Prologue:
The soft blanket of snow fell without a sound. The cold, bone chilling wind screamed out into the early morning. The howling was accompanied by war cries, an unholy bass in their undertone- competing with the wind for precedence over the other. Steel smashed down on steel, a cacophony of chaos emanating throughout the small valley.
The Argent Dawn's warriors were only pieces of meat stuck in the teeth of the Death Knights, a minor annoyance to be dealt with quickly. Engines of war hurled flaming rocks toward either side, an innumerable measure of shambling corpses charging behind their Unholy Overlords with weapons of various size and shape held high. Some were simply skeletons, others had mottled pieces of flesh clinging desperately to their decayed features.
None could withstand the might of the Scourge.
The three Knights, all clad in jet black armor, stared down into the valley to monitor the battle that was beginning to unfold. Their capes flowed in the wind so violently the sound of them flapping almost drowned out the dying screams of the living below.
Almost.
They all wore helmets; unnatural blue-silver eyes flashing under them. They all stood upon one of the many mountains ringing the valley, in the middle of the others so as to keep the Argent Crusade's ships, and the war machines of the Scourge which were stationed in either side of the valley, in sight. ''
The open ocean that the Crusade had flowed in from had begun to freeze over. Their Fire Mages could only melt the ice so quickly. There was no possible means of escape.
"Shall we welcome them to Northrend?" A voice growled. Savage bloodlust tinged the voice, and the owner of it reached up to its back for a very large Rune Blade, which emanated blue.
The one who had spoken was slightly shorter than the others. He was hunched over where his spine had broken free of his skin and the armor. Long, yellow claws hung where fingers should have. His knees and elbows were whittled to the very bone, yellowed from the constant exposure to the cold. Unkempt dark hair flowed out of the helmet, and the gray light that broke through the ice storm's clouds showed off his almost blue skin and rotten features. At one point, he looked to have been a handsome young man. That was no longer the case.
"I don't know, Akkerion, do you think the time is right?" An older, almost wiser voice mused. It was male, and possessed the same attributes as all Death Knights.
The speaker stood slightly taller than the rest, long white hair falling out of his helmet and down his shoulders. The long eye brows of most Quel'dorei and their Sin'dorei cousins poked out of his helm. The man's skin was bone white, and his face decayed with age. Even in death, he held some of the usual characteristics of his people, including the common trimmed white beard on his chin. His Rune Blade seemed to demand note as well, thinner and longer than the others with a vibrant white glow. The man was Castellian Sunstrider, and all of the Knights who knew him well respected him, to some degree.
"Now would be a wonderful time…' Akkerion complained. He was a being of action, he craved it. Needed it, far more than his brethren. That, spoke for itself.
"I agree with Akkerion. Slaughter them before they can recover." A female voice chimed in.
She had already marched ahead of the group, marching through the snow likes it was not even there. Long red hair fell out from her helmet; her curves hidden well under the protection of the Saronite armor they wore. She was tall, and had the physical perfections often shared amongst the High Elves. Her blade glowed blue same as Akkerion's.
"Suffer well, Noristine." Castellian called out, his voice carrying over the distance the woman had already covered.
Akkerion grumbled a curse in common speak, and broke into a full on sprint. The Undead was almost gracefully as he charged, blade held low so as to not lose balance. The two Elves followed suite. The trio shot down the mountain side in a flurry of snow, flanking the forces of the Argent Crusade. Their ships were ripe for the plucking, and their comrades would be expecting their aid relatively soon.
As they drew closer, it was clear how the battle was going. The Scourge, in all its might, was slowly falling to the warriors of the Argent Crusade. Akkerion could feel it in his chest, that power that had always flowed through him, diminishing. If a being such as he could feel fear, then it flashed through him white and shocking at that moment.
Leading the force of Crusaders were…were those Death Knights? No, Ebon Knights, fools following the traitor Mograine to his demise. The Lich King would deal with them in due time. The ships had a small guard left behind. Twelve humans stood in a phalanx around the closest boat, shields at the ready.
