I: For whom the Bell Tolls.

Murmurings.

Quiet at first, then louder, faster, more urgent in their tone. Such murmurings were commonplace within the hallowed halls of the Northshire Abbey; oftentimes the hushed tones of the Faithful’s devotional creed mingled with the muted hymns of the pastoral choir. Such noise was normal. And yet, when the time approached six bells past noon, nothing happened. There was no peal of brass bells, not a semblance of that proud ringing sound reverberating throughout the sleepy forests of Elwynn. Only still silence. Absolute. The murmurings ebbed, slowed and then ceased altogether.

Such silence was not normal.

One of the souls within the Abbey paused mid-prayer, the Litany of Duty frozen on his lips. He looked up from his kneeling stance, his youthful visage marred by the frown that furrowed his brow. The person nearest him was one of the residing priests, whose face bore a striking resemblance to a crumpled towel. Currently doing his utmost to seem oblivious to the fact that the bells had not rung, the priest had his nose buried in the worn pages of a well thumbed book. He might have seemed suitably engrossed too, were the book not being held upside down. The younger man cleared his throat, shattering the heavy stillness of the chamber.

“Father,” he spoke, “fetch me my things.”

The priest, an aged, plump man by the name of Crillig, swallowed heavily. He snapped the leather-bound volume shut. He was a genteel fellow, like so many men in their later years, and had had long since been accustomed to the sheltered life of a cleric. Disturbances to such a life were seldom and unwelcome. He’d be much better off if he could just sit and read his book. Better to ignore such ill omens, if you asked him. Safer, really.

Troubled by the oppressive silence, the patrons of the Abbey filed out, blustering a charming variety of mumbled excuses. Choral sheets flitted to the ground, settling softly as the choir vacated with thinly disguised haste. Crillig could hardly blame them; their homes would offer them the solace the church could not . Outside, the winds seemed to wait with baited breath. Something intangible lurked out there beyond the distant mountains, and Crillig was incapable of voicing the source of his discomfort.

In truth, the young man unsettled Crillig. With his quiet confidence and grim solemnity, he seemed strange, foreign. Foreign too was the look in his eyes; he was young, scarcely more than mid twenties if one could hazard a guess, and yet he possessed a manner that spoke of horrors best left unmentioned. Crillig had welcomed him into the Abbey three weeks ago, and things had been unusual ever since. Being a cleric was a lonely occupation, and Crillig possessed the unfortunate habit of trying to engage everybody in long, meandering conversations, regardless of whether they actually wanted to or not. At present, his efforts met with little success.

“Strange times we live in, child,” cautioned Crillig, “Better to stay here, you ask me. Where it’s safe.”

The young man said nothing. Crillig sighed and hauled himself to his feet, his robes scraping against the cool tiles as he ambled toward the far side of the chamber. A stubborn one, it seemed. He motioned for the young man to follow, and together they made their way into the depths of the building.

“You know, I really don’t think there’s too much of a problem. The boys have probably tangled up the bell’s ropes again. Common occurrence, you see.”

As stoic as ever, the young man held his tongue. Crillig’s attempts to engage his companion had thus far proved to be just that - attempts, and nothing more. The priest shrugged, then delved a meaty fist into the depths of his robes, searching for something. His gnarled hand emerged a moment later, clenching a heavy ring of jangling keys. The priest nodded toward an innocuous wooden door seated beyond the ornamental pulpit.

“This way.” Crillig wheezed, shuffling his considerable bulk across the stone floor.

The door was furnished in a long since faded beech, and bore a heavy iron lock speckled with rust. A jangle of fluttering keys, a scrape of metal on metal, followed by a muted click. The door opened. Crillig swung the door aside then ducked through. His grim companion followed.

“You’ll have to watch your head as you step in. Can get a wee bit cramped, you see.”

Cramped was an understatement. The air, stale and musty from lack of use, assailed their nostrils as they stooped inside. Dust particles swirled and danced giddily in the dim light provided by a single dying lamp, and Crillig could have sworn he heard the chittering of vermin. The storage room could barely contain the two hunched men. Yet what dominated the room was not the two occupants, but rather the single piece of furniture the room was designed to house.

