Found this on a flash drive that I had lost like, five years ago, along with some porn.
The fight had been a difficult one, but the end was in sight. 'Our end', she thought to herself. They had done their best, fighting with bitter hatred and spite, but in the end it was mathematics, and they were on the losing end of the equation. Horribly outmatched at every turn, they had suffered loss after loss. Hopeless rearguard actions became the norm, those left behind buying time for the others not out of selflessness or altruism, but out of rage and bile.
The gods of Chaos, ever fickle, had abandoned them. The forces of Order had driven to the very gates of the Capital itself. None had been able to halt their march, though many had died trying. Even with officers and veterans from Vindictive bolstering the ranks of the defenders, the Border Forts had fallen with startling alacrity. Few survivors managed to escape, leaving that final bastion of darkness, the Inevitable City, with few reinforcements.
Left leaderless, unsupplied, and with waning magic, the remaining denizens of the Capital had rallied behind Vindictive, one of the few cohesive organizations left. All had determined to sell their lives at steep cost. No other option remained.
The high powers of the Chaos lords had fled when they realized there was but one outcome. Crossing the Chaos Gate, they took their most powerful followers and relics and sealed it behind them. Malekith had fled to Naggaroth, knowing none were foolish enough to pursue him there. The main Orcish hordes were useless, chasing elvish shadows in the Badlands, or smashing themselves senselessly against the Dwarven strongholds. They were numerious and spoiling for a fight, but had taken the bait that removed them from the fray with minimal forces from the enemy.
She stood atop the battlements, heedless of the enemy war machines. Beside her, Tryden looked out upon the host that beseiged them, head slightly cocked, as though focused on some far off sound. She was sure he listened to their death knell.
"They are as the tide," he grated out. His low, raspy voice no longer grated in her ears, nor did it cause the nausea that it once did. "Insistent and unrelenting. And much like the tide, we must eventually give way before them. It will not be long now. The gate shall fall within minutes." Her only acknowledgement was a sneer.
She glanced down into the courtyard, her eyes falling upon Skraga as he gathered the remaining fighters before the gate in preparation for the last melee. Tryden's gaze followed hers to the massive orc. "Go. It matters naught where you choose to die in this place, only that you do so in a manner befitting Vindictive." Tryden's words brought a wry smile her face. The large greenskin had been a constant companion and peerless bodyguard over the past years. He was now nearly twice the size he had been when she first encountered him, and was a much danker green, bordering on black, and covered in masses of scars. He was one of the premier warriors left to them, and had been placed in charge of the final stand before the gate. It was indeed only fitting that they die sending their enemies to hell together.
Nodding a farewell to her commander, she descended to the courtyard, to take her place amongst the ranks. As she strode up the battle line, he spotted her. "Oi! Dis ain't no place fer runts! We's gonna be stompin', and krumpin', and smashin'! You belongs wit da udda wimps up dere." he shouted. His thick features had a fierce light. Their impending death meant nothing to him, the only things mattering to him being the joy of battle and the coming violence.
She laughed aloud, "Well then, perhaps I feel like 'krumpin' someone for once!" He bellowed harsh laughter, clapping her heartily on the back. "HAH! I knowed you had some Orc in you! Dere's no way you coulda beat me dat first day udderwise!"
The deafening crack of the gate failing ended the conversation there. They both turned, Skraga letting out a great WAAAAAAAAUUGHHHHH! Her final clear thought as she gathered her magic was thinking how foolish the humans were. One of their poets said that you could only know someone by the manner of their death. How quaint. Those writing the histories would know them, the defenders . . . Vindictive. They would know them not by the manner of their death, but by the manner of the deaths they caused. Their names would be a thing of dread throughout history, remembered with terror and spoken of in whispers. They would be a bogeyman, used to frighten children.
She opened herself to the winds of magic fully, until she felt herself beginning to burn with hate and power. Malietha Lavode, Scion of the House of Lavode, would die atop a mountain of her enemy's corpses with her warband.
It was fitting.
