Hey, sorry it's taken me so long to post anything. I got a new job and it's taken up a lot of my time. Here is some short story I wrote to try and tide you guys over. I had a lot of these ideas before I knew about WoD so, ya know, if something doesn't make sense just let me know. Also, excuse all the typo and what not. Enjoy!
Grizz, Construct of Death, Codex of the Scourge
"I want his cranium protected.", Arthas said as he tried to conceal his grin, "And let us do something else special for him. Say...", the Crown Prince of Lordaeron trailed off as he let his and Ner'zhul's sadistic mind wonder for a moment.
"We could use adamantite for the stitches.", Kel'thuzad chimed in from the other side of what appeared to be an icy cavern but, in reality, was another of the Lost Halls of Icecrown.
"I like it.", Ner'zhul spoke, no longer able to conceal his grin which manifested itself on Arthas's face.
"I can never tell who is speaking to me, is it you, my lord? Or you, Ner'zhul?", Kel'thuzad more so wondered aloud, although even if the arch lich had thought it Arthas could have plucked the idea right from his brain had he felt like it.
"We...like it.", Arthas said with a grin of his own.
"Am I no longer your lord, lich?", Ner'zhul asked.
"You are. I am sorry...my lord. It won't be subject to the Bolvar's control will it? Or worse yet, the Banshee Queen?", Kel'thuzad asked, changing directions.
"No. That is exactly why we're making it.", Arthas paused before wheeling around on the heels of his metal boots, "It will be a codex, I want his inner layer lined with brains and more brains. All the information we have needs to be stored in this thing.", Arthas kicked the bloated corpse. Well, it was more than just one corpse. It was an abomination, sown together from various other corpses. A horrificly fastened creature with a gaping gut and a third unsightly smaller arm protruding from its back to carry whatever extra weapon it could. Typically a large meat cleaver.
"Even my knowledge, my lord?"
"Yes, lich, all the knowledge."
"How many times does he have to say it?", Ner'zhul muttered as he kicked an empty vial over that was precariously laying around the icy floor.
"Professor.", Arthas beckoned his servant over.
"Yes, my lord?", Professor Putricide answered quickly.
"How long do you think it will take to line his stomach with brains?", Arthas asked, his view never wavering from his new creation.
"That depends-", Professor Putricide began speaking but Arthas already knew the answer. He only really asked these questions out of habit from being human. He need only tap into his mind and the human commanded the ability to immediately recall any and all knowledge the Scourge had amassed.
"Couldn't you just put our knowledge into one brain and have that be that?", Ner'zhul asked, too lazy to use the same mental powers.
"No. There is too much information here for even an elf brain. But, that's not a bad idea, I want wizard brains, preferably from elves. Hopefully that will require less brains.", Arthas answered.
"Could that possibly mean-", but again, Arthas knew the words before they came out Kel'thuzad's skeletal mouth.
With a haughty chuckle, both Arthas and Ner'zhul laughed at the idea of an abomination able to cast spells. Especially spells with such potency.
"He may even one day be smarter than you, Kel.", Arthas looked over at his friend with a wry smile. Kel'thuzad scoffed. "It will be a warm day in Northrend before that happens."
"I hear it gets pretty hot in Scholozar Basin.", Ner'zhul quipped. Arthas stifled a laugh.
Afterward there was a silence in the Lost Halls of Icecrown. Immediately Arthas and Ner'zhul had lost all expression on their faces, their heads were vacant shells. Soon Ner'zhul's image began to fade from existence until he did not exist at all. He had been sucked back into Arthas's mind where the two were now trapped, both of them dormant figures in the towering human body.
"My lord?", Kel'thuzad asked, but he could already sense the two identities of his king had vanished.
"Professor!", Kel'thuzad, exclaimed frantically, "Ready yourself! Shield the codex!"
Abruptly, Arthas opened his eyes and began thrashing madly. It was clear Arthas and Ner'zhul were fighting with whatever was going on inside them. The human mouth started chanting in the demonic tongue, blood running from his nose. Kel'thuzad flung himself backward and entrapped his king in a block of ice, but it was no use. Arthas's possessed frame smashed through the ice with his bear hands like it were not there at all.
Thinking quickly, Professor Putricide hurled every concoction he could lay his bony fingers on at his master. Some potions dissolved on the armor and did nothing, others bled through Arthas's skin only to reveal an orc inside it. One potion caught Arthas in the head, searing half his face off revealing Ner'zhul's painted head underneath.
"Master!", Kel'thuzad cried, not wishing to unleash his true fury upon him, the one who had granted it unto the arch lich to begin with. "You leave me no choice, Arthas!", the words pained Kel'thuzad to say. But he was right, to ensure their survival, Kel'thuzad had no choice. In the Dead Tongue the arch lich began chanting words colder than the ice that composed the old cavernous halls. His eyeless sockets flared with dark shadows and his skeletal frame grew to enormous proportions, much like he seemed to the interlopers of Naxxramas. The glorious chains that enveloped his body glowed blue and snaked their way around Arthas's convulsing frame as the human rampaged through the halls smashing everything.
