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Summary: Running an army of Undead is more taxing than one would think as Arthas works through weight problems and Kel'Thuzad goofs off in every way imaginable.
It's A Scourge Life
Episode 01: Of Dancers and Inappropriateness
"My King."
The former Prince of Lordaeron, now the Commander-in-Chief to the armies of the Undead turned his great frame to face one of his trusted advisors, a skeletal form taller than he was a few times over. Glowing hollow sockets in his helm met that of the icily-glowing form of the Necromancer, ready to hear him speak. The blade of Frostmourne, the Accursed Sword dimly glowed blue as he took a step towards his Lieutenant.
"Yes, Lich?" he spoke.
Kel'Thuzad was one of Arthas' most powerful and knowledgeable confidants. His information, his command of the army assigned were quite possibly only second to his own, a testament to the scale of absolute power that which he belonged to. The Lich was quite possibly the only person Arthas would have trusted to assist him in leading the Scourge to total victory.
That is, if he wasn't such a headache most of the time.
"I've decided to retire and become a fisherman."
Arthas felt the headache coming on swiftly. This was going to be another one of those days.
"Kel, no." he said in a final tone, hoping his Second-In-Command would take the hint and drop the matter altogether.
Wishful thinking was never his strong point.
"Oh yes, and you can't stop me." Kel'Thuzad huffed in a way only a ten year-old possibly would on the event of not receiving their toy, crossing his arms over his chest as Arthas' blue orbs felt the sheer exasperation at his idiotic Second-In-Command's request.
If threat was the only way to end this, then…
"Kel, I'm the bloody Lich King." He growled, feeling the twitch strongly coming on, "I can do anything I want to you in any way possible."
The Necromancer look affronted.
"Beg your pardon sir, but I just don't swing that way." He shook his head.
The twitch worsened. Arthas turned his back to Kel'Thuzad, feeling the urge to just punch the idiot rise up rather quickly in his gut.
"Oh shut up." He said in exasperation, giving a look to Frostmourne before looking back out onto the balcony, "What's with you and this stupid idea, anyway?"
"It's not stupid." Kel'Thuzad said in a rather defensive tone, "It's a perfectly logical plan to ensure my survival in the face of getting another mace to my crotch, thank you very much." The former Necromancer huffed as if this was a logical decision, meeting his superior's stare with an unerring gaze of his own, adamant on not backing down from his incredulous newfound obsession.
Arthas fought back a sigh, careful that his image not be tarnished by such a petty discussion. Competent and powerful Kel'Thuzad may have been, but no way in the Nether was he going to tolerate this idiot's ridiculous and nonsensical rambling any longer.
"Kel, you're dead. You can't feel shit." He said in a final tone.
"Oh rub it in, why don't you?"
"I'd rather not, thank you very much." Arthas shot a gay comment right back, hoping to end the conversation as soon as he could. If he gave the rambling Lich anymore quarter he'd be weeping on the floors. "Now get back to - !"
He was cut off, however, by a boneguard grunt who had just rushed into the throne room and… fallen to pieces.
Arthas counted backwards from ten.
"For goodness' sakes, pick yourself up, man!" he barked forcefully.
The head rolled right to his feet.
"Sire!" the skull said in a very squaeaky voice, "The Alliance have broken through the Citadel walls!"
Arthas swore. Kel'Thuzad covered his ears.
"The Commanders?" he inquired.
"All dead sir." it replied.
Kel'Thuzad laughed heartily. The skull and Arthas looked at him incredulously, to which the skeletal form sighed and un-crossed his arms.
"Oh you two have no sense of humor."
Arthas really rolled his eyes then.
"Oh do shut up."
/-/-/-/-/-/-/
At the aforementioned broken wall, the Alliance were ready to push against the breach. However, they had encountered a minor setback in the form of an almost-deaf Wing Commander of a Draenei. To which the Squadron Leader was trying to communicate the fact that they had successfully broken through the first layer of defences and was not currently trying to cook some delicious clefthoof thigh meat at a barbecue.
