Oh, the marvellous opportunities!
He walked to and fro his small office, the black stone walls echoing his quiet laughter. Times were changing and this once, finally, to his advantage.
Never before had he dared begin this. But it started on its own. He heard the two voices, one overlapping the other, one malicious, one pained. The king spoke and summoned; he grew strong... but not strong enough. They followed. All of those soulless, mindless thralls went north to answer his call, and those who retained their own will – much like himself – led the march of the dead.
But no, he was not among them. He stayed behind to observe the dreaded necropolis leave the hazy skies of former Lordaeron. Kel'Thuzad joined the Lich King in Northrend.
Now was his time!
With the king far in the frozen roof of the world and his henchman now at his side, there was no one to rival his power within the Scourge. Those that would dare...
He laughed again, louder this time. The old, torn tapestries that hung on his walls, retained from the upper halls of the former, living Caer Darrow, seemed to shiver. All went well. Any day, any minute now he will be able to proceed to the next stage of his plan. Soon. So soon.
In the darkness of his macabre school, headmaster Gandling kept laughing.
It squeaked. Opening the somewhat disproportional, amazingly strong reptilian jaw, it looked up with wide, gleaming eyes and squeaked. What made it worse was that it then seemed to be smiling innocently as if nothing ever happened.
The tall man that was watching all this sighed deeply. This was not going according to plan.
Footsteps behind pulled him back to reality, however disappointed. He did not turn around, but the steps sounded soft and light. He knew they were made by a woman, and he was expecting only one. A tall, fair-skinned elf in a dark, contrasting robe. A black bandanna held her long, light hair in a relative order over her thin, somewhat sinister face. She waved her hips as she walked, both like a slut and like someone who could be described only as 'dark mistress'.
She paused behind him, closely observed by huge eyes that peeked from behind the red-clothed man.
"How did it go?" he asked, pushing the squeaking creature back to position in a rather exasperated motion.
"The master is impatient," the elf replied evenly, hiding irritation. Successfully. "He demands that we proceed with his plan."
The man span on a heel, removing the ridiculously red goggled that obscured his dark eyes, shining with insanity. The creature squeaked in glee that it is no longer observed and, flapping its much too small wings, fell from the working bench to the floor.
"Malicia..." the man in red sighed, ignoring the thing that was now running in circles around him, still flapping. "They are not ready. None of them."
"I know, Krastinov," the elf answered, her eyes following the delighted caricature of a dragon whelp. "But the master demands. Choose one that is best, doctor. We have no choice."
Theolen Krastinov looked down at what he dreaded to, but had to call a dragon hatchling. "No. We do not."
Naxxramas flew.
Far away from Lordaeron as it was, it looked like nothing more than a distant, black pyramid. One could no longer see the details, the gruesome ornaments carved in lighter, greyish stone. The deformed skulls and overgrown spiders laughed at the entire world as greenish, sticky slime flowed lazily in between them through carved rows and canals. Some of it dropped into the ocean below with a loud, almost sickening splash. The necropolis emanated an aura of coldness and chill found only beyond the grave.
No fish stayed below as Naxxramas soared above.
Each of its corners was identical on the outside and completely different within. And each had its own commander, a trusted lieutenant – or slave – of Kel'Thuzad himself.
The most noticeable was what some began to refer to as the 'abomination wing'. It was home to the monstrous construct Thadduys who towered over almost anyone, his pet dog, sewn from many different corpses and countless other abominable monstrosities. This section of the necropolis was composed of metal plates and grates which clung with every step made. Below flowed the same green slime that embraced the black building from outside. Some of it dripped from plated walls in between the feet – or whatever they had for feet – of the wing's inhabitants.
Next corner was much dryer, deprived of the sickening goo. Instead the stone walls were carved in arachnide patterns and symbols few could decipher. The wing was as dry as the southern desert and as cold as the northern glaciers – home to the arachnids that called themselves Nerubians. First to have opposed the Lich King and first to have submitted to his rule. Deep in this section lived the brood mother Maexxna, spawning countless new undead fiends under the watchful eye of the elf who named herself the Grand Widow.
Then came the most eerie of the four corners, named adequately the 'Plague wing'. The walls were covered with old, torn tapestries and the floors with dusty rugs. There were also curtains in passages between chambers. Stone gargoyles followed the steps of everyone who dared come in and out with their immovable eyes, guarding the laboratories of the one named Noth – the Plaguebringer. The chambers were overcome by hideous flora such as diseased mushrooms and mutated flowers, and cauldrons were placed one next to the other, greenish fires beneath, boiling substances within. The smell of death and liquid disease was overwhelming. And there were screams.
Last but not least was the most silent section of all. The walls were plain in comparison to the rest of the citadel, with few carvings and fewer draperies. Ramps led up and down on steep slopes, from one training room to the other. Here, in this very wing, Kel'Thuzad's Four Horsemen surveyed the training of the Lich King's most formidable warriors – death knights, the fallen paladins. Highlord Alexandros Mograine led the four, followed by a dwarf Thane Kor'thazz, Lady Blumeaux, who is as beautiful as deadly, and the one who never seemed to fit – Sir Zeliek, a man in white among all the shades of black.
All these corners, all sections so different were united in the very heart of Naxxramas by a circular, slightly misty portal that led in, but not always out. Above it, supported by ramps that led to each wing was its twin passage, sealed by four runes, the only way to the top of the gruesome pyramid – the lair of Sapphiron, the undead azure dragon and the throne room of the greatest lich, Kel'Thuzad.
He was now floating almost in circles around his throne, ornately carved our of pitch black stone. The air was crystallizing around his thin, skeletal frame as it touched his icy aura. The seven chains hung lifelessly on the lich, entwined with the streams of icy magic that held him together. And he thought.
The Scourge was now a vast, formidable army and its numbers grew with each fallen foe. Each and every one of their undead, be they mindless meat or commanders that retained their minds... they heard. The King spoke to them, as he always did, making his will and whim their own. But for the past few years it all was different. Twin voices spoke in heads of the undead.
And among them all, only Kel'Thuzad could truly distinguish the two. And know their real feelings.
If he had lungs, he would have sighed. A small, thin bundle of white fur purred softly on folded skeletal arms as bony fingers petted it. The twin voices of Arthas and Ner'zhul were not the only issue. Something was not right in the Scourge.
Thaddius. Grand Widow Faerlina. Noth. The Four Horsemen. And all those below. They all wanted the power he, Kel'Thuzad, has gained, but none realized that with great power comes not only great responsibility, but also great sacrifice. Those inside Naxxramas were widely known as his most trusted lieutenants, but in truth, he trusted absolutely no one anymore.
Not even his king.
The kitten purred again as the lich stopped and laid it on the throne. It curled up and looked up at its dead friend lovingly, ignoring the gravely chill and the stench of death all around.
Something was about to go terribly, terribly wrong.