It was more than extremely rare to hear anyone use the Dead Tongue. It was an art just as much as it was a science. A malevolent corruption of any language, the Dead Tongue had been something of Arthas, Ner'zhul and Kel'thuzad's creating...with the help of Medivh of course. Not the wizard himself, however, but rather his vast knowledge of demons, the Last Spellbook of Medivh. One of the most prized possessions in the dark depths of the Lost Halls of Icecrown. With the timeless runes engraved on all of Arthas's metallic body, the languages of the dead, and the knowledge of worlds beyond their own, the three created something new.
A twisted, grotesque abomination of linguistics, time and dark magic. One mere utterance of the words would have driven the Qiraji even more mad than they had been, it would have turned the most devout crusader into a soulless death knight or, what it would come to be, the future tongue of the Unholy Congregation. Those remaining undead smart enough to follow their master through death. If one could even call it that. Spearheaded by the arch lich himself. He, who then trickled down his powers to the liches of the land, then to the death knights, then shadow priests, then acolytes.
"You are powerless to the might of the Scourge, demon spawn!", Kel'thuzad's voice boomed in the Lost Halls of Icecrown. But a voice called back. "And you, puny lich, are powerless to the might of the Legion!". The voice may not have been the exact same, but Kel'thuzad recognized the words 'puny lich'. They stung when Archimonde said them too.
Fiery lights began to shine bright from the eyes of Arthas, his body beginning to emit the scorching flames of the Burning Legion. Kel'thuzad could feel the heat, and although its source was eons away on some dark planet of the Burning Legion, even here on Azeroth it burned hot. Despair. The feeling filled the arch lich to his organless core. How could a 'puny lich' contend with the might of Kil'jaeden, the remaining lieutenant of the Legion? A figure that now manifest himself in the rising smoke amongst all the commotion. But only a shadow.
No. Kel'thuzad had not risked eternal death for life eternal under the Lich King to despair now. He had not witnessed his master foretell his death and glorious rebirth at the hands of the champion Arthas, only to aid Arthas in becoming his new master. He had already been defeated once by the interlopers who were foretold to come and defeat him again, yet still Arthas had granted the mage life eternal. Never had Arthas left Kel'thuzad to languish in a crypt along with the other corpses of the day. No. Kel'thuzad would fight for his king. For his friend.
"In death, you will all serve!", Kel'thuzad screamed at the top of his...bones, as he burst with pure necrotic energies. Magic so potent with death it snuffed out even the flame of the Burning Legion. With a great thud Kel'thuzad's chains slammed Arthas's body to the cold hard ground and once the screaming souls around Kel'thuzad dissipated he shrunk back down to his normal stature.
"Why did it not work!?", Kil'jaeden yelled as he spun around to face Moordrinar. In truth, even Moordrinar did not know why he still could not control what was supposed to be his greatest puppet, even more so than Sargeras. Not in one hundred million years would the Nathrezim king ever admit it, but he was beginning to grow worried about this Arthas character. Ner'zhul had been a fine choice for the initial puppet. The orc had somehow used the armor and sword to enhance his powers of foresight and could now predict the future with alarming accuracy; yet his ability to see all things transpiring in the world was less impressive to the King of Shadows, but a useful talent nonetheless.
In the mind of a dreadlord, it seemed only yesterday Moordrinar's chief lieutenants were meeting beneath Dairwan to discuss how well Ner'zhul's new champion was doing, "too well", they said, and now those words were ringing too true. Now Moordrinar felt he was seriously having to ponder what it would mean if Frostmourne, the Plate of the Damned, and the Helm of Dominion truly belonged to this Arthas human. It wouldn't matter...would it? He was alive and was now dead. He was a human, fused with an orc. He was a paladin, who had become a death knight. He was the ultimate weapon of life, and was now the ultimate weapon of death; and he wielded a weapon and armor crafted from a dead Titan by the oldest demon of the Twisting Nether, first descendant to the original Old God, Chu-Jeshwa'naxx. There was far too much going on with him for Moordrinar not to worry.
For the first time in trillions of years, Moordrinar's plans were not coming to fruition. His line of perfection had come to a screeching halt with this planet Azeroth. Almost nothing happened the way it was supposed to here. If the Legion did not squash this problem now it would only snowball. How long would it take Arthas to figure out what was going on? How long would it take Ner'zhul to commune with the spirits of the Twisting Nether? When would Arthas begin bringing the demons back from the dead to fight alongside his Scourge?
No, I can't think like that, Moordrinar said to himself. That idea was too much to handle. The thought of his infernals barreling into his own lines mortified Moordrinar. Undead eredar, or doomguards? Where would it stop?
"What can we do?", Magdridon's thunderous voice echoed inside his brother Moordrinar's mind.
"I do not know, brother. The human and orc are becoming a real problem. I cannot see through Frostmourne's eyes anymore, I cannot hear his thoughts. The sword has not called out to me in years.", if Moordrinar could have frowned, he would have. But countless years of pride forbade it.
"We need to awake Yogg-Saron. He will know what to do.", Magdridon encouraged.
"Yogg-Saron will know nothing!", Moordrinar hissed, "Chu-Jeshwa's kin have been slumbering and squabbling for so many million years they've forgotten the true enemy! He would sooner feed his many maws than listen to a well devised plan. No, as always, brother, we must will it so through the shadows."
"That is a tall order, Moordrinar.", Magdridon said somberly.