On the other end, a Dranei and two male humans in bright red robes were casting balls of red hot flame at the Scourge's frontline not so far away. Even if the Scourge lost this battle, the Argent Crusaders would never escape. This thought calmed Akkerion's mind as a blood curdling cry sprang from his rotting lips.
The phalanx of humans all flinched, their shields faltering for just a moment. And then, the Knights were upon them.
Noristine met the terrified warriors first. Her blade shattered the shield of a defender who had attempted to slam her with the weapons. A sickening crunch resounded as the tool of genocidal destruction sliced from the shoulder down to the hip. The corpse fell in two morbid pieces, its entrails splattering over that of its nearby comrades. A smile traced the Quel'dorei woman's lips as her blade span and impaled another of the humans as he rose to swing his sword. She turned to grip the forehead of another, even as one of their blades carved along her waist. The man wailed a terrifying scream as his bearded face was incased in suffocating ice.
"Your flank, woman!" Akkerion hissed, his blade clashing with, and destroying the shortsword of a petite human woman who had moved to tear down the Elven Death Knight.
She screamed, fear evident in big brown eyes as Akkerion's blade found a new home in her upper abdomen. The monster of a warrior cackled wild and giddy as she slid off of the blade with a wet thud.
The remaining human warriors had formed into a tight circle, an attempt at preserving their own lives. Castellian strode toward them rather casually, the sickle like Rune Blade held in one hand. The other hand outstretched toward the humans.
For a moment, it glowed a bright white. The humans stared in confusion, shields outstretched to parry. The ground from under them cracked. A woman yelped in surprise.
A moment later, and the remaining defenders were gurgling up sticky, crimson blood as their lungs were
"So unproffesional." Castellian taunted, turning his attention toward the Mages, who for some odd reason were no longer there. In fact, they were nowhere in sight. Where had they gone?
"I welcome you, to the Scourge." The morbid growl of a voice that was Akkerion's mused. The bodies that were not too badly damaged rose, dripping blood and green fluids as dark magic flowed from the monster's clawed hand into the corpses.
They shambled over to Akkerion's side, lazily clutching the weapons they had wielded in life just moments before.
"Have them burn the ships." Noristine ordered, brow furrowed at the ongoing battle not too far off between the defenders of Northrend and the righteous invaders. This did not bode well for the Lich King.
"You heard the woman. Prove your worth, slaughter those within the ships! Burn them to cinders!" Akkerion rose his blade high, voice carrying over the clatter of weapons. His new minions did not waste a breath, for they no longer needed one, and stumbled toward the ships.
"Come, the others must be on the lead ships." Castellian pointed a pale finger to a one of two huge, grand war ships. "The mindless ones will burn down the others. Knowing Gravsen, he will be aboard one of the two." Castellian's blade shimmered in the heavy snow fall. The howling wind was welcoming to the old man in his undeath. The only true comfort he would permit himself to have, lest he show weakness in front of the Lich King.
The six ships that had docked on the edge of the water erupted into chaos. Undead warriors who had just previously defended them now charged their former allies. No doubt, the undead were losing in single combat, but for every Crusader that fell, another joined the Scourge. The Dawn's main force in the front was beginning to fall back to their ships, their only means of escape. They had begun to move as soon as the words of attack had reached the aged human's commander's withered ears.
Now fighting on two fronts, boarding the ships already infested with Undead, and trying to hold off the force that had already engaged them proved fatal for the Crusaders. Still, the Ebon Knights at their front reached the boats quickly, and begun cutting down numerous undead warriors.
Two of their ships were now charred, flaming wrecks, men and women hurling themselves into the fatally cold water in a vain attempt of self-preservation. Truly, the strategies of the Death Knights was unparalleled….but why did that strength, the power always in the back of their minds begin to seep away?
"Return to me!"
The trio stopped just as they made it up the gangplank of one of the lead warships. That voice, they all knew it, had spoken in the back of their minds. The Lich King.