Strongly wrought in oak burnished with brass, the storage container rose above Crillig’s waist height with ease. This was not hard, for Crillig was an altogether stout man, but nevertheless the trunk commanded one’s attention with silent aplomb. It was worn from age and seldom use, scuff marks and frayed edges betraying its years. It reminded Crillig of himself, he noted gloomily.

“Rare to have to open this place up,” Crillig popped the clasps with a dull thunk, “Even rarer to store so much cargo; most we usually get is a parcel or two from passing pilgrims.”

No response. Crillig sighed inwardly. Crillig had known more talkative statues. Perhaps this might garner a reaction, he mused. The stout priest jolted the lid of the trunk upward with a harsh squeak.

“Here you are, son,” Crillig took a polite step back, dusting his robes down theatrically, “exactly as they were when you gave ‘em to me.”

Nestled deep within the bottom of the trunk lay three large, bulging sacks. Tightly bound, Crillig noted, with knots intertwined with other knots. Each binding looped into another, more complicated series of restraints. The young man nodded a silent thanks, then reached down and scooped up the top sack with a barely surpressed grunt of effort. Whatever it was, it was heavy. The young man shut the trunk’s lid with a harsh bang, then laid the sack down with reverential care. His hands began to fluidly undo knot after knot, his fingers a blur too fast to follow.

Crillig, desperate to break the silence, indicated the ropes with inquisitive eyebrows and a warm smile, “A man with naval experience, eh?”

“Of a sort.”

“He speaks!” exclaimed Crillig in mock-jubilation as his pudgy features blossomed into a triumphant grin. Any reaction was a victory to him. The final knot came undone, and it was only when the young man held the loose package aloft did the elder man truly appreciate the item’s curious shape. It was long, the full length of the container at least, and it bulged curiously at one end. When the stranger had set the package down, a metallic clank had echoed from within. The man swept the wrapping clean off, letting it fall to the grubby floor discarded.

Crillig’s grin evaporated in an instant.

It was an axe. Gracefully embroidered with intricately laced carvings and golden decoration, the weapon was as beautifully ornamental as it was devastatingly brutal. The young man ran his hands across the surface of the decoration, mutely nodding his approval.

“Excellent, Father,” another nod, “truly excellent. You’ve surpassed expectation.”

Crillig desperately wanted to reply, but his eyes remained transfixed on the weapon. It was huge. It oozed potent wrath. Crillig’s tongue seemed to have made the strategic decision to stop working. His companion, noticing this, managed a bemused smile. The expression seemed forced, as though it was not a familiar movement for his face.

“A Draconic Avenger,” he explained with enthusiasm, though the name was entirely lost on Crillig,” an impressive weapon, certainly. Well-balanced, flawlessly engineered by smiths long forgotten. Superb for melee combat. I’m quite fond of it. Do you like it?”

“W-w-w--” blubbered the priest.
“Yes Father?”
“W-what are, wha--”
“What am I planning to do?” the man’s voice was disciplined now, coolly-modulated.

Crillig managed a nod.

“As you said earlier, Father. Strange times. Dangerous ones too, I might add. Such times usually mean one thing.”

Crillig rediscovered his powers of speech. “A-and what’s that, my child?”

Captain Benedict Dalian, veteran of a hundred battles over three campaigns, simply patted the axe and pointed toward the ceiling, where the silent bell tower lurked over their heads. It was only then that Crillig noticed a muffled, frenzied sound emanating from above. It chilled the old man‘s bones, and his chest tightened.

Screaming. He could hear screaming.

Dalian uttered a mirthless chuckle. It was not a pleasant sound.

“Hunting season.”

It was almost dark by the time they withdrew from the dank storage room. By then, the multicoloured shafts of light that speared through the stained glass windows dimmed to a more muted, subdued tone. Crillig’s heart rate increased in the gloom. The two men had assembled themselves within one of the Abbey’s central rooms, a circular chamber which served as a hub for the rest of the building. Though the Abbey was not a large structure, the shadows had deepened, creeping toward them. It seemed as though they were the only two living souls left inside the Abbey. The screams they had heard from the upper floors had been cut off long ago.

