A raspy cough interrupted his musing. Lightbane opened his eyes, the creak of his joints signaling that several hours had passed. The drape twitched back to reveal one of the few death knights he'd actually struck a rapport with. Like him, Mogred was one of the recently freed who'd come to Acherus. The stooped form grinned, every tooth showing in his rotted face.

"Lightbane," he rasped. "I knew I'd find you here."

"Mogred," he nodded in greeting. Mogred was vile-looking forsaken. He was fond of boasting how he could have had his heartiness restored, but preferred his rotted visage for invoking terror in his enemies. Holes opened on both sides of his face any time he spoke, revealing grimy gray teeth and a blackened tongue. Bones strung with vibrant sinew winked beneath his armor. He was a skilled fighter, and after several matches the two had become friendly. Lightbane glanced at Mogred's flickering blue-white eyes. Well, as friendly as two monsters could be.

"Walk with me, Lightbane. I have a proposition."

Lightbane stood, absently pulling on a ragged shirt before following the hunched forsaken out into the halls. Mogred chuffed softly to himself, drumming his bony fingers on his blackened armor. The two threaded their way through the ziggurat, finally exiting onto one of the many terraces. Night was falling over the Plaguelands, leaving the sky a vivid leprous indigo. Mogred stood at the railing, chuffing deeply at the putrid air.

"I've had interesting news from below."

"You're rarely in this good of a mood," Lightbane said drily. "You didn't happen to nip down and find some previously undiscovered band of Scarlets, did you?"

Mogred threw his head back with a cackle. "I wish, my friend. Too long have I been here, away from the rich screams of the terrified masses. Ah, Lightbane," he chuckled, "I know we share that enjoyment. The deep satisfaction from watching your enemy's blood spill, there's nothing quite like it."

"I do not regret anything performed in his service," Lightbane muttered. At the edge of his vision, a translucent shape billowed from the floor. Not now, he growled. A small glowing ball formed, hovering at the corner of his eye.

"We are the lucky ones! We exist to make the world pay for all that was done to us!" Mogred tilted his head. "Some of our brethren have recently returned from the glorious Undercity. Have you ever seen the wondrous vaults, or beheld the perfection of Lady Sylvanas?"

"I know only what we were told at the Citadel." Lightbane wracked his brain. The Undercity had once been Lordaeron's proud capital before Arthas had returned from Northrend. It was now an abode of the dead; the freed undead lead by the banshee queen Sylvanas Windrunner. They were allied with the forces of the Horde, from what he could recall.

"I served in his army when Quel'Thalas fell. I saw the Dark Lady rise as his banshee, and then as his bane. She understands us, my friend. She knows our thirst for vengeance. All the others who scrabble over Azeroth see us as a blight to be destroyed. Our survival means joining with those who understand."

Lightbane grunted noncommittally, warily eyeing the coalescing vapor at the rail. He honestly didn't care to exchange one yoke for another. Horde or Alliance, the two could rip each other to ribbons. He vaguely felt that when he was alive, he cared more about such things.

"Now that Arthas is dead, the Lady reaches out to us, Lightbane. She calls for us to fight under her banner. Glory in destruction can be ours, if we go to her."

"Morgraine would not approve."

"Morgraine doesn't care what we do in Azeroth, as long as we put up swords in Acherus." Mogred hissed eagerly. "He dwells in the stew of his own revenge. WE, Lightbane, WE are the swords who thirst for blood. The Dark Lady offers us an endless font to slake our thirst." He tapped his chest. "I, for one, have decided. I am going to the Undercity to pledge myself to her."

Abruptly an image rose in Lightbane's mind, of fell-green eyes and long white hair, and the lightest touch of lips against his cold skin. He glanced away from Mogred's frenzied face and out into the deepening night, afraid the other knight could see into his mind. He tried to will the image away, even as the ghostly paladin shape shook its head at him from the railing.

You may not care about Horde or Alliance, but will she care what you do?

"I don't know," he murmured. Mogred spread his arms wide, gesturing at the festering stones around them.

"This is a way-station, Lightbane. A place to train, not a place to hide. Azeroth is ripe to be plundered. What could be a more fitting revenge then to force the world to bow to us?" Mogred's blackened tongue whipped across his torn lips. "Or is it that you wish to return to the Alliance…the Alliance that would see you as a murderer…barely a step away from the Lich King himself?"

"You know I don't care for the Alliance, or the Horde for that matter."

"Then come with me, Lightbane. See what the Lady has to offer us. We share her curse, and we should share in her revenge. Come with me at least as far as Anderhol."

"Anderhol?"

Mogred nodded. "Only the first in a series of skirmishes ordered by the Dark Lady. The Alliance and the Argent Crusade have been trying to retake the Western Plaguelands. Kolitira Deathweaver leads the forces of the Horde to block their efforts. What better way to prove ourselves then by shedding a little holier-then-thou blood?" Mogred cackled. "Paladin blood is so sweet, and flows so prettily…like liquid rubies dripping off our blades."

Lightbane stiffened. Those words had been said to him once before, during his final moments of life. Spat from the lips of a frizzy-haired woman, her pike hovering above his still-beating heart. Paladin blood is so sweet, she'd hissed.

This is wrong, all wrong. Christof's ghost looked worried. This is not the way to re-enter the world. You're not a creature of revenge anymore. You are your own man.

Lightbane smiled, turning back to Mogred. The forsaken was grinning widely through every hole in his tepid skin. "Well, my friend?"

"I'm in. When can we leave?"

Mogred slapped Lightbane on the shoulder. "As soon as we gather the some supplies and pay our respects to Morgraine. You'll love the Undercity, Alexander. It's the closest thing to home since the Citadel."

Lightbane nodded, turning back towards his cubby. "I'll get my armor and meet you in Morgraine's chamber." Mogred cackled and saluted before fading into the shadows. As Lightbane turned, he caught the ashen figure of the paladin still standing at the rail. Christof no longer gleamed brightly. In fact, he looked pallid and weak, as if even the most timorous light could banish him. The death knight felt the forced smile slip from his lips.

"I need to get out in the world again, right? No more hiding? That is what you've been harping on for two months. I am my own man, just as you said."

You won't learn. You refuse to be anything more then a tool for whoever grasps your handle and makes you go.

Lightbane blinked, but the landing was empty. The paladin was gone. He frowned and headed into the depths of Acherus, eager to get into his armor.

I make my own decisions, damn it. This could be exactly what I need.