Just to start, here, I'd like to apologize to anyone who's been waiting for this. I know I took my merry time with it and honestly I'm not even done with the rough draft yet. But, I figured it's well enough that I could at least start it up. Also, if you're just starting to read these, don't start with this one. I promise it won't make sense if you do. I'll be referencing a lot of things from my other stories and it takes to much time to explain it all over again. So anyway, I'm just gonna get right to it, then. Hope you enjoy :)
The past twelve years had been trying. To say the very least. It was a constant effort to reclaim Northrend for the scourge, and they alone. Of course, after the initial fall of Dalaran, it was simple enough to scare away most of the remaining settlements, but it certainly didn't stop forces from trying to get in. They had taken to setting up a perimeter around the entire continent. Armed death knights, ghouls, abominations, and all manner of construct watching the shores twenty four seven. Even the dragonflight was involved, searching the skies for any sign of intruders. Aside from this consistent action, Drakkon also had to deal with the council's constant complaints. He had gone against them, acted on his own, and many were revolting in anger. His father had set up the system as an act of confidence. To make sure they were all on the same page and in agreement with each other to prevent fighting among the ranks. But, he was still the sole one making all the decisions and final call. It was just a much more diplomatic way to ease the minds of his followers.
Drakkon, however, behaved irrationally and recklessly in abandoning the courteous facade and making decisions without alerting the council. And, after years of the same routine and regular information, Drakkon's behavior was viewed as an act of betrayal. Though Arthas had originally tried to remedy the situation, he wasn't the one in charge, anymore. So, the near-war among the races of Northrend continued and all fingers of blame were pointed toward Drakkon. This only made things worse, as constant guard was required around the citadel, itself, as well. Drakkon had anticipated, or rather, hoped, that this guard would no longer be necessary once the alliance and horde forces were eradicated from the continent. However, he was finally viewed among his own as the ruthless dictator the position of the Lich King actually was. Luckily enough, he still had most of his knights and associated necromancers in Fleshwerks. That was enough to keep him secure from the revolting Vyrkil, dragonflight and manner of rebelled knights and constructs that roamed the continent. Though their numbers grew exponentially one the horde and alliance soldiers weren't around, anymore, to dwindle them on a regular basis.
Drakkon, himself had risen to the problems at hand, taking no issue in orders of kill-on-sight to those who had turned against him. He had become practiced in the ways of the cruel-mannered, heartless and tyrannical role he'd been placed in. With the continued lack of sleep, mental decline and altering effects of having become a death knight, himself, things were looking more and more grim as the years passed on. He spent more of his time locked away in his study, blocked away from everyone else and refusing to show himself unless completely necessary, that it began to get even more out of hand beyond the walls of the citadel. Northrend had become an overpopulated wasteland of old, broken settlements, corpses, harsh weather and chaotic action.
Wolfe did his best to lead the scourge army in Drakkon's decided path, but the other races of Northrend were always hostile and at the ready, doing everything they could to take down the death knights and any still following the orders of their corrupted king. Those knights who weren't being hunted were changing their allegiance, spying on the other knights and looking for flaws in the reinforced citadel. When these knights got discovered for the treachery, they were disposed of slowly and painfully, as per Drakkon's orders. It was becoming harder to tell who was actually on their side, however. Which is one of the many reasons Drakkon hardly left his study, anymore. He couldn't count how many times his own knights, within the very citadel, had attempted to rise and kill him, once he showed himself.
"It's getting worse out there." Wolfe spoke as he landed his drake on the balcony, looking between Nyteshayde and Arthas. "It's like the weather, itself, wants to join the fight, now. There are storms erupting all over Northrend, elementals rising to fight our knights. It's becoming a losing battle." He announced.
"What about the front lines around the continent?" Nyteshayde asked, watching her son in concern. "Are they holding?"
"Well enough." Wolfe nodded. "I think the only reason they aren't being taken out, at this point, is because the others don't want the forces of Azeroth back in.. They want to take care of Drak, themselves." At this, Nyteshayde gave a quick, worried glance to Arthas, who was watching out over the grounds below with a stern disapproving expression. Beneath the Citadel, knights, constructs and some of the dragonflight remaining on their side were locked in constant battle to keep the rebelling races out of the citadel.
"They've pulled down Naxxramas, recently. I saw the rubble of it as I passed over Dragonblight. There's no recovery for it, now." Wolfe continued, gaining back his mother's attention. "And the Vyrkil are trying to compromise Fleshwerks. I'm assuming it's in hopes of stopping the production of abominations."
"Is that everything?" Nyteshayde asked cautiously, though she could already read the answer in Wolfe's eyes.