A menacing quiet draped the air.

It had been within the store room where Dalian had unpacked the rest of his stowed packages. He worked fast, unravelling and organising with systematic precision. With methodical clicks and snaps of clasps that rang out in the confines of the chamber, Dalian assembled himself.

It was armour. Black, ornately decorated, darkly majestic armour. With each progressive sack opened, the young man seemed to appear less and less human. Currently, he was all but hidden beneath a glittering layer of ebony plate. The glossy carapace covering every piece of his exposed flesh. His face remained entirely hidden behind an impassive facemask, trimmed with red stripes and ensconced beneath a menacing cowl which draped over his head. The carapace was bulky, though he seemed to move quite easily in it. Religious icons and symbols decorated its surface; the large shoulder pads adorned with mock-scripture books tipped with knives. Crillig found the overall effect suitably intimidating. Curiously, the young man had adopted a sterner, more militaristic tone.

He’s a paladin, Crillig realised with a start. A holy warrior.

“Y-you mentioned something along the lines of hunting…” began Crillig. He winced at the quavering timbre in his voice. “What do you expect to do, exactly?”

“It’s quite simple, Sir.” replied the paladin breezily, “We seem to have something of an infestation upstairs. No doubt it’s some wild animal, quite possibly a ghoul or something along those lines. No doubt you heard the noises?”

Crillig had. The signs of further activity had started moments after the last pitiful cry for help ended. There came a faint scratching from the floorboards above. Faint at first, subtle. Then it became more insistent. The scratching ceased. Replacing it was a deep, thunderous plodding noise, almost ponderous in its pacing as it ambled about. Nearby tables, adorned with unlit candles and chalices of worship rattled in response to the heavy vibrations. A vase fell and shattered.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Each footfall resounded like some kind of murderous dinner gong. Something was moving upstairs. Something big.

“I- well, yes, I suppose I can hear something. Mice, perhaps.” mumbled Crillig ineffectually.

“Excellent, Father! Then you know what we have to do!”

A pause.

“A-and what’s that, my child?”

“We kill it, Sir.”

“Oh.”

The priest’s heart sank.

By contrast, the paladin seemed positively cheerful about everything. He seemed more comfortable in the armour, as though it were a second skin. It occurred to Crillig that the paladin may not be entirely stable, mentally speaking. Currently, Dalian was striding confidently toward the winding stair case that disappeared into the relative murkiness of the second floor. His axe was casually slung over his shoulder. Crillig gingerly followed a step or five behind. He took the tentative steps of the extremely reluctant. He was no soldier.

As they reached the foot of the stairs. Dalian turned to the elderly priest, regarding him steadily. Intense light seemed to pulse from the twin eye slits in his faceplate, as though lit from some mysterious source within. Crillig found it hard to meet his gaze. Such magical enchantments were unfamiliar to him. And if there was one thing Crillig hated, it was the unfamiliar.

“Are you ready, Sir?” inquired the paladin smoothly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ready, Sir. To engage the enemy, I mean.”

Crillig thought it all sounded vaguely like a wedding ceremony. He might have chuckled at that, were his heart not moments away from imploding.

“I, well, it might be better if I went for he--”

“Nonsense, Father!” declared Dalian, “What good is a man if he does not protect his own! We have a duty to the people of this Abbey, do we not? ”

“Well, I guess I wou--”

“It’s settled then!” announced the soldier, clapping the priest roughly on the back with a gauntleted fist. Crillig was almost bowled over, grasping the banister to stay on his feet. By the time he had steadied himself Dalian had already launched himself at the staircase, bounding upwards two steps at a time.

“With haste, Father, the bells shall ring proudly once more!”

Crillig spluttered in protest, a barrage of reasons of why one should not blunder into a dark Abbey full of shadowy, slavering and shrieking things flooding out from his dry lips. But Dalian had disappeared, his war cry sounding oddly muffled as it drifted down from the darkness above.

“Onwards, to Glory!”

