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Scarab Wall

he midday sun fixed its unflinching gaze upon the sands of Silithus, bearing mute witness to the multitudes forming ranks outside the Scarab Wall.

It continued its passage, though to the masses gathered below, it seemed as though the orb had stopped to cast down unrelenting waves of heat until the vast armies simply collapsed from exposure.

Amid the restless formations a lone night elf stood in quiet contemplation. Her companions eyed her with admiration; some, almost reverence. The others who were gathered--an assortment of representatives from every race in every land in the known world--viewed her with their own racial prejudices. After all, the blood feud between night elves and the likes of trolls and tauren dated back centuries.

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No matter their affiliations, however, all who had come to battle that day shared one sentiment for the night elf: respect. Shiromar was like the sun above--impassive, unwavering, and unflinching. These qualities had served her well in the recent months, providing her with the strength to continue when all seemed lost; when the quest seemed neverending; and when her companions had simply given up.

There had been the watcher, and the Caverns of Time; there was the bronze dragon and the Broodlord and the squirming insect hives; then there were the shards and their keepers, the ancient dragons, none of whom would give up their charge easily. Coercion, ingenuity, and sometimes outright violence, all were employed to accomplish the task.

And all of this for one item, the item gripped in Shiromar's hands even now: the Scepter of the Shifting Sands, reformed at last after a thousand years.

In the end, all roads had led here, to Silithus, and to the gates of the Scarab Wall. Here, where the Scepter was shattered.

Shiromar looked up at the sky and remembered a time when the sun had been eclipsed by dragons; when the Qiraji and silithid flooded over the legions of night elves in seemingly eternal waves; when hope seemed but a shadow. It seemed as if none would survive those terrible months; yet here she was, standing before the sacred barrier that saved their lives all those years ago, during the War of the Shifting Sands...

 

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and Valstann Staghelm");

Fandral Staghelm and Valstann Staghelm

andral Staghelm led the charge, his son Valstann at his side. They had chosen the gorge so that their flanks would be protected against the unending flow of silithid. Shiromar was close behind the front line, casting spells as quickly as her energies would allow.

They had fought their way to the mouth of the gorge, Fandral and Valstann accompanied by the most battle-hardened sentinels, keepers and priestesses, with the druids healing and casting exhaustively. It seemed that for every massive cluster of silithid that was destroyed hundreds more would take their place. So it had been for the past few days, since word of the silithid incursion had first arrived and Fandral had sounded the call to arms.

The priestess Shiromar and her companions had all regained enough energy to call upon the grace of Elune simultaneously; they now watched as a blinding column of light obliterated the swarm blocking the gorge's terminus.

Then, a low buzzing sound filled the air. One by one, flying insect creatures--the winged Qiraji, flew over the lip of the gorge and down, striking at the druids in the supporting positions.

Fandral led the front lines from the gorge into the open sands, stepping over the corpse-mounds of the silithid. The air was alive with the thrumming of the Qiraji as they swooped down and slashed with clawed appendages. Fandral pressed forward to allow the supporting ranks room to spread out.

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Rajaxx

As she looked to a ridge in the distance, Shiromar witnessed swarms of land-bound Qiraji pouring over the crest like ants swarming from a hill. A towering monstrosity lumbered into view, swinging clawed limbs, looming over all, shouting commands to the insect soldiers.

Among the chattering and droning of the swarms, one sound seemed to repeat in the presence of the commanding warrior: Rajaxx, Rajaxx... though Shiromar did not understand the Qiraji's communications, she wondered if that might not be the creature's name.

As the next wave of Qiraji drew near, a great horn sounded: from the east and west, multitudes of night elves charged onto the field. With a blood-curdling cry Fandral and Valstann pressed straight into the heart of the oncoming swarm; the two sides clashed and melted into each other as the newly arrived forces crushed in on both flanks.

Shiromar felt for sure that they had won out; but as the shadows grew long and day proceeded into night, the battle continued. In the center of the fray, Fandral, Valstann, and the Qiraji general clashed in a desperate struggle.

As Shiromar narrowly avoided several attacks from the winged Qiraji, she glanced to where the general battled father and son. The numbers of the Qiraji were dwindling, and the general seemed to sense this, for with a mighty leap he bounded away, back to the ridge where Fandral had first spotted him. From there he disappeared and the few remaining insect-creatures were quickly eradicated.

That evening watches were set as the night elf forces rested. Fandral knew that the Qiraji threat had not fully been quelled, and he expected the battle to begin anew the following the morning. Throughout the night Shiromar slept only in brief increments, the din of battle still ringing in her ears, though the surrounding desert remained quiet.

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With morning, as the troops reformed and pushed on to the ridge they were greeted by an eerie stillness. Shiromar scanned the horizon but the Qiraji and silithid were nowhere to be seen. As Fandral prepared to press on, a messenger arrived with dire news: the town of Southwind Village was under attack.

Fandral considered pulling the troops back to defend the village, but he sensed that such an action would only leave an open door to invasion from the remaining Qiraji. They still had no idea of just how many the insects numbered, or even if they had seen all that this new race had to throw at them.

Valstann correctly guessed his father's thoughts and offered to lead a detachment to the village so that Fandral could stay and provide containment.

Standing close by, Shiromar heard the rest of their conversation play out:

"It could be a ruse." Fandral said.

"Surely we can't take that chance father." Valstann answered. "I'll go. I will defend the city and I will return victorious, upholding the honor of your name."

Reluctantly, Fandral nodded. "Just return alive and I will be more than satisfied."

Valstann gathered a detachment and Fandral watched his son depart. Shiromar worried that their forces were divided, but she understood the necessity of the action.