The city was full of lights, laughter and the insistent thrum of the life that filed its streets. The aroma of freshly baked delicacies that the city was famed for mingled with the smoke and smell of burning. Clanging from the blacksmith, interrupted by the occasional alchemy related boom was not loud enough to cover the sound of sentient life that rang loud and jumbled, in many languages, through the glittering streets. The swooping arches of the buildings, somewhat reminiscent of the Elvin structure, added to the vision. Overpowering all, however, was the taste of magic. It hung, thick, zingy and sharp in the air, it's powerful hum pulling, tugging at the mind. There was the gentle nudge of everyday spells such as the washing, the crackle of those more powerful used to demonstrate skill and finally the thick, solid feel of the ancient magic that held the city afloat.
That which had once been a woman watched the dazzling spectacle city from her perch on the tall citadel that towered over the north east corner. Dark, bruised lips parted as she took a delicate breath, tasting the world below. Her hands rested on the cool stone and she could feel the deep enchanting pulse that run through the buildings. The pounding current of life. Her mount circled high above the pointed spear of the citadel, riding the gentle swells and currents, peaceful and content. A light breeze brushed against the woman and lock of pure white hair brushed across her face. She caught it between two metal fingers and brushed it back behind a slightly pointed ear. She should feel cold. The woman let out a breath that became too much of a sigh for her liking. She frowned slightly, her purple-grey skin creasing to form the same expression of the living. But she was not so anymore. Deprived of feeling. The breeze should sting against her cheek. She could not remember the feeling but it had been described to her and she knew she had once turned away, pulling her clothes tighter, against the same wind. She traced the metal plating on her legs, knowing it was cold but unable to feel it.
Her gaze fell past her leg and onto the dizzyingly distant ground surrounding the citadel and she wondered what it would be like to fall. To fall in pure exhilaration and feel her second life pass by. To fall without care and finally feel peace. No longer having to struggle in a life that held little purpose for her. No longer without true emotion, only the ghost of its memory. Would her body mangle enough that the icy threads binding her to life would finally snap? She knew death, she had been there before, briefly. Her hand traced the white scar that ran from the left eye, across her nose, to the right corner of her mouth. She fought because it brought her the feeling of life again. She had been created to fight and so she functioned perfectly in war. She felt passion in full, delight, thrills. The bloodthirsty evil that had settled so comfortably in her rejoiced with every life she took. That gentle healer of before, a delicate, naiive priest suffocated on the stench of death. This was good. She wanted to lose that part of her forever, the part that haunted her first dreams. She didn't sleep anymore, it was unnecessary unless she was wounded. She never felt brave in her dreams. Unconsciously her hand moved to her stomach, tracing a circle. It was flat, empty, hollow. Her children ripped from her forever. Her love gone too. Who could love such a creature that lusted only for the fight?
A young human couple stopped in the patch of grass by the tree below. They were laying flowers on the memorials of those lost to the scourge. They held each other, smiling at the knowledge that even in war, there was love. The observer looked briskly away from the toxic sight. Her eyes rested on the dark shape that haunted the horizon to the North. The place where her old King sat on his frozen throne, twisting the powers that held her to life. Contrasting emotions rose at the thought of him. There was a primal, understandable, natural hatred for what he had done to her, yet there was also a familiarity, a sentimentality, a small fondness even for the life that she could most remember. Things had been simple with him, she had a goal, a place and a purpose. The woman studied the brightly lit city once more and felt it was sad that it felt more alien to her than the cold, barren wastes to the North. Yes, to some the city was romantic, joyful, a reminder of life in the harsh world of the day. To her, however, it was a symbol of just how much more there was to lose.
She stood swiftly and, with a sharp whistle, called down her mount. She leapt nimbly onto his back and they jumped from the stone column. Death knight and mount ghosted the golden skies above Dalaran, a world apart.