The paladin’s footsteps were swiftly absorbed by the darkness, the cavernous shadows swallowing them wholesale. Crillig looked up at the looming, menacing staircase. The blackness stared back. The old man hesitated, his legs shaking with all the consistency of jelly. This was going to end badly, he just knew it.

Crillig paled, clutched the banister for dear life, and followed.

Outside the Abbey, the sun had gone down. Sensing the malice hanging in the air, the sun dove beneath the horizon for cover. Above, storm clouds rumbled in solemn disapproval. The surrounding woodland grew colder, the trees buffeted violently by the winds. The leaves rustled. They seemed to be chanting, anticipating carnage. Inside, things were no better.

Clank!

Crillig swore violently despite himself. He had stubbed his toe against a small table in the dark, the sound like a rifle shot in the lingering stillness. Visibility was poor. Clenched in his fist was a simple oil lamp, though the gas remained unlit and its light absent. Where had he put those blasted matches?! Murmuring the words of a psalm to calm himself, he limped onward, hands tracing the walls as he guided himself along.

The second floor seemed clear. Indeed, it had grown so quiet that Crillig began to entertain the notion that the lurking menace had left altogether. Wishful thinking probably, he grimaced as the hairs on the back of his neck tingled and stood to attention like nervous soldiers. It was cold in here. The wary priest padded softly across the stone floor, wincing as he caught himself from yet another stumble. He had almost tripped over his own robe. A thin film of sweat beaded across his brow, and Crillig wiped it with the back of his woollen robe. He took a deep breath. Edging forward more carefully this time, his out-stretched hand brushed against the heavy frame of a doorway. Beyond it lay the final stair, a narrow, twisting series of steps which wound upwards into the bell tower itself.

Crillig paused. So intent on picking his way safely through the dark, the portly priest had not realised how far he had actually come. Hope soared in his chest: he had all but explored the entirety of the Abbey! And not a slavering, priest-eating beast in sight! He had to double check. He cocked his head to one side, ears straining against the gloom for the ominous footsteps. Nothing. Not even a whisper. Giddy with relief, Crillig began to chuckle at his own folly. How scared he had been, and for nothing! His chuckle grew to a laugh, taunting the darkness. There was nothing to fear, he rejoiced, nothing at all! He was safe! Safe!

An unseen hand clamped across his mouth.

“Mmmmmmrpgh!” shrieked Crillig in alarm.

“Quiet you fool!” Dalian hissed, “You’ll get us both killed!”

“Mmmrph, mmmrgpgh, mmmrrrgh!” mumbled Crillig, still panicking.

“What was that, Sir?”

“Mmmmmrrph!”

“What?!” the paladin was impatient now as he whispered in the dark, “I can’t understand the slightest word you’re saying, Sir! Speak clearly!”

“Mmmrpgh!” Crillig repeated emphatically as he flapped ineptly against the soldier‘s vice-like hold. It took a moment for Dalian to notice the fact that his gauntlet remained fixed over the aged priest’s mouth like a sewer grate.

“Oh, my apologies, Sir.”

Dalian’s grip relaxed. Crillig doubled over, gasping for air. Dalian knelt beside him as he watched the rotund man recover, lungs heaving. A minute passed. Crillig clambered to his feet, then rounded on his companion, livid. His indignant protests died in his throat when he saw what Dalian clutched in his other hand. Crillig grew pale, gurgled slightly and then vomited.

It was a severed leg.

Crillig had no idea how it got there, or where it came from. It was barely more than a bloodied stump, the flesh torn and frayed above the ankle. The shoe, bizarrely, seemed entirely spotless. As if on cue, an unpleasant smell drifted down from above. It smelled like an abattoir. It smelled of slaughter. In response to this, Crillig’s stomach opted on the most logical course of action available, and emptied itself accordingly.

“Do you know who this belongs to, Father?” Dalian inquired calmly as he held the disembodied limb up for Crillig to inspect, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was holding a decidedly key part of somebody‘s anatomy. Tact didn’t seem to be one of the paladin’s strong points. The only thing that answered Dalian was a fresh onslaught of bile. Dalian cocked his head to one side, as unfazed as ever.