"More of the dragonflight have turned on us. I noticed a lot fewer watching the skies, and a few tried to strike me down as I rode past." He said. "If they get enough on their side they could easily attack the citadel from above. Our gargoyles would be no match for them and, at that point, we wouldn't be able to keep them out." Nyte gave another look to Arthas, who finally moved his eyes from the battle below to glance between the two. Then, without a word, he turned to go inside. After a moment of initial wonder, Nyteshayde and Wolfe followed. He was on a set path to Drakkon's study, and a brief shock of worry ran through Nyteshayde as she easily sensed his anger at the situation. The feeling rose as Arthas reached the door. He didn't knock, or call though it, he kicked it open with great force. The large door cracked, and the sound of metal locks clattered loudly across the floor as he did so.
"What the hell are you doing!" Arthas demanded as he entered the room, followed quickly by a concerned Nyteshayde and a more curious, slightly amused Wolfe. Drakkon looked surprised, and it appeared the quick, forceful entry had made him jump from his seat, as it lay behind the desk on it's side. "Do something other than sit here and hide from the situation at hand!"
"What am I supposed to do about it? Everyone out there is trying to kill me!" Drakkon argued, all be it weakly. He knew his father well enough to tell he was angry, and that this was never a good thing.
"They're trying to kill you because you ruined everything!" Arthas shot. "Fix it, or they will get into the citadel and you will not stand a chance against all of them!"
"There's nothing I can do!"
"I've told you what to do!"
"I can't just talk to them and make everything alright again! If they got me outnumbered like that I know they would take their opportunity in a heartbeat!" Drakkon said, looking more frightened than usual for his character. "Besides, we can handle this. I'm in charge, here, not them! I call the shots and they follow them! They have to learn that! It's not my fault you let them get used to walking all over you!" At this, Arthas glared, and Drakkon took a step back.
"What I was doing was preventing this from happening!" He snarled. "By letting them feel like they have a say in what happens, you assure they stay on your side and do as you say. All you've done is run that strategy into the ground and and break any form of allegiance you ever had!" His anger was growing, and Drakkon was looking more and more like he wanted to flee. "I thought you could handle this! That you knew what you were doing and could cope with the responsibilities involved! You've proven me wrong every step of the way and I will not tolerate watching you destroy all I worked for anymore!"
"I didn't-" Drakkon tried.
"Listen to me!" Arthas roared, and Drakkon immediately stopped, looking a bit frozen. "You will do as I say and get things back on track! You will stop hiding away and becoming involved in things you shouldn't! You said you wanted this, so start acting like it! You are the Lich King, now. Not the same child who dappled in Fleshwerks that you usedto be! You need to accept the damn change and do your job in keeping Northrend under control! Are we clear?" At this, Drakkon gave a small nod. "I am going to help you get things together one last time, then you had better learn to do it on your own. I won't be around forever, Drakkon. Get your head on straight!" At this, he turned to leave the study, and Drakkon finally seemed to relax a bit.
"Wipe that ridiculous smirk off your face." Drakkon shot, glaring to Wolfe.
"I can't help it." Wolfe shrugged. "You needed a reality check. I'm just glad I got to witness it. You've been running the scourge into the ground for too long."
"As if you would have done any better!" Drakkon hissed. "If you'd been places in charge, the place would be crawling with concubines and you would have allowed the forces of Azeroth to run rampant through Northrend."
"I wouldn't be hiding locked in my room like a weak, scared child." Wolfe snickered. It was cut short, however, when he quickly ducked out ot the way of a quick spell from his brother.
"Drakkon!" Nyteshayde scolded. "This isn't helping anything."
"Exactly." Wolfe agreed, smirk gone.
"Wolfe, honey.." Nyteshayde sighed, looking to her son and gesturing for the door. Wolfe looked reluctant, but the malice in Drakkon's eyes seemed to convince him. Drakkon moved back to the desk, setting the chair upright before sitting down. Nyteshayde, after watching Wolfe retreat from the room, moved forward, leaning on the desk and catching Drakkon's attention. "Things are getting far too bad out there for you to ignore it, anymore."
"I'm not ignoring anything." He muttered. "He's overreacting."
"Is he?" Nyteshayde rose a brow. "Imagine something for me.. All that time you spent in Fleshwerks. All the changes you made and the work you did. That place is your pride and joy, right?" She asked, and Drakkon gave a small nod, curious to her point. "Now, imagine, after all those years and all you accomplished, that you left Valeah in charge of it. And she sent it in a completely opposite direction than you had and essentially ruined it from the inside. Whether she meant to or not."
"I'd never leave Valeah in charge of Fleshwerks. She couldn't handle it." Drakkon tried.
"You don't think your father had the same thoughts about you?" She huffed. "You have no idea how long he toyed around with the idea of putting you in charge before he actually did so. He did it because he knew it would get you out of your rut, and he hoped you would be able to rise to the responsibility." She said. "Imagine how he must have felt when you didn't."
"I'm trying." Drakkon insisted.