"Our father tells me it is so. Listen to his thoughts, past the madness and mayhem you will hear the genius of a being birthed before these petty mortals counted even the seconds of the clock. C'Thun is no more. Y'Shaarj is nothing but a pathetic heart waiting to be claimed by the bloodthirsty orc, N'Zoth will fall in the years to come, it will be a while for the mortals but to you and I it will seem but days. And as for Saron, he will have little part to play but hope."
"Hope?", Magdridon asked, clearly hearing the spite in his brother's words.
"He will let the mortals know it is possible to kill the embodiment of death."
Magdridon looked to Sargeras. His "master" was sitting in his favorite stone chair in the Halls of Command within the Burning Legion's capital city of Dairwan. The lord of the Burning Legion was fuming with contempt for Moordrinar, whose plans had failed him. Kil'jaeden had it burned into Sargeras's mind that every day Arthas was allowed to live was another slap in the face to the Legion. And Sargeras had bought it. Magdridon was worried one day Sargeras would grow wise to the two scheming demons, but now he seemed too transfixed on the subject at hand.
The hulking pit lord took this time to think long and hard about his brother's words. If a being as powerful as an Old God told the heroes of Azeroth-nay! Showed the heroes of Azeroth it was possible to defeat Arthas, they would march upon his undead icy fortress and beat the doors down.
"You intend to weaken Frostmourne. Have it destroyed...Could you really-"
"Yes!", snapped Moordrinar. Even though the conversation was taking place solely in their minds, the words were no less harsh.
"You would destroy your greatest creation to save yourself?"
"Not just me, all of us."
"You fear the human that much?", Magdridon asked, but Moordrinar did not respond.
"No...", Magdridon finally realized what Arthas really was, what he really was to Moordrinar, what the human had become, "He is more than human or even undead for that matter. What you fear, is death."
Moordrinar did not respond.
It was another week before Arthas's and Ner'zhul's spirits returned to the human's body. Thankfully they did not need time to recover their strength or replenish their energies. "Darkness.", Arthas said as he sat in his throne, "After the fight, all I can see his darkness."
"You do not see the light?", Ner'zhul asked, his form creating an ethereal one. But only an illusion, the figment of Arthas's mind.
"No. What do you see?", Arthas eagerly asked.
"Green lights. The ones I saw on Draenor, in the Dark Portal, before the world was torn asunder."
"What you see is the Twisting Nether.", Arthas trailed off. He leaned his body back against the throne as the ice coddled his body in the most comfortable measures. He pressed his fingers together and placed them under his nose and closed his eyes, deep in thought. "The Twisting Nether...", he lightly mused again.
Why was it that Ner'zhul saw the Twisting Nether and he only saw darkness? This force that was trying so desperately to pull them from his body must have had a better grip on Ner'zhul than Arthas. Perhaps Arthas had not been pulled as far into the Twisting Nether yet. But what the hell was in the Twisting Nether that had such a magnanimous control over them? Surely not Kil'jaeden. That old foolish eredar would have had circles run around him had he tried to match blows with Arthas.
Oh yes, in his complacency Kil'jaeden had grown weak. At times, Arthas could reach out and touch the demons of the world; and with his great magic reel back the thoughts and memories of each succubus, felhound, infernal, doomguard, imp or any other demon that perused the land, and feel their master's call. Arthas could see Kil'jaeden traveling the cosmos looking for races to test his mettle. How unfortunate that when he finally was able to match blows with Arthas it would be the demon's undoing. He was right to have put the Lich King under in his deep sleep to prevent him from marching upon the armored doors of the Black Temple and snuffing out little ole Illidan once and for all.
It would have been there Arthas experimented with reanimating the demons. Horrible and twisted creatures they would have been, just to the Lich King's liking. But no, Kil'jaeden had been preemptive. He knew that Illidan could never survive another attack from Arthas. The second time they took to fighting Arthas had been at a mere fraction of his power and that was even before he fused with Ner'zhul, completing the unholy trinity: Ner'zhul. Arthas. Frostmourne. Yet even then the demon hunter fell to the might of the Scourge. And with two other heroes at his side! Lady Vashj and Kael'thas Sunstrider.
Though try as he might, every time Arthas tapped into these paltry demons he could not help but sense a gap in Kil'jaeden and the mighty plans of the Legion. There was something there that just didn't add up. It had nothing to do with Sargeras, or the death of Archimonde. There were no traces or, in fact, any basis but something made Arthas suspicious of the roles played within the Burning Legion. Who had turned the dark master of the Burning Legion dark?
"Arthas.", Ner'zhul called, snapping his counterpart back into the icy world of Northrend. "We need to finish the codex before-"
"I know.", Arthas sighed, getting up from the best seat in the house. Or in the world for that matter.
"You know when Bolvar comes neither of us will be here in spirit.", Ner'zhul said whilst patting Arthas on the back, clearly seeing the human's distress.
"So he won't have to deal with you every second of the day?", Arthas jested as he punched Ner'zhul in his young, brown arms. For obvious reasons the orc had chosen to materialize in a much younger form than when he'd been skinned alive and placed within the Frozen Throne.
Ner'zhul scoffed, "I only exist within your mind and I can still smell your horrid man-stink!", the orc roared.