“Now, now, Father,” he scolded briskly, “This is hardly a time for an upset stomach. We’ve got work to do, after all.”

Crillig could only glare between retches. He was dry-heaving by this point. Wiping his mouth on his sweat-drenched sleeve, he opened his mouth to respond.

“Shh!” Dalian held a solemn finger over where his mouth would be, were it not masked behind a faceplate, “Do you hear that?”

Crillig didn’t need to answer. The thunderous footfalls answered for him. Again, it was above, and again it was heavy, though this time it was accompanied by a new sound. Growling. Low, deep, hungry, it surged down from the winding stair, wrenching at Crillig‘s beating heart. Dalian twisted his face toward the new sound. His eyes narrowed.

“Stay behind me, Father,” he murmured, moving to take point, “It’s high time we finished this, wouldn‘t you agree?”

Crillig whimpered meekly.

“Very well, let’s get stuck in.”

And so, with the soft thread of careful steps, the priest and the paladin edged their way upward into the bell tower.

Dalian’s armoured boots clicked gently as he entered the bell tower. The air was damp, an obscene cocktail of slaughter congealed with decaying wood. His eyes adjusted to the gloom. The room was expansive, a network of ropes and pulleys lending it a labyrinthine aspect. Beams of moonlight pooled through the gaps in the roof, which was old and corroded from harsh winters long past. The light spilled gently against every surface. A ragged hole gaped in the ceiling, from which came the thickest beam of moonlight, dancing across the rim of the large bell. The bell itself dominated the centre of the room with ease, their ghostly reflections mirrored in its cool surface. It was the only illumination Dalian had to go with.

That is, until Crillig found the matches.

Crillig had spotted the tinder box accidentally. His toe had struck it as it sat precariously on the head of the steps. The box rattled noisily, and he scooped it up with barely contained delight. Crillig slipped the packet into the depths of his robes, murmuring a silent prayer of thanks. He tried hard not to focus on the fact that still-attached to the packet had been somebody’s hand. At least he didn’t throw up this time. Nevertheless, his hands shook as he scraped the match’s sulphurous tip against the rough texture of his robe. As harsh as sand paper, the cloth rewarded him well as the flame snapped alight. Dalian winced in disapproval; the element of surprise had been lost. Whatever it was they were hunting would now be hunting them. Heedless, Crillig turned to light the lamp, smiling tightly to himself as it hissed into life. Finally something was going his way, he thought. The lamp seemed searingly bright, and he had to blink a few times before his watery eyes adjusted.

When they did, he gasped.

Blood. So much blood. It coated the walls, splashed about in great arcs that dyed the wood of the bell tower’s interior a dark maroon. Three still forms lay on the ground, and it took Crillig a minute to realise that they used to be human. It looked as though somebody had taken a butcher’s knife to them. They appeared to lack limbs at seemingly random intervals. It sickened Crillig to note that some of them looked as though they’d been bitten. Chewed, even.

Two things united all the corpses. Firstly, they were all wore the robes of the faithful, though the priest was hard pressed to identify any of them. After all, there wasn’t much left to identify. Secondly, and this truly disturbed Crillig, they all been ripped across the upper chest and neck area, their throats exposed to the crisp night air. The injuries seemed premeditated. Ritualistic.

They stepped forward into the room carefully; the paladin with his axe, the priest with his oil lamp. Neither made a sound. Nor did the creature they hunted; though Dalian could feel the prickly sensation of being watched by his enemy‘s eyes. Hungry eyes. Dalian’s own gaze flicked furtively left and right, darting to and fro as they methodically swept for threats. He absorbed each and every detail carefully. Concentration at this time was key. To do otherwise meant death.

There came a muffled thump behind him.

Dalian swung about, axe raised in a defensive guard. It was Crillig. The kindly priest smiled sheepishly, his face a deep crimson. He had bumped into an old pile of cloth sacking. His lamp swung wildly, causing the shadows to see-saw back and forth. The paladin exhaled slightly, then opened his mouth to chastise the oaf for his clumsiness.

His first mistake.