The three exchanged glances. There was no way of return from here, save the boat. They would have to take it over first, and they would. Their dark lord sounded almost desperate. That set off enough alarms in their mind.
And in the back of one of them, the monster, creator of ghouls, a sense of self-satisfaction spread throughout his withered body.
"Take the boat before the traitors arrive, go!" Akkerion yelled, his blade smashing down unto the staff of a tired looking Knight Elf. Surprisingly, the staff held, and the Kal'dorei woman's purple lips pressed into a grin. The grin faltered, however, as a long sickle like blade pierced up and through her heart, showering Akkerion in blood.
The woman was dead before she hit the ground.
Noristine stared at Akkerion's weapon. They each exchanged knowing glances. There was no need to speak. The staff had not broken, because the Lich King was losing his power. Losing his hold!
"Take the ship, hurry. Our lord needs us." Castellian snapped, his helmet gleaming in the snow as his blade danced turned toward the Dranei and human mages from before.
The Dranei, massive with long blue chin tendrils, held a silver staff. He motioned toward the Knights, as if taunting them.
Noristine wouldn't stand for that.
She charged along with Castellian, roaring at the top of her lungs. Balls of burning flame exploded on her chestplate, but she didn't care. She didn't feel it, and she was confident the armor would keep her safe. Her blade swung down toward the astonished human Mage. It met a long, silver staff. Castellian's long blade met its mark, carving up and through the other human. A hand went toward the Dranei, and in an instant his staff was covered in crystallized ice. The Dranei scowled.
"Leave us wretch, your king reaches his death!" The Dranei growled as Noristine's blade beheaded that of the other human.
Akkerion's blade found purchase pointing just at the Dranei's throat. The Mage gulped, staring at the Rune Blade with a staunch sense of acceptance.
Fires danced around them as the other ships sank into the icy depths. The Scourge had halted the Crusaders from returning to their ships, but the Undead forces had grown disorganized. Their leader's power had diminished. Slowly, but surely, the Crusade and their Ebon Knight allies exterminated the damn servants of the Lich King.
And then, just as Akkerion had predicted, that presence always in the back of his mind simply…Disappeared. There was no pain, no flood of memories. Those things were long forgotten to the monster. His blade held still at the Dranei's neck, and a grin grew over his monstrous features.
Castallian and Noristine, however, fell to the ground writhing in pain. Their blades clattered deft on the ground. The ruins had lost their glow. The two Elves pressed their fingers deep into their temple as pain…memories of what they once had been, returned.
Akkerion knew what he once was, partially at least. No memories came to him. His former self, the human Paladin, it appalled him…but now, they would need a form of escape, and he would not let the only allies he had left fall to the Argent Crusade here. Not now that they were free.
A bony hand went up to rip away his helmet, casting it far to the side. It landed in the entrails of the slain guardsmen behind them. Long black locks flowed free in the wind, his maggoty, intimidating face at level with the Dranei's. His breath reeked of death and decay.
The blade pressed enough to cut shallow into the Dranei's leathery neck. "Open a portal to the Eastern Plaguelands, so that we may join Mograine." There was no other way they would survive. Not as renegades, they would be hunted. Trading one master for another, but at least this one gave them a loose leash.
The Dranei did a half nod, face contorted in pain as his beady yellow irises fixated on the pained Elves. A satisfied smirk touched his lips, even as the purple glow formed around his hands.
"Hurry Gravsen, Loralivar, Moris, or you will all perish." Akkerion grumbled as a large purple portal grew. He did not want to leave behind his other comrades.
Soon, he would return to Northrend. He would return, and take the reins of the Scourge. Soon, very soon. No other could lead them like he could, he knew that…and when Mograine was assured not to hunt him down, he would return. The Scourge would be his for the taking.
Never before had Gravsen felt so…alive. Odd enough, given his current condition. His great sword, glowing bright orange was locked with that of a monstrously large Tauren. The musty scent of the man-beast filled his nostrils as it breathed. Big, blowing blue eyes stared down at Gravsen. An Ebon Knight.