Across the tallest spire of Icecrown, Kel'thuzad stood at the edge of the icy metal construct. His hallow sockets were looking out across Northrend, surveying the land. He could sense it all, the coming of the Alliance and Horde, the awakening of Saron, the Legion trying to reclaim "Undercity". Even thinking the rubbish word Sylvanas had named the old capitol made the arch lich groan with contempt. That evil wench. Kel'thuzad would revel the day Arthas ripped her head from her body.
...even she counted down those days.
In the darkest hours of the night, the Banshee Queen sat awake in her quarters of Undercity, feeling the familiar tug at the back of her mind. Ner'zhul would come knocking at the front door of her thoughts and the second she came to answer, Arthas would slip in the back, unnoticed. There, the human would dwell in her mind, unseen by her frail psyche. "Leave me alone!", she'd scream at the cold air, cuddled up in her cloak, sobbing in the corner. The Butcher had returned. It was times like these that made Sylvanas regret her facetious words, "You think I'm running? Apparently you've never fought elves before."
But she wasn't an elf anymore, was she? Arthas had transformed her into this horrible creature. Undead, everyone called it. She called it hell. And even with her new found power she could not deny that she still heard his call in the dead of night, a fact she would never admit. At first there were the light raps at her door, then the nights came when even she could feel the icy chill of the grave. Finally were the nights his heavy, metal boots could be heard thudding down the corridor, "Sylvanas...", his human voice would whisper, each time giving her carcass goosebumps.
For a while years elapsed without her hearing his call. She knew he was slumbering away in his frozen castle. Only now could she finally 'enjoy' her peace, but the second she felt those eyes of his open, she knew all was lost. Now, Sylvanas often paced her chambers doting upon the concept of death. There was a brief moment she straddled the plain between worlds, yet only a moment. All had faded though her elf body had not felt the release of death. No. Instead she felt Arthas's icy hands pluck her soul from the abyss and install it back within her lifeless body. "You monster." She still felt she deserved a clean death.
Often times she wondered how different things would have been had he given it to her. There would be no Forsaken. No revenge. Had she not splintered his forces, she thought, there would be no living soul on Azeroth. The people of this world owed her much. Gratitude that never came to fruition.
"She intends to take the val'kyr and use them to continue creating her army.", Ner'zhul spoke.
"What?", Kel'thuzad sounded frantic as his gaze broke from the luscious scenery. Even in death they were not immune to natural beauty.
"She can't resurrect the dead on her own. She has no necromantic powers. Undead are created through us alone. And they-", Arthas stopped as he rummaged through more of Ner'zhul's visions, "and she intends to commune with the spirits within Frostmourne?!", immediately the Crown Prince of Lordaeron burst into uproarious laughter. "What does she think? Frostmourne will tell her the truth?" Arthas's manic laughter forced a smile on Ner'zhul's lips. "Yeah, that's going to happen.", he continued sarcastically. "Whatever she sees will be nothing more than a lie."
"No, Arthas."
But Arthas had already seen the vision before he turned to face his orc counterpart. "The blade will be weak enough by then.", Ner'zhul said. Clearly vexed, Arthas shut his eyes for a moment, scratched his left eyebrow, and let out a long, annoyed sigh. "Why?", he asked curtly.
"We still don't know, my lord.", Kel'thuzad trembled.
"It's creator has found a way to weaken it. Even from...where ever they are.", Ner'zhul informed. "The black blood of Saron is doing a mediocre job of slowing the process but even our forces are not immune to it's maddening calls."
"If I didn't already know the heroes of Azeroth were going to kill him for me I'd finish what I started years ago.", Arthas spat.
"Yes! You and Frostmourne were ripe with power, my lord!", Kel'thuzad reminisced.
"Nothing stopped you then. There were not omnipotent powers worlds away playing with us. We were invincible.", Ner'zhul grinned.
"And we still are. Bring me the codex.", Arthas commanded, to seemingly no one in particular but there was no doubt some undead within the halls of Icecrown heard him.
As Arthas sat down on his throne, he recalled Saron the first time the death knight made his way to his rightful throne.
Although no one and no thing was toying with his beloved runeblade, Arthas was still losing power. The crack Ner'zhul created from thrusting Frostmourne from its original ice chamber enabled enormous amounts of power to seep from within. The orc shaman had nothing to spare for his champion. So for the time being Arthas made his way with what he had.
Deep, below the earth's crust, sat the wondrous world of Azjol'nerub, the spider kingdom. It was there Anub'arak informed Arthas he could cut through and reach Icecrown before that snake Illidan. Yet the path was not without danger. Apart from remnants of Muradin's troop, who Arthas still has an extremely hard time believing Muradin survived, there were Faceless Ones. These horrid creatures were autonomous appendages of the Old God Saron, and they infested the deepest, darkest reaches of the city.
Try as they might, they were still no match for Arthas, not even if he was losing power quickly. Cutting and slicing his way through the earth, the death knight found his way into a room that could only be described as the deepest, darkest chamber of Azjol'nerub. And there, in the festering shadows sat Yogg-Saron's dream form. The Faceless One. As opposed to the many maws of Saron, this had but one toothy mouth that adorned the top of the shapeless blob. Much like C'Thun.