"You're not." Nyteshayde shook her head. "That is why it bothers him so much. You are in charge of everything he worked for, and you aren't taking it seriously. The man has no peace of mind anymore. You might think you're the only one struggling with this, worrying about it, but you're not." She paused, giving a glance to the door. "Just, please, do what he says. He knows what needs to be done in order to set things right, but you have to be the one to do those things. He can't anymore, because you are the one in charge, now." She waited, and Drakkon gave a nod. "Thank you." She said with a weak smile before she stood straight and left the room, as well. Drakkon sat for a bit, packing his pipe and and lighting it as he leaned back in his chair. As child, thinking about growing up and taking over the citadel, he had naively thought it would be simple. His father made it all look so easy.
Drakkon hadn't left the study in months. He hadn't needed to. With being turned into a death knight twelve years prior, eating was a luxury, more than a necessity. He didn't sleep, and therefor had no use for a bed. Though the vast majority of death knights partook in the activities of eating and sleeping, it was more of a habit than a need. Drakkon had no desire for them. Though this made it easy to remain shut away, perhaps the time had come to see for himself what Northrend had become. He hadn't even left the security of the citadel for years. With a slight mental hesitation, he rose from his seat, heaving open the doors to the balcony and looking over the railing at the chaos below. He really had made a mess of things, hadn't he?
As he looked up to the skies, gray, threatening clouds rolled overhead. A sign of yet another impending storm. They were coming more frequently, lately, and they always seemed to get worse. For the moment, though, it was fairly still. Drakkonlet out a sharp whistle, calling down one of the frostwyrms that circled the citadel. It landed quickly and knowingly crouched to allow Drakkon on it's back. As he settled onto it, grabbing hold of one of the skeletal dragon's vertebrae to hand on, it took off under his control.
As he flew over the area, it became clear just how drastically the place had changed. It was a war zone, in all aspects of the word, and an unsettling cold had gripped the continent. Not the usual chill the northern lands always had, but much more raw and ruthless than it had ever been. Luckily enough, he seemed to go unnoticed by the fights below. With the dragonflight on his side, he didn't have anything to fear, in the air. Of course, this misinformed assumption was what finally brought him down. Having been locked away in his study for so long, he was unaware that, in fact, only a small handful of the dragonflight still held him in respects. The rest wanted him as dead and gone as the remainder of Northrend.
The storm had come in quickly, as if in aid to the dragons as they swooped in. The blizzard definitely obscured his vision enough to render him incapable of seeing them until they were upon him. He wasn't even sure which part of the continent he had been flying over, when they struck. The frostwyrm carrying him tried futilely to fight them off, but ut was greatly outnumbered. Having only one option left, Drakkon leapt from the wyrm's back, hoping he was over an area where enemies weren't waiting below to rip him asunder. The dragons swooped as they saw him leap, attempting to catch him before he was out of sight in the storm. In the thrashing of claws, flailing of tails, and gnashing of teeth, injury was inescapable. It took the feeling of claws in his back, and a hard knock to the head by his own desperately fighting wyrm to make him realize he wasn't getting away without drastic measures. He lashed with his claw, driving it into the stomach of the dragon who held him in it's claws. With a wild screech of agony and a violent jolt, it tore it's claws from him on instinct. As soon as he was freed from the dragon's grasp, he teleported through the air as far away as he could, and cast a spell on himself that made him appear to be invisible. Though the spell never seemed to last as long as he desired, it was enough to allow his escape.
At first, he truly believed he could simply walk away and make it back to the citadel. Despite the heavy storm he couldn't see through. Despite that he had no idea where, exactly, he was, or what direction he needed to go. Despite the creatures lurking about, waiting to kill him. And despite how much the hard knock to the head had actually effected him, as his mind was barred from rational thought and his vision began to become more obscured. It felt like he had completely lost any and all sense of reality. Everything he had clung to previously as solid and true had collapsed around him. It was as if he were falling. That was the sensation he felt, anyway, even though his feet were firmly on ground. He didn't even know how long he had been walking, what turns he had taken, or when he had even started. He didn't know where he was. The storm had picked up even more as he walked, and the hard, wind-whipped ice that fell easily tore at him. He had long since grown immune to the cold, however, and continued his aimless stride undisturbed.
It was his head that was bothering him. That relentless plummeting feeling, a deep ringing in his ears, and an overwhelming dizziness. It was certainly wearing at him. To look at him, it would appear he was lost in deep thought. The creases on his face looked like those of concentration and insight. This was not the case. His mind, his thoughts, were completely blank. The downward spiral was all consuming, and left no room for question or contemplation. The ringing was accompanied by a strange hissing, then, and Drakkon's steps stopped nearly at the same time. Then from the depths of his psyche,a dark, echoing laughter. Haunting and painfully familiar. Then, something snapped, and Drakkon twitched slightly before everything simply went dark and blank.