Something hit Dalian from the side with all the crunching impact of a cavalry charge. The paladin was flung bodily against a support beam, rebounding violently to the ground. Something snapped. Dalian yelped, a white hot pain flashing across his chest. His training kicked in. Rolling to one side, he scrambled to avoid a second lunge. The roll saved his life. His attacker sprang at him again, slamming into the spot where he’d been moments ago. At first a shapeless shadow when it first struck, the beast was now exposed in all its unholy glory.

Crillig saw the beast unveiled in the warmth of his oil lamp, and screamed.

Worgen.

It was huge. Easily as tall as the tallest of men, though it hunched low on the ground. Its knuckles scuffed the floor in a disturbing parody of a man, or even a gorilla. Its face, however, set it apart. Snarling, its elongated snout was that of a wolf, its twin yellow eyes burning with malevolent hunger and keen intelligence. Its powerful muscles were coated in a drab layer of filthy brown. Blood matted its chest and claws. Gore dripped from its protruding fangs. It was the stuff of nightmares, of children’s fables. Dalian rolled to his feet, swinging his axe to bear.

Too late.

The beast hit him again, barrelling him over onto his back. Plate clattered, wood splintered. A fresh wave of pain washed over him. Crillig gaped at the scene, open mouthed and unmoving. Dalian had curled his knees up protectively across his battered chest, his axe held in both hands. Laying across him was the worgen, its fangs slavering as it too grasped the glittering axe. Dalian wheezed, the breath being forced out of his lungs by the beast’s oppressive bulk. The fangs dipped closer, saliva dripping onto his faceplate. The stench was awful.

Dalian closed his eyes, and awaited the end.

With a roar of terror more than anything else, Crillig struck. His oil lamp flashed and a splintering crack rang out across the chamber. Glass tinkled, oil splattered and the beast howled as its eye burst from the impact of the blow. Stung, it turned, momentarily distracted. Dalian shifted his weigh to one side, unbalancing the lumbering beast as his legs tangled with the creature‘s own. The worgen tottered, snarled, and crashed to the floor. Dalian clambered upright, raising the axe. With a bellowing shout he swung the Draconic Avenger downward. There was a wet thwack as it sank home. A howl rent the air.

The beast thrashed, the axe embedded deeply in the thick hide of its flank. A flaying elbow caught Dalian across the side of head and spun him to the ground once more. The axe remained sheathed in the worgen’s side, and jets of crimson pulsed freely from the deep wound. The worgen roared, enraged.

Then it glared at Crillig.

Ordinarily, in any normal circumstance involving a threat to his physical person, Crillig knew precisely what to do. He would remain calm, wait for the local watchman to arrive, and expect a standard solution to a standard situation. As the beast hissed and tore the axe from its flank with a snarl of fury, a single thought popped inanely into Crillig’s mind, repeating itself over and over with maddening intensity.

This was not a standard situation.

Without thinking, and certainly without training, Crillig reacted. He turned and fled, arms flapping with all the grace of an excited drunk who may or may not think he’s a duck. Behind him, the creature bounded closer. He could hear its footsteps, beating out against the floor like the thumping of an executioner’s drum. Closer.

His clumsiness saved his life.

Crillig tripped. It was a spectacular fall too, in hindsight, and it could not have come at a better time. The worgen had pounced, sailing through the air, its claws extended as it waited to bury them into Crillig’s wobbling, wide and altogether tender rump. Which is when he fell, his left foot catching his right ankle. He collapsed in an inglorious heap. With a hiss of frustration, the worgen sailed overhead, ploughing head first into the bell. The dong! was deafening.

The worgen lolled about, eyes unfocused and groggy as it sank to the floor beneath the bell.

Meanwhile, Dalian was trying to clamber to his feet. Emphasis on trying; he wheezed and panted with a shortness of breath that could only be a punctured lung. Finally, he gave up, propping himself up on one elbow as he called out to the priest.

“Strike, Father!” he cried, forcing himself to shout “Finish it before it recovers or we’re done for!”

Crillig, dazzled at having his innards still intact, shook his head. He seemed as groggy as the stunned worgen.

“Listen to me!” implored Dalian, “Either you kill him or he’ll kill you! Finish it!”

