"The Ancestors have decided to grant you a glimpse of why we have fought until this very day! So, stay sharp! When the midnight moon reaches its zenith, the festival's true celebration begins!"
As Bul-Kathos spoke, the Immortal King's Call began to manifest upon his frame, piece by piece. Each legendary artifact pulsed with a hallowed radiance, cloaking him in a shimmering, rhythmic glow. This was no casual display; it was a matter of preserving the very soul of their heritage.
"Now, fill your bellies while you can! Gather your weapons! If they need sharpening or replacing, move quickly!"
While Bul-Kathos's voice boomed across the plaza, Madawc, Talic, and Korlic stood in a tight circle, exchanging wary glances.
"Did you catch the weight behind his words?" Madawc asked, absently packing a snowball in his hands. He didn't quite understand Bul-Kathos's angle.
A Rift based on that specific battle? Using such a memory to "inspire" the youth?
Good grief. A war of that magnitude could easily shatter a person's conviction. These recruits weren't native-born Barbarians of the mountain. Could they witness the suffocating, soul-crushing reality of that conflagration and still find the strength to march forward?
"What of it?" Talic rolled his eyes, sounding unimpressed. "It's just a battle. What's it to us? We still have the gates of the Holy Mountain to guard."
"Speaking of which, should I go find Wayne?" Korlic asked thoughtfully. "He shouldn't spend a festival alone."
He hadn't seen his successor in some time. He figured he'd use this chance to call Bruce Wayne over and see if the man needed an experienced guide to resolve any lingering doubts.
Though the Three Ancients hadn't fully grasped Bul-Kathos's endgame, they weren't about to object. It was the unspoken understanding of old friends. Furthermore, Bul-Kathos was wearing the full Immortal King set—his "Regalia of the Sovereign." When he donned that armor, it meant he was speaking as the King of their people. No one would dare spoil the moment.
To bear the weight of that legendary glory meant the choice of simulation would likely be one of their most harrowing trials.
Was it the Exodus from Kehjistan?
No, that was too ancient. If it were that battle, Bul-Kathos would likely wear the Wrath of the Wastelands—the legendary set left by the First Ancestor. That war saw the Barbarians driven from their ancestral southern forests by the sorcerous might of Kehjistan. It was a saga of migration, famine, and a brutal trek through disaster. The scope was too vast for a single Rift.
The Siege of Sescheron?
That was where Raekor truly became a legend and a leader. If it were that battle, she would likely be the one speaking, not Bul-Kathos in the King's regalia. That was a war for survival against the Northmen over the meager resources of the frozen wastes. While fierce, it didn't match the gravity Bul-Kathos was projecting now.
The Assault on Bastion's Keep?
That was where Kaelga made his name and Korlic laid the foundation of his legend. That war was almost a comedy of hubris. King Rakkis's son, Korsikk, sought to fulfill his father's dream by building an "immortal fortress" north of Entsteig—Bastion's Keep. Its purpose was to defend the southern lands against "Barbarian incursions."
In reality, the fortress was slammed right onto the Barbarians' doorstep.
Defending against southern incursions? It was more like reaching out and plucking Bul-Kathos's beard! Ever since the Barbarians took root in the Arreat Highlands, they had been minding their own business, guarding the Worldstone and repelling demons as their highest calling. But Westmarch's soldiers mistook Barbarian tenacity for bloodlust. Korsikk, a fool-king weary of the long stalemate, led an army north into the heart of the Arreat Mountains...
And so, Westmarch's ambitions died there. The finest weapon from that army now rested in Korlic's hand—The Bastion's Greatward. It was a trophy the young Korlic had torn from the enemy's hands. Ironically, while the Keep was built to keep Barbarians out, it eventually became a gathering place for wandering Barbarians after the Worldstone was destroyed.
But the Three Ancients quickly dismissed that option too. If it were that battle, Bul-Kathos would be wearing the Savage set, symbolizing the Barbarians' unyielding fury.
After crossing off the lists, only a few battles remained. The Defense of Harrogath? Or the Fall of Sescheron?
"It's likely that crazy idea from before... the Siege of Harrogath," Madawc said, rubbing his neck. He could still feel the phantom sensation of the wound that killed him.
Madawc's death had been horrific. He had chosen to stand before Baal and Mephisto to bar their path to the Worldstone, only to have the Lord of Destruction literally tear his head from his shoulders. He remembered the feeling of his spine snapping under the crushing weight of Baal's power. The agony was something he still felt in his marrow, like thousands of ants crawling over his skin.