His helmet had been cast aside, and his cape hung in tatters behind him. Short, auburn hair was brushed back between his large ears. His skin was light, not as pale as Castellian's, but still noticeable. Angular features gave his face a handsome façade. His armor was the same as his comrades, though his weapon of choice radiated with heat.
Heat brought about by the power of the Lich King, and his own burning hatred for these…these…traitors! How dare they turn on the way life should be, to serve the wretches that would soon be eradicated from Azeroth!
"You disgusting beast. I will rend you into ribbons and raise you again and again in service to the Lich King!" Gravsen growled as the massive Tauren began to overpower him. It roared in defiant rage as its strength began to overpower that of the elf.
The room they chose to do battle in was relatively small. The Captain's Quarters of the ship. The flooring was hard wood, now covered in shattered glass and splashes of blood. Large windows sat behind a fancy wooden desk, showcasing the battle outside. Paintings of every kind lined the warm, wooden walls, and a fireplace blazed idly in the corner of the room. Sofas and bookshelves circled around the fireplace. Overall, a quaint little place to call home.
Two Ebon Knights had awaited Gravsen and his allies. The Tauren, and a huge, pale skinned Orc. Both hefted runic axes as big as the Elf himself. In the center, sat a young human woman. Fair skinned, with bright blond hair. She wore the armor of the Argent Crust, and a staff of pure gold leaned against the chair she sat upon. As Gravsen and her allies approached, the crystal set at the top of the staff had begun to glow.
Now, the woman just looked pained, a hand set on her stomach. She stared at the Death Knights in horror with bright green eyes. A hand went to her stomach each time the blades crashed.
"Stop this fighting, there is no point! Your king will be gone soon enough!" She stood from her chair; a commanding tone to her voice. The woman leaned on the staff, standing in a rather awkward position.
Gravsen, of course, ignored her as he jumped back from the Tauren's massive axe.
An ear splitting cry at his left made the Elf press his hands to his ears. He almost dropped the Rune Blade, barely held in his hand. The Tauren's ugly façade of determination faltered as it turned its shaggy brown heard to the cry.
The Orc was on the ground, coating the floors below it in bright crimson. Above it, stood Gravsen's comrades.
Loralivar, the last of the High Elves who served alongside him. His blue hair hung in blood mated tangles, and a huge grin was upon his face. His face was a looked a bit rough, but it held an almost peach skin tone still. Lora had not decayed much at all. Even his armor seemed to still be pristine, the two short rune blades in his hands glowing blue and bathed in fresh blood.
The other was short. His beard hung down to his waist, bright white. Long hair fell back in a tight braid, and glowing blue eyes cast either way eerily. His face was scrunched up like an angry dog, and the axe in his hands emanated pure white. The dwarf, Moris, was not one to be trifled with.
"You're knight give no challenge. I figured you would have trained them better!" Lora taunted with glee, his blade meeting that of the Tauren in a defensive cross strike, blocking its path to Gravsen.
"Aye! Ye' ain't ta' well defended wretch!" Moris added onto the insult, his axe dashing across the leg of the Tauren. It's leg severed at the tendon, and the massive creature toppled over.
"My service ends, as does your king!" The Tauren bellowed, just as Loralivar's blade imbedded itself in the Knight's eye socket. The crunch of bone made the human woman wince, and she slowly backed up toward the glass in fear.
The boat was theirs. They had won. Now, they would return to the Frozen Throne to assist the king in whatever it was he need—
Moris's hands went to his head with a loud cry. The Dwarf ran from…whatever it was that had him, toward the human woman. She gasped, jumping away, but Moris had a different target.
The Dwarf's axe clattered lifelessly to the grounds he crashed through the window and into the frozen depths below.
"Moris!" Loralivar exclaimed, completely and utterly shocked at his friend's seemingly willful suicide. The woman continued to stare, no fear in her eyes, only sadness.
"What have you done?!" Gravsen exclaimed, his blade moving on its own. Within a second, it was but an inch from the woman's neck. An inch from death. "Speak!" Gravsen roared, hatred, outrage, horror, all etched in his unholy voice.
