Ogre Death

Med'an's utterly spectacular, utterly gratuitous slaying of Cho'gall wasn't just a victory; it was the cosmic equivalent of a very loud, very clear air horn. It was the signal—the long-delayed, much-anticipated, and frankly, impatiently awaited Dragonblight Offensive could now begin! The agonizing delay had been purely for bureaucratic reasons, specifically to coordinate with Galen's rather damp, underwater campaign. Because nothing says "epic war" like waiting for someone to finish drowning a queen.

The hidden agents N'Zoth had activated? Oh, they were little more than fleeting nuisances, like particularly annoying gnats buzzing around the current, very busy Azeroth.

In Pandaria, the mantid, qiraji, and nerubians had apparently decided to throw a giant, chitinous reunion party, forming a new insectoid empire centered around the Dread Wastes and the Mantid Terrace. The Empress was merely a puppet of the Klaxxi, bless her little buggy heart—her rebellion was as meaningful as a gnat's opinion on astrophysics. Besides, she had already birthed new heirs (probably by the dozen) and could be replaced at any moment. It was less a rebellion and more a very large, very loud family squabble.

As for the Black Empire obelisk in Silithus, looking suspiciously like a giant, evil toothpick, Tyrande and Malfurion were already there, probably having a romantic picnic while casually dealing with the remnants of C'Thun's corruption. Backed by Elune and Cenarius, who were probably just happy to be out of the house, they could easily handle a mere obelisk and some Old God manifestations. It was a Tuesday for them.

No, the real battlefield, the one with all the explosions and dramatic lighting, was in Dragonblight.

The skies around Wyrmrest Temple had become less a sky and more a chaotic, swirling blender of wings, fire, and very loud roaring.

To the south, the Alliance had seized the tuskarr port, turning it into a forward base with surprising efficiency. A sky battleship, looking like a very angry cloud, and four legions stood ready—three infantry divisions, probably grumbling about the cold, and a gryphon rider squadron, looking very majestic. Clad in thick furs, these elite soldiers gripped their rifles and blades, awaiting orders from High Commander Windrunner, who probably just wanted to get this over with.

To the north, the Skybreaker—a massive aerial warship, looking like a particularly aggressive flying fortress—was gleefully raiding the Maw of Madness, escorted by Wildhammer gryphon riders, who were probably yelling "For the Alliance!" and "Look, a squirrel!", and gnome gyrocopters, buzzing around like very angry, very tiny hornets.

Twilight drakes, looking like they'd been dipped in a vat of bad intentions, swarmed the skies, turning the already dim horizon into a blackened storm of wings and fire. It was less a battle and more a very aggressive, very loud game of aerial dodgeball.

"Attack! Gryphon riders, gain altitude! All aircraft, engage! And for the love of all that is holy, bring those Twilight drakes down! They're ruining the view!"

Med'an, commander of the northern forces, looking far too young to be in charge of anything, barked orders from the Skybreaker's deck. The ship's gunners, probably fueled by copious amounts of coffee, unleashed barrages of anti-air fire, while Wildhammer riders hurled stormhammers crackling with lightning, because why use a sword when you can throw a thunderbolt?

The gnome gyrocopters, nimble and swift, weaved through the chaos, looking like very enthusiastic, very deadly bumblebees, their rapid-fire cannons spitting death with the enthusiasm of a very happy puppy.

The Twilight drakes fought back recklessly, their numbers thinning as gryphons, dwarves, and machines rained from the sky. It was less a strategic retreat and more a very messy, very unplanned plummet.

Despite the carnage, the Alliance held the advantage. With the Skybreaker as an unshakable fortress, the drakes were slaughtered wholesale, like a very efficient, very bloody, very aerial meat grinder.

Soon, the northern forces achieved their objective—Ysera's corrupted tendrils, which had been looking rather unsightly, burned under a hail of incendiary bombs. She was probably very relieved.

But Med'an wasn't satisfied. Oh no.

This was his first major campaign, his big debut, and he wanted to prove himself—to his father, his mother, and especially to Galen, who probably just wanted him to clean his room.

He knew the Twilight drakes were mindless beasts, bred for war but lacking true intelligence. They were basically glorified, very aggressive pigeons. Someone had to be commanding them. Someone had to be pulling their strings.

The half-orc, half-draenei commander—his Titan-blooded heritage granting him unparalleled talent and a surprisingly good sense of direction—cast a scrying spell, scanning the drake swarm. He looked like he was trying to find a misplaced sock.

And there—at the rear—he spotted a two-headed ogre riding atop a drake, looking very smug.

"Found you, you overgrown potato," Med'an muttered, a predatory glint in his eye.

Med'an descended into the Skybreaker's lower decks, where a six-meter-tall mech awaited, gleaming ominously.

Modeled after Mekkatorque's "War Machine," this gold-and-black titan was bigger, deadlier, and probably had better cup holders. It was less a mech and more a very angry, very expensive piece of jewelry.

Its arms bore energy cannons and retractable blade gauntlets, because why choose when you can have both? Instead of a flimsy shield, it used magitek barriers, capable of mimicking any defensive spell based on the pilot's energy. It was like a magical, very expensive force field.