“How?!” despaired Crillig, “I’m just a priest!”

“I don’t know! Improvise!”

Crillig panicked as he looked about. His racing mind processed things without really seeing them: the splintered floor beneath the worgen, the hastily splattered lamp oil, the discarded axe, the shining bronze bell. You’re used to weekend sermons and plenteous portions of port, whined a voice in his head, what are you meant to do with a bell and an axe-- Crillig’s train of thought crashed to a halt.

The axe.

Stumbling clumsily over to the fallen weapon, Crillig fell to his knees. He snatched it with sweaty palms, hauling it upright with a shrill scrape of metal. It was heavy. It swayed unsteadily in his hands. He stole a glance at the bell, at how the worgen‘s legs trailed beneath its looming shadow. He looked at the taught ropes that held the gleaming bronze bell in place. It all clicked together.

Improvise.

With a yell Crillig swung the axe. It sliced cleanly through the thick ropes. With a resounding clang the bell collapsed downward, years of tension expelled in a mind-numbingly loud explosion of showering splinters and ringing metal. The floor gave way. The gods themselves would have trembled at the sound. The beast howled.

The worgen’s spine had been bisected by the bell, neatly severing it. Its limbs thrashed, clawing at empty space in impotent fury. Crillig peered down through the gaping hole, stunned. He blinked a few times, waiting for the stinging dust to clear. He’d done it.

The worgen began trying to pull its shattered body free, with limited success, writhing against the insurmountable weight of the ancient bell. It pounded the stone floor with balled fists. It screamed for blood.

“What did you do?!” yelled Dalian, incredulous a the sheer barrage of noise that still resounded throughout the Abbey. He craned forward to see, but the pain forced him to wince and lay back.

“I, well- I” Crillig was still stunned by the sheer chaos he’d unleashed. “It’s still alive, I think!”

“So go finish it, Father! Go down and hit it on the head or something!”

Crillig eyed the flashing claws and the spitting fangs warily. He didn’t fancy going down to bop that thing on the head, not one bit. He hadn’t lived to be his age by taking such risks. Suddenly, he had an idea.

“Well?!” croaked Dalian, who had collapsed onto his back, his broken rib getting the better of him. It was hard to focus. His vision swam, and he closed his eyes as he swallowed deep breaths.

“Hang on!” wafted the response through the swirling dust.

“For what?! What in blazes are you doing?!”

“Improvising!”

Crillig looked at the worgen, taking in its condition. He noted the blood that bubbled from its flaring nostrils, the sticky stinging oil that caked its matted pelt and stung its wound. He dug a hand into his pockets. His hand withdrew a moment later.

In it was a single match.

The worgen ceased thrashing. It looked straight up. For all its bestial wrath, it seemed to sense Crillig’s intent. The match flared into life. The worgen’s eyes locked with Crillig’s. Crillig smiled, and flicked the match. It seemed to fall achingly slowly, twisting and turning as it sailed through the air.

The match landed.

With an ear bursting squeal of agony, the worgen ignited. Its hand banged against the bell as it writhed and spasmed, the sound echoing throughout the entire forest. The flames spread, racing across the rug, the bookcases, the ornate tapestries that hung from the walls. All of them burst into flames For years afterward, the residents of Elwynn would remember that final, terrible, relentless howl. That, and the fire which consumed most of the Abbey.

And so it burned, the tendrils of flame licking against the stonework of the Abbey as they crackled.

Hours later, the flames died out. The damage had been considerable. The upper floors of the building had been gutted, the crude skeleton of the bell tower marked out by gnarled fingers of blackened stone. The stained glass had shattered from the surging heat, and it crunched underfoot as the locals trudged listlessly about the desecrated Abbey. Such a sign was an ill portent for the inhabitants of Elwynn. Many wept and lay prostrate before the Abbey’s ruinous shell in apology for their transgressions, both real and imagined. The harsh winds eased. The smoke cleared.

