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≶The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶
≶Prologue≶
Icy Northrend howled its demonic cry. It's winds beat a steady chill across the dead wastelands. The snow blew in the storm, unaware of where it was going, apathy guiding it. Northrend does not care for those who dwell on its ice or those who spill blood on its snow. Beautifully indifferent yet painfully so, it silently watches the tragic play that is performed on its frozen stage. The actors wonderfully perform their roles as if they were born in to them. Such a wide range of characters there is.
There was a dwarf. Northrend had never seen a dwarf before on its shores. He was intriguing. Muradin Bronzebeard. A likeable fellow he was. A shame his life was ended too quickly, but Northrend understood that the weak die and the strong survive on its lands. If you die, it meant that you were weak. This land of nature has no room for the weak. He was killed by a piece of cruel ice plunged into his heart. How pathetic was that? Muradin was weak. Arthas was not.
Prince Arthas Menethil was another interesting actor in this play. His story was fascinating. He had come from a far away land. Lordaeron was what they called it. And from what Northrend heard, it was ravaged by a strange plague. A plague that killed the living and turned them into the undead. Interesting, was it not, that the strongest people in their land would be the dead?
Northrend had heard how Prince Arthas had followed a demon (a "dreadlord" Arthas called him) by the name of Mal'Ganis. From what Northrend could tell, Mal'Ganis was the reason that Prince Arthas had come to its desolate lands. Mal'Ganis was the source of this "plague" that had threatened to devour Lordaeron and an influential leader of the so-called "Burning Legion." Northrend was largely indifferent to any threat by this Legion. What would happen would happen.
Prince Arthas was weak; there was no doubt about that. He was a mortal being of flesh and blood. Mal'Ganis, on the other hand, was strong. Filled with his demonic power, he was one of the dead. His blood was fire and his flesh was easily fixed. But Prince Arthas, so admirable, had decided to find the location of the legendary blade, Frostmourne.
Northrend knew the blade well. It was a thorn in its snowy side. The cursed blade was a piece of dead ice piercing its skin and pouring horrifying filth into its soul. Frostmourne was a pestilence and Northrend was glad that it would finally be taken out. It was not as bad as that cursed Lich residing on its crown, but it was still as bad. Northrend was often filled with pain.
It was then that Arthas showed his true colors: victory at any cost, even at the cost of his kind. Strength by any means necessary. Arthas pulled the dreaded sword from the ice, thus gaining ultimate power. Northrend couldn't help but applaud; in this frozen world, one must seize the strength if they are to survive. Arthas will survive. If Mal'Ganis did was an entirely different affair.
Mal'Ganis had a horde of undead creatures at his command. They all fell to the might of Frostmourne. Not Arthas. It is the sword that has the power to crush its foes for its power comes from that scourge at Icecrown. The Lich King, his name was. But for now, Arthas was wielding the cursed blade. Whether or not that made it his is debatable.
The Undead Scourge fell before the Human Alliance. And Northrend howled louder, begging to see more blood. The snow rode on the winds, blowing harder and harder as the battle between the living, the dying, and the dead raged on with fire that frozen Northrend was wholly accustomed to. The strong survived. The weak died.
The wind blew harder as Arthas confronted Mal'Ganis. The prince was small compared to the might of Mal'Ganis, but the victor was clear. Arthas held the dreaded Frostmourne after all. And Mal'Ganis was only a dreadlord. Northrend eagerly watched the play with insane enthusiasm, the wind thrusting the snow across the icy plains.
"So, you've taken up Frostmourne at the expense of your comrade's lives, just as the Dark Lord said you would," Mal'Ganis' voice was like the grinding of bone on stone. "You're stronger than I thought."
"You waste your breath, Mal'Ganis," Arthas' voice was cold fire, as if hell was both frozen and flaming. "I heed only the voice of Frostmourne now."
"You hear the voice of the Dark Lord," Mal'Ganis replied in a matter of fact tone, losing none of its crushing sensation. "He whispers to you through the blade you wield. What does he say, young human? What dose the Dark Lord of the Dead tell you now?"
Mal'Ganis seemed amused. Arthas seemed to consider for a moment the words of the dreadlord. He looked like he was listening. Intently. He grinned. A wicked grin, his blue eyes blazing with the same cold fire.
"He tells me that the time for my vengeance has come," Arthas told him, laughing. Mal'Ganis was taken aback. A dreadlord was actually surprised.
"What? He can't possibly mean to-!" Mal'Ganis never finished his sentence. Arthas lunged forward and, screaming, he swung the mighty sword. Frostmourne cut through the wind as if it was never there. The deadly blade cut through the demons skin, cutting its throat and met the air again. The blood of Mal'Ganis nearly sprayed in the air, drawing the path of the sword onto the snow. The head of Mal'Ganis flew through the air and landed on Northrend with a thud. The headless body collapsed and Northrend cheered its icy cheer.
Arthas looked tired. He panted heavily for a long while. Northrend continued to cheer as Arthas studied the dead body, his breathing slowing down. Northrend howled as Arthas gazed at his prize. Now dead. The prince looked the sword that now hung heavily in his hand. He appeared to loosen his grip on the accursed blade, the fire within the blade slowly dying. Arthas shivered. Northrend's icy chill was only now being felt.
Arthas turned away from the body and began walking. To where he appeared to know not nor did it look like he cared. He just walked, dragging the blasted sword along with him. With Northrend continuing its mighty cheer, Arthas coldly walked away from his people, from his comrades, from the dead, from the living into the frozen wasteland that belonged to Northrend.
Shouts from the survivors of the battle could be heard. Shouts for their prince. Northrend no longer cared what happened to the survivors. They were weak compared to Arthas who was now strong. Northrend no longer cared that Icecrown was now beginning to stir. Arthas was much more interesting. It continued to cheer on the strong prince as he trudged along, eagerly waiting what happened next.
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Heard that Blizzard was holding a writing contest so I started writing this little ditty. Not sure whether or not I'll submit this story. We'll see what happens.
It's written differently, largely from the point of view from Northrend. I wanted to give the feeling that even the land is urging Arthas to…THE DARK SIDE. DUN DUN DUUUUUN!
Whatever. Again, Mass Effect: Chains of the Past takes priority over this. This story will be shorter than the others only being about 7-9 chapters. Hope you'll like it. ************************************************************************************