Then, Loralivar's blade fell to the wooden floor. His body crumpled in the pool of blood left by those fallen, brow knit in very real pain. His lips opened in a wordless scream.
"The Lich King is no more." The woman began. "Do you not remember me Gravsen? Do you not remember the mother of your child?" She set her hands on her stomach, looking more and more uncomfortable.
"You lie! I feel him, he yet lives!" He had never met this woman, never seen her before. Children were never a concern of Gravsen. The life he knew, the life he remembered, was in service to the Lich King. Always, and forever.
"You don't remember then?" The woman asked, her voice cracking slightly. The wind had begun to scream through the broken window. The fire died, and the room suddenly grew so much colder. This, and Loralivar's silent screams of agony made Gravsen that much more suspicious. "I do not remember lies. Your Crusade is beaten, your boats burn. My fellow Riders are already on the ship. Let Lora go from your…mind tricks, and you may yet live." Graves had an almost desperate tone to his voice. Loralivar was a comrade, a friend. He wouldn't let the man die.
"The Lich King took your mind, as he did Lora's...he is dead, it just hasn't reached you yet."
Gravsen simply stood there, ready to deal the killing blow. For a moment, sound seemed to stop. This woman, this human, started to smile at him. What was th-
"Return!"
Graves felt his blade fall from his hands. His senses all seemed to die, and his limbs went limp. Pain, so excruciating it seemed that every cell in him had caught aflame, spread throughout his body. He fell to his knees, hard. The memories poured in, pushed against the flood gates of his mind, and flowed so quickly and painfully he felt he may die yet again.
This woman, Caren, he knew her name. They were to be married, so long ago. The child was indeed his own. Akkerion had once been a great Paladin and journeyed with him as a loyal friend. Noristine was once, still was, his older sister who had gone missing all those years ago. Castallian had guided him in Silvermoon so long ago. Moris had taught him to lead soldiers. Loralivar had been his closest, dearest ally, brothers in everything but blood….it all poured in, unwelcome, unwanted.
All the death he had wrote. Graves had been so, so much more…an unwavering warrior, young, and powerful. A servant of the Alliance. Everything he had stood for, they had stood for, it was all for naught. They were beasts, monsters; slaves to the Lich King. For an instant, Gravsen was who he once was. Tears stung at his eyes. He reached up for Caren, but his body would not move. It hurt too much.
The woman hovered over himself and Loralivar. She spoke softly.
"We came as a distraction. The Lich King has been killed, and the Scourge soon to be disassembled. You are freed." Her hands glowed that bright purple that Gravsen recalled so fondly now. "Your friends are being sent to the Plaguelands…beg for Mograine's mercy and you may become Ebon Knights…then, come find me."
Two large portals were erected on either side of her. Loralivar's writhing form was carefully lifted with telekinesis. The blue haired elf was sent through the portal, still overtaken by the pain.
Caren kneeled down next to Gravsen, and pressed her lips to his forehead. "You will forget me again. Everything we once were. You will forget your son. I'm sorry, my love, but you are not a legacy he could live with…I will tell him you died fighting the Lich King himself. You will write the wrongs you have done in the Ebon Blade…and you will never see me again." Caren had a stern look on her soft features. Her tone wavered though, as if she were about to break down.
Gravsen wanted so much to tell her no. To tell her that wasn't what needed to happen, but his lips wouldn't move. He was lifted toward the portal opposite the one she walked toward. His eyes squeezed themselves shut to hold back any tears.
The portal was not painful, rather, it was welcoming. There sat all of the other surviving Riders, under a large tree. Loralivar was standing now, looking a little more than distraught. They all did though.
Gravsen stood up, the pain gone. He knew he was free now, and that made him ecstatic, but the weight of death was much, much more evident…still, he didn't know why they were so distraught. He couldn't put a finger on it.
All he remembered was freedom, his comrades, and the need to find Mograine.
Why be upset about that?