The Faceless One responded poorly to Frostmourne, and even worse to Arthas's power. Even in his weekend state he was still powerful enough to contend with the likes of Saron, even if it was just his dream form. The Old God sought quickly to end the reign of the soon Lich King but every amorphous appendage that came his way, Arthas made quick work of.
Soon the Faceless One had to employ more drastic measures, it tried to toy with the mind of Arthas; but the human's psyche was a steal trap. There was no pity or remorse to tinker with and his mind was too determined to be swayed by visions of his own death. For how could the Old God kill that which had no life? What more could he do to Arthas that the human had not already done to himself. There was no soul left to devour, no dreams to eat. For the first time since its birth, Saron witnessed his own nightmare. Arthas.
With a final crashing blow the Faceless One squeaked, squirted black blood then made an awful cry as it dwindled down to a puddle of nothingness. Even Frostmourne made a noise of excitement. At the time though, Arthas was too caught up in making it to save his king, the human had not realized the true triumph, or enemy, for that matter.
Arthas could not stand to exist, at least not if Saron planned on being free. The Old God knew he could not coexist with the Lich King, not if Arthas was at the helm. So the maw covered fiend did what Old Gods always do. Wait and plot.
Suddenly there was a high frequency buzzing sound, like a massive fly, and all the frosty air around the Frozen Throne began to dissipate.
"I still find it fascinating he can beat those wings fast enough to move his enormous husk.", Kel'thuzad mused in a suave tone.
"Careful, lich, I know you can't see them, but I have ears.", Anub'arak spoke from behind his massive tusks as the behemoth beetle landed in the center of the spire. On his back sat Grizz, Codex of the Scourge. "I met this wonderful creature inside the Lost Halls looking for you.", Anub'arak said as he let the abomination hop down his purple, armored body.
"Come here, Grizz.", Arthas spoke to the abomination as if he were a child. And to everyone's surprise, despite his unbecoming frame, the abomination walked with great posture and intent. As it stood in front of its master, the creature humbly bowed, knowing Arthas wanted a better look and to simply pay homage to its king.
"Look at that, they did do the adamantite stitches. He is strong too, very strong.", Arthas could evaluate the creature with just his mind, "I bet you could rip Ner'zhul in half, couldn't you?" The creature dare not answer. Ner'zhul scoffed. "And look at that on your back, let me see that shield.", Arthas's face was alight much akin to a little boy on the Feast of Winter Veil. "Come on, stand up.", Arthas coaxed the abomination.
The creature had been holding a large iron shield on its back with its third arm. It was heavy, not for Arthas, but any other mortal would not have been able to hold it the same way. Nor would they have needed to. Two tauren could easily fit behind this monster of a shield, and speaking of tauren, there was a bovine skull on the front of the shield. Not a real one, there wasn't a bovine creature around with a skull large enough to properly adorn the piece of armor. The bottom came to a sharp point, one well aimed throw of the shield and any armored door would shattered instantaneously.
"Marvelous.", Arthas said to himself. "Do you like the shield? I know typically you guys enjoy another pointy object with which to kill.", the Lich King smiled up at the towering mash of corpses. Grizz nodded. "And what did you choose as a weapon?", Arthas asked, beckoning the creature to show his main hand.
Slowly, almost as if ashamed, the creature whose size was only dwarfed by its wretched stench, turned to reveal a great gnarled staff; and like a vampire being shown garlic, everyone but Arthas turned their head and hissed. The human slightly frowned then reached forward and plucked forth the tall staff. It was one of the dark roots from Vordrassil.
"Do you know what this is?", Arthas asked.
Grizz nodded.
"Where did you get this?", now the Lich King sounded like a concerned father, but those feelings were quickly diminished once his mind melded with the abomination in front of him. "...take me there."
In the blink of an eye, the entire crew of Arthas, Ner'zhul, Kel'thuzad, Anub'arak and Grizz were suddenly standing at the bottom of the great Vordrassil. It didn't take long for the Grizzlemaw clan to clear out completely. Their homes, belongings, even food left hot on the pot were completely abandoned at the mere sight of the undead cohorts.
"At the base, its stench is healthy but my faith is healthier. The will of Saron is strong, he seeks to break the weak bonds of Ulduar. The Titans were, for lack of a better word, lazy, to leave the Old Gods chained beneath the world only to leave them unattended by anyone of any real power. C'Thun escaped. Saron is on the cusp of freedom. The only reason Y'Shaarj seems subdued is because he is merely a heart, his threat is not outreaching, at least not to us. N'Zoth and Ryun'eh are unaccounted for. Other than that, the Titans are useless to us as a planet. Their chief antagonists cause chaos and mayhem every few years and we don't see them once. C'Thun came back from his bindings, Saron is stirring, and at one time they all came together, for once, to open a thread in the fabric of time. After all that we have yet to see a single Titan. It's no wonder Sargeras was so easily swayed by the Twisting Nether. They are weak. The will of the Lich King is the only strength left in this life."
There was a great silence as the commanders of the Scourge all exchanged looks of surprise.
"I think there is more to this creation than meets the eye.", Anub'arak spoke.
"Wise words, he speaks.", Kel'thuzad's frigid voice wafted through the wind.
"You forget about the will of the heroes.", Arthas's observation made everyone remember the grim predictions Ner'zhul had previously made: they would all perish at the hands of these heroes. "No matter. Take us to where you first grasped this root, you deceptively smart creature.", Arthas smirked.
