The Dragon's Maw

[Jeroabem/Sabrianica]

The Horde Warriors had assaulted the beginning of the lair of Nefarian, Black Wing Lair. Grethok the Controller and his guards were soon slain, but their reinforcements could not be kept at bay while Sandrock used some magic to control Razorgore the Unnamed to destroy the hatchery. The battle was epic in proportions, but the stalwart party was not successful.

Licking their wounds, but still burning with lust for battle, the decision was made to go after Nefarian's sister, the Black Dragon called Onyxia. Her name was used to scare children into obedience. More than one band of adventurers had tried to kill her, and what was left of their corpses lined the halls to her lair. Forty valiant horde of all classes stepped into magical portals to be transported to Thunder Bluff. The flight to Dustwallow Marsh was brief, the cool night air invigorating. The stench of the bog was ripe in the humid air, yet there was no thought of turning back. Forty strong, the pack rode southwest through the swamp to the mouth of her lair.

They formed up inside the cave, Feoler the Undead Warrior gave the final marching orders and they were off. Four of Onyxia's Warders were unable to deter the progress of this pack. The forty made very quick work of their death's. She was napping when they arrived at the mouth of her lair. So confident in the supremacy and security of her lair, she had no clue that her time had come.

"How fortunate! I usually have to leave my lair to feed," she said as Feoler charged her. Behind him cam the rest of the forty. They all rushed in, right and left as the battle cries were issued..."For the Horde!" "Rend flesh with me!" "Blood and Thunder!" "For the Forsaken!" All the races of the Horde were represented. The black dragon breathed flame like a volcano bent on destruction. How Feoler could stand to the onslaught was incalcuable. Priests and Druids healed the warrior. Warlocks smiled as they mumbled curses. It was fitting that the curse they cast was called the "Curse of Doom", for Onyxia was doomed.

Maybe she had thought she would be safe in the air, maybe it was her arrogance that led her to leave the ground and attempt to obliterate the group from flight, but no one missed her voice saying "I grow tired of this exertion." Somehow, the titanic battle had caused her broodlings to hatch, and tiny whelps emerged and attempted to defeat the forty. They could not. They were handled quickly. Mages, Warlocks, Shaman, Druids, Hunters and Rogues all turned their attention to her in flight and used whatever means of attacking at range that they had to bring her down. And bring her down they did.

The mountain itself seemed to feel her rage at the onslaught. The floor threatening to give way as she began an enraged attempt to destroy those who had wounded her. Despite many wounds, despite tattered and broken wings, she still fought back ferociously. Flame issued from her mouth and the floor. Some of the horde began to gete panicky, yet they did not completely lose their resolve to kill her. Feoler stood his ground, refusing to yeild to Onyxia. Onyxia in turn stood her ground, refusing to yield to Feoler. She was, however, only one and we were forty.

Rearing up out of the Horde came the battle cry of Razor Hill and a shaman known as Stormhand summoned the strength of his people. The battle had inflamed him and he gave in to his blood lust for a moment. He dodged the dragon's cleaves, and resisted her flames several times. He renewed the lives of his party with his totems and heals. Then the opening presented itself. Jeroabem charged in between her legs and brought his hammer down with all his strength on an unprotected place on her neck at the base of her spine. Scales were shattered and her neck cleanly broken. Dead before she knew it, she fell.

Cheers erupted inside the cavern that were heard in Lorderon, Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff. This dragon was dead. Jeroabem claimed his trophy, her head, and after conferring with the other members of the pack, decided to make a gift of it to the Warchief. A magic was cast on the head, making it so it could be easily transported to Orgrimmar. Now, as he rode into the city, confidence eminated from Jeroabem as none other had ever had. Maube, the Cheiftan stood to his left. Sabrianica, his friend to the Right. Behind him the rest of the Clan as they marched into Thrall's chamber.

Dipping into his backpack, Jeroabem felt the cold scaled head of the dragon that was still dripping blood and could still sense the hatred in her being even past death. "For the Horde" was the eruption of the Clan as he held high his trophy, the Head of Onyxia.

[Wolf]

An excellent read. For those like me that have never been to Ony's lair, very thoroughly enjoyed it