Gandalf's Very Bad Day

Gandalf stood utterly, gloriously alone, facing down two hulking Fel Lords. The thousand-strong, heavily armored knight order he'd led, despite their magnificent charge, had been reduced to a fine, heroic mist. Of course, they didn't die in vain—they took down an impressive, frankly staggering number of demonic cannon fodder. However, the Burning Legion's demons were endless, like an obnoxious, infernal gift that just kept on giving. An unrelenting tide of expendable foot soldiers continued to spew from the starships, charging toward Gandalf with single-minded, brain-dead enthusiasm.

Protected by his fiercely loyal (and increasingly stressed) water elementals, Gandalf finally unleashed the full, terrifying force of his ancient power. Across the land within a few hundred meters of him, massive, towering white ice spikes erupted from the earth, shaped like colossal bamboo shoots. At the base of each frigid spike was a demon, frozen solid mid-charge, their faces etched with vivid, hilarious expressions of sheer terror and shock. It was a demonic ice sculpture garden of pure chaos.

"Die, insect! I will tear out your soul and use it to polish my boots!" Fel Lord Zakun roared, swinging his massive, fel-infused greataxe with enough force to cleave a mountain. It slammed through a blocking water elemental, shattering its form into a pathetic spray of water. Seizing the opening with the grace of a particularly violent brick, the second Fel Lord coordinated flawlessly with his companion, unleashing a wave of pure, destructive energy directly through the gap toward Gandalf!

"Witness the power of the Burning Legion, old man!" The second Fel Lord absolutely brimmed with confidence, as though victory—and Gandalf's shriveled soul—were already safely tucked into his demonic pocket.

"Hmph! You won't take this old man's life that easily, you arrogant brutes!" Gandalf's gaze grew even calmer, settling into that unsettling quietude of a wizard who was simultaneously annoyed and calculating precisely how much pain he could inflict. He coolly assessed the Fel Lords' combined, ridiculously unsubtle assault.

Ice Barrier!

A bone-chilling sensation surged outward as raw frost coalesced into a massive, impenetrable block of ice, encasing the old mage and his trusty white steed entirely. The horse looked particularly unamused by its sudden, frigid confinement.

Boom!

The combined attacks of the two Fel Lords slammed into the Ice Barrier with the force of a small asteroid, but the ice held. After all, this was an Ice Barrier cast by a demigod who'd had centuries of practice making things really cold. Only a true deity could shatter it outright, and frankly, Kil'jaeden was probably too busy admiring himself to get personally involved just yet.

"Tch!" Zakun snorted in irritation, a plume of fel smoke erupting from his nostrils. He violently signaled his lieutenant to flank Gandalf from both sides. Once the barrier's invulnerability predictably faded, their massive fel axes and a barrage of dark spells would make quick, messy work of this surprisingly resilient human.

Inside his frosty prison, Gandalf remained utterly composed. Watching the raised axes and the swirling destructive energies, he silently counted down the seconds, a mischievous glint in his ancient eyes.

Then—the ice simply melted. Not shattered. Just… liquidized.

Yet, just before the fel forces could bring their overwhelming might to bear, both Gandalf and his bewildered white warhorse simply vanished.

Whoosh! Whoosh!

Blue arcane energy flickered wildly as Gandalf blinked twice in rapid succession, putting nearly a hundred meters of scorched earth and confused demons between himself and his former, very explosive position.

BOOM!

A deafening explosion erupted behind him, where he had been only a fraction of a second before. Even as the shockwave rattled his already strained mana shield, sending phantom shivers down his spine, the white-bearded mage didn't bother to look back—though fresh beads of sweat, glistening suspiciously, had already formed on his brow.

Had he reacted even a second slower, he would've been sent straight to the Altar of Kings, waiting awkwardly in the queue to respawn. And while resurrection was certainly possible (and a common occurrence for other less-adept heroes), it was far, far better to avoid death if he possibly could. After all... among the four main heroes of the Altar of Kings, he was the only one who had died even once. If he fell a second time, where would that leave his incredibly fragile demigod pride? He'd never live it down.

Gandalf's biggest, most irritating disadvantage was being the very first hero summoned by the Altar of Kings—his starting point was tragically the lowest, almost from absolute scratch. Worse, his soul had drifted for far too long in the chaotic, soul-eroding depths of the Twisting Nether, gnawing away even his formidable former power as a master of the arcane. Meanwhile, Gimli, Aragorn, and Thranduil all had ridiculously formidable origins and began with a solid power base, leaving the white-robed mage perpetually lagging behind from the very beginning. It was, frankly, insulting.

On the walls of the Crusader Fortress, watching Gandalf being cornered by two particularly large, particularly angry Fel Lords of demigod rank, and seeing the dire situation unfold with grim inevitability, Aegwynn's heart ached for her old, exasperating companion. Unable to hold back a frustrated sigh, she turned to Galen, whose perpetually grim expression now held a flicker of something akin to grim satisfaction, and practically barked, "Grand Marshal, it's about time to close the net! Before he gets himself utterly vaporized!"

Galen, ever the strategist, assessed the demonic forces pouring from the Legion's fleet—they had likely committed their full strength to this sector, an impressive, if suicidal, gamble. The sheer energy required to teleport such numbers must have utterly drained most of the starships' reserves, leaving them vulnerable.

With a curt nod, a rare sight of agreement from him, he gave the order, his voice cutting through the din of battle:

"Close the net. And make it tight."