To no avail, of course.
"OKAY, NOW THAT WE'RE INSIDE WE CAN LOOK FOR THE LICH KING!"
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?"
"I SAID WE CAN NOW LOOK FOR THE LICH KING!"
"HUH? CAN'T HEAR YOU, MATE!"
"I SAID - !"
The ground rumbled, and all fell silent. The cold aura of death swept across the ground. Twelve of the Squadron members were rooted to their positions as they heard the ominous clanking of ancient armor. The Squadron Leader turned his head to the source of the echo down the hall (That they had just broken through), hoping to Hell that this wasn't going to end up with them as grounded paste on the walls of Icecrown Citadel. He gulped slowly, fixing his eyes on the dark corridor.
Which suddenly erupted in blue flames.
It was Arthas.
With quite possibly all of the Undead at his command behind him, poised to strike. Blades, hammers, staves were all drawn, ready to make minced meat out of the Alliance Squadron for even thinking of desecrating the sanctity of the Lich King's proud fortress. The ruler of the Scourge himself took a step forward, radiating absolute power and no room for mercy.
"Tremble before the might of the Lich – OOF!"
He fell flat on his face, raising several incredulous blinks from the invading force (And one snigger from a very amused Cultist, who was in the front row so he could get a full show).
The Lich King, Arthas, turned his head around, to see that one of his more heavily-plated soldiers, a Boneguard Lieutenant, had his foot placed directly on the edge of his cloak's cloth. He glared balefully, angered at such an insulting action. From one of his own, no less!
Arthas once again counted backwards from ten before speaking. Losing temper wasn't good for morale, after all.
"Lieutenant," he began calmly.
"Yes, sire?" came the gravelly voice of a reply.
"Get your foot off my cloak."
"My foot's not on your cloak."
"Yes it is, now get it off."
"Prove my foot's on your cloak."
"It is. Look." He nodded to the scene of the crime.
The response was even more unbelievable.
"I'm not looking."
"Why the Hell not?"
"I didn't vote for you, you can't order me around!"
"I'm the bloody Lich King!" he barked.
"And I'm a male model; we can't all have our dreams come true!" the Lieutenant sniffed.
"You're being unreasonable. Now move your foot!" he commanded.
There was a moment of silence, before…
"Say please."
You could hear a pin drop.
"What?"
"You heard me; say please."
"I DON'T HAVE TO SAY PLEASE!"
The Lieutenant only looked at him as though he was a child.
"Yes you do. It's polite to say please."
Arthas swore under his breath.
"Fine," he gritted his teeth, noting to himself that once the day was over he was going to have a nice long talk with Kel'Thuzad about his absolutely absolute chain of command, "Please remove your foot from my cloak, Lieutenant."
"But my foot's not on your cloak."
Arthas almost wept.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/
The Lich King groaned loudly for probably the first time in ages as he plopped himself unceremoniously on his throne, resting his head against the comfortably cool stone and metal. The defence of Icecrown Citadel had been a technical success, as during his banter with that idiot of a Lieutenant, the Squadron had turned on their heel and run away, probably never to bother him again. The wall was being fixed as well, as Kel'Thuzad had decided to do something competent for the day and oversee that there were no slackers in the rebuilding of the broken barricade.
Some days, he wondered just why the bloody Hell things just wouldn't go right.
There was a knock on his chamber's doors.
"Enter," he tried to use his most ominous voice, but all that bantering had a negative effect on him, so the most he could manage was a tired threatening one.
Upon seeing who had come in, however, he decided it would have been better to pretend he wasn't home.
Because one of his best Necromancers had barged in, clad in leotard and head band, long beard covered in a mix of green slime and the man's own glistening sweat and doing pirouettes as he came right before him in a perverted, vile and twisted presentation of himself.
"Are we ready to shed that fat?" came Heigan's highly affected voice.
He groaned.
Sometimes, I wish I didn't pull you out, he thought, looking to the sword by his side.
Frostmourne only twinkled mischievously.
To Be Continued
A/N: Episode 1, done.