It was on the remnants of the second floor where the two men stood. Neither spoke, content to gaze grimly at the still smouldering remains of the incinerated beast. The bell had been stained with a thick paste of soot but remained otherwise unharmed. Protruding beneath it was the withered form of the worgen, its skull charred permanently into a wicked grin full of teeth.

“Well then, announced Dalian as he surveyed the devastation, “Job well done, all things considered.”

Crillig’s eyes stung. His pores were clogged with smoke and his hair was greasy from exertion and sweat. A charmingly diverse variety of cuts, bruises and burns marked his ashen skin. He swallowed heavily, throat raw, and nodded bitterly. He seemed miserable. He certainly hadn’t meant to torch the Abbey.

The armoured paladin crouched beside the crispy worgen skeleton, nursing a hand protectively across his ribs. Crillig had admired how fast the man seemed to be recovering. Some kind of paladin trick, no doubt. Dalian reached forward, and snapped off one of its talons with a brittle crack. He rose to his feet, cupping the cruel barb in his palm. The paladin studied it for a moment, nodded, then opened a small pouch fastened to his belt.

Six identical claws lay piled within, some longer than others.

Noticing Crillig’s shock, Dalian simply fastened the pouch and patted it softly.

“Seventh one I’ve found this month.” he said. The paladin paused, then turned to Crillig. “Well, I’ve got to get going. I’ve a feeling there’s more work to be done. For both you and me. Probably best to get rid of that tinder box of yours. People could start to ask questions, you see. Farewell, Father.”

And, without another word, Dalian saluted stiffly, turned sharply on his heel and left.

Crillig was alone. He eyed the chaos, the destruction he’d seen unfold first hand. Overhead, the moon peered down at him, its gaze boring into him. He stared right back. The loose muscles in his jaw bunched. Impulsively, he knelt down, blessed himself, and then cracked off a talon for himself. Then he too left the Abbey.

Dalian had already mounted up and started up the path by the time he heard the man shouting for him. He cocked his head to one side, bemused. It was the priest. He seemed tremendously animated for some reason.

“You there! Wait!” cried Crillig, arms waving as he urged him to stop, “I’m coming with you!”

Dalian pulled on his reigns, the steed neighing in protest as it halted. He twisted about in his saddle, looking down at the bloodied, battered old priest with barely concealed amusement.

“Yes?” asked Dalian, his impassive facemask betraying nothing.

Crillig’s face was red and swollen by the time he caught up. He leant heavily on the side of Dalian’s steed, wheezing deeply as he composed himself. Sensing that it could be some time before the priest could speak, the paladin spoke up, his voice as solemn as ever.

“How may I assist you, Father?”

The old man blinked sweat from his bloodshot eyes.

“As you said, paladin.” puffed Crillig. “Work to be done. For both me and you.”

“You and me.” The paladin corrected automatically. Crillig simply nodded, too tired for the paladin’s grammar.

“Right. So I’ll be coming with you, Child. There‘s nothing for me here now. Besides, I’m too old for reconstruction work. Hunting things sounds easier. Provided you do some of the work this time, son. ”

The armoured figure chuckled, that same deep, dark chuckle.

“Very well, Father Crillig.” he said, “You may accompany me. But do not blame me for the things we shall see, or the deeds we shall do. For they are many, and few are pleasant. Regardless, Sir, we‘ll make a paladin out of you yet.”

Dalian extended a gauntleted hand. Crillig shook it.

“Captain Benedict Dalian, Lordaeron 7th Infantry, Inquisitor First Class.” he said.

“Father Owen Crillig, Minister of Northshire Abbey, Worgen-Slayer.” replied the breathless priest.

Dalian nodded curtly in approval, his helmet making a clicking sound. Crillig swallowed, wondering if he’d made the right choice.

“So… what do we do now?” he asked, finally.

“For now?” Dalian pointed up the meandering path. A tall series of towers, palisades and battlements rose from the leafy forest, proudly majestic in their white-washed stone. “To Stormwind, that last bastion of humanity. We’re going to have many enemies, you and I, and I daresay it’s high time I spoke with a few friends.”

Dalian looked up at the pale moon, haunted by its beauty. It was a terrifying thing. After a moment, he added,

“After all, we’re going to need them.”