A/N - This is my first time trying creative writing, I decided to try because you never know if your any good at something until you try right? It took me about an hour to write and another hour to edit. Please let me know what you guys think.
A throne like a mountain. Decorated majestically. A singular gem inset on its peak, and silver flowing down its golden frame like rivers of ice.
The man whom idly sat upon the seat looked in all manners flawless, a king in every sense of the word. Strong of arm, firm of mind, confident in his surety.
That is to the normal eye. The eye we use everyday to see the surface of things.
However if you looked closer, looked deeper, you saw the truth of him.
The man who was supposed to look as if rising with the strength of the mountain that was his throne, instead looked weighed down by it, the mountain upon his shoulders.
He who was supposed to be sure of mind was wearing a mask so fine you would miss the crack that struck down its centre. A fine fissure in his glacial glare.
The confidence was almost perfect, bar the grief that sat behind his cold menacing eyes.
Yet the man kneeling before the throne, dressed in lavish court livery, saw none of this. Panic struck his mind and he could not see beyond the surface.
His startled eyes glanced from the king on the throne, to the king lying dead on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, long since dried and taken on a dark and rough appearance.
The courtiers desperate eyes settled on the wicked blade that sat in the hand of the seated king, point down to the floor, resting like a staff.
"Why, my lord?" the man whispered hoarsely.
"Your father was a great man," He started, his voice starting to gain heat, growing angry, "a great king, your king! Yet you toss him aside like.. like he means nothing!"
His eyes now alight with fire shot up to the new king. That fire, a second ago like the heart of a furnace, evaporated almost instantly when it met the kings icy stare, like a match drowned in a river.
The king, face framed menacingly by his pale white hair, regarded the man. His outward appearance showed nothing of the chaos in his mind.
'KILL HIM!' a voice in his mind screamed 'HOW DARE HE!' screamed another. He knew the voices were not his own, but it mattered little. All that mattered was the masters plan.
'No, this is not you! Stop now before you kill them all! THIS IS NOT YOU!' another voice screamed, familiar he thought for a moment, but its scream was little more than a pleading whisper to the king, drowned by the dozens commanding him.
The courtier remembering his situation began to stammer a quick apology, "F-f-forgive me my lord, i-i spoke out of.." His voice cut off with a short gasp as the king and blade alike moved inhumanely fast,
lunging forward out of the throne and slicing through the mans throat in one clean motion. The two guards, whose hands had held the courtier, one on each shoulder, released him as his lifeless body began to slump.
They were clad in vicious armour and their faces were hidden in the shadows of their dark hoods. They showed no surprise over what had happened. They showed nothing at all.
A cloaked figure, appearing from the halls shadows, unseen until now, approached the throne. The length of his robes made it seem as if he were almost gliding.
The guards made no move to bar his path, they did not even react to his coming.
"Prince Arthas" the newcomer spoke. His voice was that of something less than human, low and gravelly.
"King" said Arthas, as he stood and watched him approach.
"Of course" he replied smoothly, "What are your orders, my king?".
Arthas considered a long moment, and it was clear that the battle was still raging inside his mind. However the powers and madness that controlled him were too strong, overwhelming his mind easily.
"Kill them all.." he whispered. Face hidden beneath his hair as he stared at the floor. Suddenly his head whipped up, eyes fierce and a terrible grin spread across his face.
"Yes," he chuckled, "we will kill them all. But not now. We must leave and await our masters calling."
"As you wish, the cult of the damned will await your return." The robed acolyte turned to leave, but hesitated, dark hood turning towards Arthas, who was staring at the him in an unnerving way.
"Long live the king..." The acolyte said slowly, almost warily.
Arthas' smile split his face menacingly, revealing all his white teeth in a terrifying way.
"Long live the king..." He repeated.