Med'an's mech—affectionately named "Bumblebee" (because why not?)—had been personally modified by Aegwynn and Gandalf, who apparently had a lot of free time. A simple mana infusion could unleash a max-rank Arcane Barrier, probably with extra sparkles.

These mechs turned ordinary soldiers into elite warriors—though their exorbitant cost limited mass production. You couldn't just hand these out like candy.

"Preparing for launch! And try not to scratch the paint!"

Gnome engineers scrambled, looking like very busy, very stressed ants, releasing the clamps with a series of loud clangs.

"Energy at full! We're practically glowing!"

"Primary locks disengaged! Don't sneeze!"

"Secondary locks disengaged! Seriously, don't sneeze!"

"Launch sequence initiated! Get ready for awesome!"

With a mechanical roar that probably made the local wildlife reconsider their life choices, Bumblebee shot out of the Skybreaker, its thrusters blazing like a thousand angry suns.

Med'an locked onto Cho'gall, weaving through the aerial battle with the grace of a very large, very angry dancer.

"Time to die, you two-headed freak."

He punched the throttle, and Bumblebee blurred forward, a golden streak of impending doom—

SLASH!

A cross-shaped flash lit the sky, looking like a very dramatic, very final selfie.

The Twilight drake's head tumbled free, probably wondering what just happened.

Cho'gall plummeted, his two heads arguing mid-fall, a truly pathetic display of internal conflict.

"We're done for! I told you not to eat that last chili dog!"

"Shut up! I'm casting! It's a slow fall, not a free fall, you idiot!"

A Slow Fall spell saved him—barely. He landed with a very undignified thud.

The ogre, looking utterly furious, teleported onto another drake, his eyes burning with hatred. "Foolish mortal! The Twilight's Hammer will crush you! Bow before N'Zoth! And maybe get a pedicure!"

Med'an ignored the taunt, charging again. He had no time for fashion advice.

Cho'gall, realizing his aerial career was over, fled to the ground—ogres were not built for aerial combat. They tended to fall a lot.

Landing hard, Cho'gall unleashed his true form, which was less a transformation and more a grotesque explosion of tentacles and eyeballs. Void energy surged, twisting his body. His back sprouted black spines, his flesh split open into writhing eyes, looking like a very bad case of cosmic acne.

"I will rend your soul! Twist your flesh into a puppet of chaos! And make you wear a very silly hat!"

Med'an, unfazed, flooded the mech with Holy energy.

"Purge the corruption! And the bad fashion sense!"

Bumblebee's blade-gauntlets ignited with holy fire, looking like very angry, very shiny oven mitts.

Six-meter ogre vs. six-meter mech. It was a clash of titans, or at least two very large, very angry individuals.

Cho'gall hurled spells—Plague! Chaos Bolt! Mutation! It was like a very aggressive, very disgusting light show.

Bumblebee dodged with surprising agility, but shadowy tendrils, looking like very sticky spaghetti, snared its legs.

Cho'gall's chest-eyes blazed, looking like tiny, angry spotlights—

BOOM!

Void beams slammed into the mech, hitting it with the force of a thousand angry grandmothers.

But when the smoke cleared—

A golden barrier held, shimmering defiantly.

"Damnable Light! Why won't you just let me be evil in peace?!" Cho'gall roared, utterly exasperated.

Med'an didn't waste words. He had a schedule to keep.

"Fire shoulder cannon! And aim for the ugly head!"

BLAM!

The shell tore into Cho'gall's chest, mangling flesh and probably ruining his day.

"ARGH! DIE! AND TAKE YOUR STUPID MECH WITH YOU!"

The ogre countered with twin Fireblasts, melting Bumblebee's armor with a dramatic sizzle.

"Warning! Overheating! Pilot, please consider a cooler environment or less dramatic explosions!"

Med'an, with a cunning grin, cast Frost Nova, flash-freezing the ground—and Cho'gall's legs. The ogre was now a very large, very angry ice sculpture.

"Now! Time for the grand finale!"

Bumblebee lunged, its blade punching through the ogre's shield with a satisfying CRACK—

STAB!

Straight through the heart. It was less a stab and more a definitive statement.

Cho'gall gasped, disbelief in his three eyes. "How...? This thing... shouldn't be... this fast... I thought I had more time for my villain monologue..."

Med'an yanked the blade free, a faint schlorp sound accompanying it.

"Ask Bwonsamdi. He's got a great sense of humor."

The Twilight's Hammer chieftain collapsed, his reign of madness, and his terrible fashion choices, officially ended.

Aftermath: Or, "The Cleanup Crew Arrives"

With Cho'gall dead, the Twilight drakes scattered, their coordination broken, like a flock of very confused, very leaderless chickens.

The northern front stabilized, and the Alliance pressed forward, looking very pleased with themselves.

N'Zoth's schemes faltered—his agents were proving to be remarkably incompetent. But the true battle, the one with even more tentacles and existential dread, was yet to come.

Ny'alotha awaited. And it probably had a very bad smell.