon them shortly after the traitorous prince Arthas murdered his father and brought death to their very doorstep.
The city mustered as strong of a defense as they could, as pointless as it was. Refugees fled in waves, but many were cut down before they could be evacuated, adding to the ranks of the undead. Soldiers and guards tried desperately to protect their retreat, only to find their untimely end as well. The more cowardly ones, losing their nerve, removed their armour and hid amongst the fleeing civilian populace.
But Invictus was no coward now, nor was he then, as a human with a name he had since forgotten.
Standing on the front lines, he battled countless ghouls, suffered the assaults of monstrous nerubians, and witnessed the horrors of rickety meat wagons lobbing the corpses of his former allies into their ranks. Yet he battled on, undaunted and unbroken.
In the midst of battle, he watched as an abomination, a hulking mass of stitched together bodies given life through unholy means, tore a swath through his fellow soldiers. With no concern for his own safety, he leapt atop the monster, hacking into dead flesh and bone. The abomination roared in pain and anger, swinging a savage meathook from a misshapen arm grotesquely attached to its shoulder. It hit him square in the back, time and again, as he stabbed and swung at the undead monstrosity. His last sight was seeing the great monster fall as the bloodloss and wounds turned his world to blackness.
He awoke later in a shallow grave. Undead, similar in appearance to those that had torn him and his city to pieces, were now greeting him to see if he maintained his free will. Soon enough, he was counted among their ranks. After some time, he abandoned all he had known in his past life to serve the Banshee Queen, even so much as forgetting his old name and taking a new moniker. He recalled a poet friend of his, once writing praise of the determination of the Lordaeron soldier, recounting their struggles against the Horde. “Heads bloody but unbowed”, the poem spoke in tribute. The poem was titled “Invictus,” and he took the name for himself. He still whispers the words of that poem to himself before entering into battle.
Fighting for Sylvanas took him across his world and others, across time and space, battling demons and beasts the likes of which he could hardly imagine. Now, with her gone, his people were without direction. It felt like their second chance had fled with her.
--
Ronok Loneoak shook his head, unsure of how one even responds to such a story of pain, loss, and heroism. The tauren were a patient race, and for a time, they just sat in the sand and stared, just as the undead were before.
“The undead woman, Sydney,” he said at last. “Her story is a tragic one, but she herself is not. Her love for her son is so strong, she battled the Lich King’s power to fight for his well being. She is unconquerable.”
He pointed his huge hand towards the second undead, the priest. “And him. His faith is so strong that he accepts the pain it brings him to continue the path he believes in. He is truly dauntless.”
“And you,” he said, putting a hand on the shoulder of the undead, a demonstration that the sensation of cold and rotting flesh did not bother him. “A brave warrior, already having proven that no sacrifice is too great. A champion, strong, and heroic. You, my friend, are indomitable. I’ve come to admire the Forsaken. What you should know is your strength comes not from loyalty to a queen, but from an iron will. An abject refusal to bow to fate! Each one of you has looked death in the face, held firm, and told it ‘no’. Fight not for her. Fight for yourself. For your people!” The tauren stood up and extended a hand to Invictus, who took it and stood with him. “You are a warrior. Now rally them to your side!”
Invictus found that fire in his belly again. He looked down to the tabard that he wore across his chest. The symbol of the Forsaken, and all they represent. “Abrams!” he called to the priest. “You will not stand idly by as these soldiers of the Horde fall to this rabble! Pick yourself up from the sand and follow my lead!” He turned to Sydney. “And you! As long as your daggers are sharp, you fight with me. Do you hear me? Not for Sylvanas - for us! For our people! Fate has tried to shatter us once again, but together - arm in broken arm - we will rise together and stand against it! Come, soldiers. We fight with the Horde.”
---
A short time later, the massive tauren led the charge into the sethrak camp. Invictus was right by his side, leading the charge with him. Raising his sword once more in pride and determination, he found the other resolute, determined members of the undead and called out to them. “For the Horde!” he yelled. With renewed vigour, he stood tall and felt the words more than he ever had. “Victory for the Forsaken!”