It didn't take long for the troop to make their way to the heart of the tree. Deep within the cold earth of Northrend they found the festering wound Saron had bestowed upon the failed World Tree. It pulsated and oozed black blood, yet dare not wreak retribution upon the faction that was quickly becoming just as large an enemy as the Burning Legion and Titans. And though he would not attack, that was not to say he would not speak.
You will die, young prince. There is no hope.
Arthas let out a sarcastic chuckle. "Tough talk coming from a god whose hand has already been revealed. Your plan to inform the heroes that they can defeat me, thereby instilling them with the hope to do it is all but secret to me. How ironic that you would see my death and I would see yours.", Arthas spoke aloud.
Your visions of the future are flawed. We have tasted the ley lines, we have the keys to the future and a hand in the past. The Lich King is a paw-
"ENOUGH!", Arthas yelled. Words so loud they reverberated throughout the entire continent Northrend, making his troop leap from their skin. Words so loud they silenced an Old God. "I am the prodigal son of the Scourge! The prophets will herald my glorious return!"
You will see only the darkness of the Twisting Nether.
Arthas had had enough. With heavy steps and a long gate, the death knight marched to the wound within Vordrassil and snapped it in half with his bare hands, for he dare not risk his beloved Frostmourne. With a bloodcurdling shriek, the black blooded wound shriveled into a much smaller cut.
"I don't need to kill you, you're already dead. Grizz, use the staff, Saron has no power over a subject as loyal as you. He may drive others mad, but this paltry 'Old God' is inconsequential to us. We have our heading. Have fun in Ulduar.", Arthas quipped snidely.
Before Grizz knew what was happening his arms were handing over the gargantuan staff to his king. The root looked ridiculous in Arthas's hands. While being large by human standards, he was still small compared to the monster made of corpses therefore making the gnarled root seem far too large.
"Ner'zhul.", said Arthas.
The orc was quickly in stride to place his brown hands over the staff and give it his blessing. It didn't take long for the black necrotic energies to swirl around the staff and purge it of the Old God's corruption. But the troop did not stop there. Anub'arak stepped forth and placed his pincers over the staff and said, "May your spells strike true." Instantly, Grizz felt the critical skills of the Nerubian king hone in on the piece of wood, empowering the abomination in many ways.
"May your knowledge of our people know no bounds.", Kel'thuzad whispered as the blue chill from his body swirled the staff. As if possessing a piece of the dead World Tree wasn't special enough, Grizz now had the blessing of his great generals.
The staff was lifted up higher, signaling him to take it and as he did he saw the human face of Arthas underneath. The human had a peculiar amalgamation of remorse deep within his eyes and pride on his face. Grizz could tell his king wanted to both sigh and tell him something.
"You're right.", Arthas said in a hushed voice as their surroundings quickly returned to the top of the Frozen Throne. "Your heart, it belong to another abomination...which means it belonged to someone else. But that person does not matter. We use those hearts because they're big enough to pump blood to all of your extremities, but this one is an heirloom of a hand-me-down. The abomination before you who had this heart played one of the most vital roles in Scourge history anyone has ever played. There are too many unsung heroes of our people. Too many graves to honor."
Arthas shook his head solemnly as he walked to the very edge of the spire. As the Lich King peered down below he wondered what would happen if he kept walking, if he just jumped off the edge. He wondered what his inevitable 'death' would be like. "I guess this is what I've wrought on Sylvanas.", Arthas chuckled to himself.
"Sir, I do not-"
"Understand, I know.", Arthas sighed. He then smiled remembering the story he was about to share, a story about how close the Scourge had come to failing in their mission only to survive by the heart of his people. Who were the Horde and Alliance to say not having a heart meant one didn't have heart?
"It was deep within Hillsbrad Foothills...", Arthas began.
Arthas rolled over the Eye of Jannala in his oaken brown leather gloves. So simple an item that lead to the downfall of the high elves. Three crystals. Even though they were hard minerals there were few things that truly felt tough in Arthas's hands now. CRUNCH! All three, in one swift blow they were all shattered in the prince's palm. He watched as he sprinkled the ground with their dust. "Kel'thuzad.", Arthas commanded.
"Yes, my lord?", the cold voice answered.
"What can we expect from the forces within Dalaran?"
"Magic the likes of which we have never seen before.", the arch lich warned.
"Perfect.", Arthas smirked. "This will be a perfect time to test the abominations. These lumbering oafs may not be magic adept, but they hit like a mountain gronn. I would love to see the Kirin Tor go head-to-head with them."
"I did not know the young prince had seen mountain gronn hit before, much less see a mountain gronn.", Kel'thuzad remarked. If his frigid skull had the ability to smile, it would have.
Arthas chuckled, "It's a phrase, boneman."
"Lord Arthas, the construction phase is complete.", an acolyte's voice came from behind the two leaders.
"Show me.", Arthas commanded as he whirled Invincible around.
The slaughterhouse was the best word to describe the Scourge construct where much of the 'meat packing' was done, but it was not a strong enough word. No living being could have made it out the other side without contracting a disease, and that is assuming the stench did not kill them. The walls were high with body parts skewered on meat hooks hanging from long, bloody, rusted chains.
