Silvermoon whistled hollowed-out like the discarded cocoon of a butterfly on to greener pastures. And here dwelling in it crawled the disparate, ravenous ants that gnawed on green rocks for a quick fix. With one act, Arthas had made the Wretched. Arthas made the Children of the Blood. Ticks desperate for the blood of the host, but the host was dead and they were dying - or moved on to retain their dignity, as he had done. As he would have continued to do, if not for family.
Funny how for all the wars and death and plague, nothing the Lich King had done so far had been as devastating as denying them dessert.
And I remember that Prince as a boy, him and the orphan new King and the rest, and look how far they've come. Look how far he's fallen, and he's bringing us all down with him.
He shrouded his still-blue eyes as he sought a dealer. Just enough, just enough for green.
If all of them had died, he would have never come into the city. He hated himself for that brutal thought. He knew he'd be signing under Varian now, back to the Alliance as in the old days (the old days of just a few months ago) but he couldn't take them with him. They had dug their roots in deep, stuck their fangs in deep, and they were here to stay for good or ill. And he had to, had to stay with them.
He accepted the tiny green crystal, felt it buzz and hate in his palm, and hated himself for what he had to do.