The other two Ancients nodded. Only Bul-Kathos had personally witnessed Sescheron's transformation into a tomb, and he rarely spoke of it. Harrogath was the more likely choice.
"It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't insisted on taking both Prime Evils alone," Korlic grumbled. "If you hadn't been an idiot, the three of us could have stalled those two maggots together until Bul-Kathos arrived."
Korlic and Talic hadn't survived much longer after Madawc fell, soon joining him as Ancestral Spirits at the gate. Korlic's own death had been humiliating—slain by the Maiden of Lust. Even though he didn't dishonor his legend, the memory still filled him with vitriol. He had killed the demon, only for the Prime Evils to promote another to take her place. It made his sacrifice feel meaningless.
"What's the point in talking about the past?" Talic interrupted. "Better to wonder what Bul-Kathos will have us dead men do in this Rift. Likely watching over the recruits and pulling them out before they actually die."
Talic had no interest in reminiscing. The past was full of pain; the life of a Barbarian seeking hope was a hard road. He preferred the silence.
"Listen up!" Bul-Kathos's voice cut through their thoughts. "This is a battle where you need not fear death, but your performance will dictate your rewards. If you want to hide and survive until the end, fine—but without a record of valor, there will be no prize!"
He pulled a war-banner from his back and jammed it into the stone floor of the Holy Mountain.
"As for the Ancestors—if you're interested, join us! If the memory of that battle is too painful for you, then stay in your hovels and shiver! Time is not a medicine that heals all; it is merely the start of forgetting! Your legends will turn into Forgotten Souls, and your pasts into the dust of death! Will any of you run? If so, speak up now!"
Bul-Kathos's beard whipped in the cold wind like a flickering flame. Everyone—recruit and Ancestor alike—held their breath.
"The name of this Rift is: The Siege of Harrogath! You will find what you seek within those walls!"
As the name left his lips, the plaza erupted. The Ancestral Spirits burst with fury, their eyes turning blood-red as if they were ready to charge the front lines this very second!
Barbarians had lost battles before, but never one as suffocating and bitter as the Siege of Harrogath.
They remembered General Qual-Kehk packing his gear and taking up his favorite hand-axe to face the Demon Lords. They remembered the Vanguard General Kaelga waving the great banner as he led the charge. They remembered Madawc falling. They remembered Mokote, drenched in the blood of Frozen Horrors, charging into the center of the fray. They remembered Lazruk donning the armor he forged for himself, feeling the unfamiliar whistle of his blade through the air. They remembered Auntie Mala digging her youthful war-plate from beneath her bed, not even having time to say a final goodbye to her dead son.
And they remembered Bul-Kathos, arriving from the ruins of Sescheron in shattered armor, limping with exhaustion toward the Worldstone...
Only for Tyrael to detonate it.
Tyrael had failed the Barbarians. At the moment they had gathered every ounce of their strength to help the Archangel of Justice kill the Demon Lords, he turned all their hope into a crater! Countless Barbarians were turned to ash by the explosion of the Worldstone before they even reached the demons! The greatest strength of the Barbarian race was smashed into splinters by the "Light of Justice" thrown by Tyrael.
"ROAR!"
"I'm going to crush those bastards!"
"Bul-Kathos! Let us old fossils fight too!"
"Is that bastard Tyrael's phantom in there? Are Baal and Mephisto in there?!"
"I'll crush those two dog-shit Demon Lords first, then I'm tearing off those wings Tyrael is so proud of, piece by piece!"
The Ancestors were in a frenzy. They sensed Bul-Kathos's implication—that the Archangel of Justice would be present in the Rift with his own will! And the Demon Lords would be there too!
The recruits had never seen these usually jolly, laid-back Ancestors display such fanaticism. They never imagined the kindly Auntie Mala could let out such a bloodthirsty roar, or that General Qual-Kehk would be dragging a massive, frost-rimed axe toward the gate.
The Sunderer. Qual-Kehk's legendary axe, born of the Frozen Sea. He hadn't drawn it in an eternity. Its Earthquake strike could cleave ice and earth alike, forcing demons to feel the fury of the world beneath their feet.
"It is your choice! Your right!" Bul-Kathos roared.
This Rift was different. He had already visited Tyrael. He had already visited Baal and Mephisto. This Rift would be the battlefield of Heaven and Hell—and the ultimate trial for the Barbarians.
High Heavens had made their choice. Tyrael would project his will into the Rift to see with his own eyes if his past choice was correct. If the Barbarian Ancestors could defeat Baal and Mephisto, it would determine whether the mantle of the Archangel of Justice would be passed to Bul-Kathos.
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