One of the many things Arthas loved about the Scourge was their supreme utilization of magic to streamline processes. There was no wasting bodies on manual labor when the Lich King was involved. Many items within the slaughterhouse moved with the aid of dark magic. There were scientists scattered about, all of them collecting data, taking notes and making adjustments to various body parts. Arthas always loved to watch the meat wagons assemble themselves. A slow process, but a very interesting one.
"My lord,", one of the scientists began as she approached Arthas, "we have been making modifications to the abominations to optimize both fat for defense and muscle for offense. The original, who has far too much fat, is here." And sure enough, propped in a corner was the fattest, ugliest, smelliest thing Arthas had ever seen in his entire life. Which is really saying something since he worked with the dead all day long. "Wake up!", the scientist barked at the oaf.
"Bluh!", the oversized abomination drooled. It opened its eyes but only one socket actually had an orb. It was sickly green and constantly oozing puss while the other eyeless socket was full of maggots and cobwebs. It did, however, have a pristine row of serrated teeth. The skin on the other hand, was stretched so thin over so much fat it looked like one cut might send meat spewing all over the place.
It didn't take long for the creature to recognize who was standing in front of him. "Master.", the abomination burped as it quickly got to its fat feet. "Do you have a name?", Arthas asked. The abomination shook its head. "We figured we would not get around to that until we had ones more suited for combat.", the scientist reported to Arthas.
"Oh! But this one will see combat. And his name...", Arthas trailed off, thinking of how best to describe this thing that even his abominations would call an abomination, "Thundergut."
The creature, Thundergut, smiled. "Thundergut...", it repeated. Even the undead scientist next to Arthas had some sense of sympathy for the creature. She doted upon her lord as he showed nothing but compassion for his loyal subjects. Each one he named. Each one he loved. This human was born to be king.
"How many can I take with me now?", Arthas asked his scientist.
"Well, if you would like to take Thundergut, then three including him."
"When I return, "Arthas spoke, "I want more ready. Many more."
"As you wish, my lord.", and at that the Scourge scientist returned to her work.
With young eyes Arthas looked over the mountain range where he knew Lordaeron was nestled behind. It reminded the young man what he had left behind and although he was not sad, he did wonder. He was, however, glad there was no need to feed his troops or shield them from the cold. Undead were not constrained to the same mortal coils that normal Lordaeron troops were. And for that he was thankful.
"We will need to destroy all of the traps Antonidas has placed if we wish to launch a formidable assault on the arch mage.", Kel'thuzad spoke.
"And what of Khadgar, Medivh's apprentice?"
"Not here, my lord. He is unaccounted for but will be of no concern to us.", Kel'thuzad assured his master.
Arthas took a moment to remember the talented youth. Only in passing had they ever met, and never since Khadgar's ascension to such a revered mage, but met nonetheless. The young lad was impressive. Even then Arthas counted down the days until Khadgar was running the magic scene on Azeroth. Anyone who was able to contend with the likes of a possessed Medivh garnished much respect from anyone. It wasn't until it was too late did Arthas realize the irony of battling possessed figures.
After two days the assault on Dalaran could not have been going better. Arthas, Kel'thuzad and the Scourge had made their way to the inner circle of the kingdom, passed Antonidas's Scourge repellent spheres. Those damned traps made the Scourge skin burn something fierce. It would have been almost hopeless had Kel'thuzad not engineered a plan to first take the Fountain of Health within Dalaran's walls. And even though their skin was dead, the fountain's healing powers still remedied their wounds.
Night and day the Scourge camped out the fountain, the troops coming in even more numbers to bathe in the healing waters. It was not until the early dawn of the third day that the acolytes called out to Arthas in dire warning. Telepathically, the sickly men warned their leader that the Wildhammer dwarves had been recruited by the Kirin Tor to help defend against the undead menace. And oh had they answered the call.
After the "death" of Muradin, the dwarves were all too eager to lend their griffons to the cause. They came in swarms. Dozens of them descended in upon the Scourge's base of operations within Dalaran; and Arthas, too far away on his campaign against the second human base, had no time to send his crypt fiends in to help. Left with no defenses save ghouls harvesting lumber, the base was defenseless.
The first line of defenses, aisles of spirit towers, could not keep the griffon riders at bay. For Antonidas was crafty in his years of experience, and had imbued the war hammers of the griffon riders with magical attributes to not only damage their targets but those around as well. One by one the spirit towers fell. Next the ghouls, then the crypt and the graveyard.
Yet amidst the commotion there rose a hero: Thundergut. The great lumbering abomination who had missed his master's call to the Fountain of Health awoke with a start from within the slaughterhouse. High above he could see his Scourge brethren fall to the Wildhammer griffon riders. Their hammers smashing through the ghouls with ease. "Don't you let the nasty humans hurt the acolytes, Thundergut.", Arthas had warned the obese abomination at the beginning of the journey. "You protect them with your life."
"I hear and obey.", Thundergut had answered.
Now, in a frenzied panic, the abomination did not know what to do. How would he defend against flying enemies? Had he been able to throw his hook at them and yank them from the sky he would have but they were so high up.
"Ugh!", one acolyte called out as a hammer crashed though his skull. Now Thundergut was even more scared. Not even in death could he escape Arthas, there was no shirking his responsibilities. "Ugh!", another acolyte fell, then another.
"Run you oaf!", a raspy voice screamed. Thundergut's attention was pulled from the air to the ground now where he saw an ill shaped, cloaked man running towards him. Thundergut remembered Arthas's words and shook his head. "Run or we're all doomed!", the man called out again.
"Don't you let the nasty humans hurt the acolytes, Thundergut.", the words echoed in the creatures small brain one last time.
With great thuds that cracked the pristine cobblestone paths of Dalaran, Thundergut ran towards the acolyte. "No you idiot! The other way!", but Thundergut could only shake his head again. With a great big meaty hand, Thundergut scooped up what was now the last acolyte and bellowed, "Let's go!" and hauled off.
Torches fell from the mounts on the walls of Dalaran, tapestry fell from its rungs and plants died within the stench of the abomination. But Thundergut continued running. The acolyte jostled around in the unsafest of fashions. If he had any less skin his head would surely have been torn off by Thundergut's jerky movements.
"There, lads!", a griffon rider called as he spotted the massive creature running down the pathways of Dalaran. Soon they were all on his trail. Hammer after hammer crashed into Thundergut's layered back but the abomination kept on moving. Many times he dropped the acolyte but was strong enough to yank him from the ground without missing a beat.
"You're too slow to outrun them!", the acolyte finally yelled out amidst the chaos. He was right. Even Thundergut could tell he wasn't gaining any ground between him and the flying 'humans' which appeared to be very short. Panting, Thundergut looked around. "Master?!", he sadly called out.
"He's not here! Just roll away or something!", the acolyte screamed.
Roll away.
With one quick motion Thundergut thrust the acolyte within the gaping wound on his belly, laid on his side, and rolled down the halls. And if he was creating damage whilst trying to run, he was now creating a cataclysm while rolling. An iron star would have been more peaceful. Thundergut crashed into small buildings and leveled them, smashed the tile on the ground and trampled whatever Kirin Tor guards managed to get in his way.
In all the commotion Thundergut had created enough space in between him and the griffon riders to now try and hide. The only problem was so much of Dalaran's architecture created open spaces. Ones that made finding a corpse the size of an elephant rather easy. Numerous times Thundergut tried to hide within buildings only to have one of his many fat roles shattered the windows and let his horrid stink seep into the atmosphere. "No, you buffoon!", the acolyte hissed, pulling on Thundergut's extra appendage connected to his back.
"We need to wait for Arthas.", Thundergut gurgled.
"We can't stay still, we're sitting murlocs! If we could make it into the sewers...", the acolyte trailed off. He knew there was no way in the Twisting Nether Thundergut could fit into the sewers of Dalaran. But Thundergut didn't understand that. "Sewers.", Thundergut nodded.
"They'll kill you, you know?", the acolyte warned, not against killing one abomination for the safety of the Scourge's future. In death everyone was pragmatic.
"The sewers will kill me?", Thundergut still did not understand.
The acolyte sighed. He could see Thundergut racking his brain for any and all knowledge that might help him in this situation but it kept coming up miserably short. Thundergut huffed and puffed but all he managed was, "Arthas told me to protect you even if it kills me."
"And protect me you shall.", the acolyte said coldly.
Suddenly, a rush of electricity struck the acolyte, though nothing fatal. It was the remnants of an electrically charged hammer from the Wildhammer clan. Thankfully for the acolyte Thundergut was so large his body absorbed most of the shock. Literally. "Move!", the acolyte yelled yet he knew Thundergut was helpless. The fat oaf was wedged so deeply within the building all he could do was kick his stubby legs.
One after the other the Wildhammer clan laid into Thundergut. The acolyte was forced into the corner of the room to escape the electricity. "Get up! Get up!", he kept yelling as Thundergut looked around in horror. Try as he might, the abomination's brain could only muster flustered movements, its flailing arms wrecking everything in the room.
"Let's get 'em, lads!", one of the dwarves called out. By now they realized they could not get to the acolyte while in the air. One by one they dismounted and made their way to the building.
"Get up! They're coming in! They're going to kill me!", the acolyte pleaded.
"Kill acolyte? No!", Thundergut vomited. Abruptly the thrashing became not only more violent, but honed in, concise.
"What's it doin', lads?", one of the Wildhammer clan asked the others.
There was no time to answer. In the blink of an eye Thundergut was charging from behind air born stones and bricks and all matter of rubble from the destroyed building. Try as they might the dwarves were no match for the enormity. Thundergut ripped them in half, chewed off their limbs, those smart enough to try and run were thrust backward by the rusted chain. The creature punched through walls, hurled debris and even sought out the Wildhammer griffons.
To the dismay of the acolyte, he heard a horn sound amongst the bloodshed. Then another in the distance. Reinforcements were on the way. The acolyte wondered how long the tub-of-lard outside could last. And as the reinforcements arrived they all crashed upon Thundergut like waves on a mountain. Dwarven riflemen, footmen, knights, and sorcresses. All fell under the fat fists of the Scourge behemoth. Horses were hurled in the hair, javelins entered the beast's stomach and never came out, and not a single sorcress had enough mana to transform the entirety of Thundergut into a sheep. His legs would puff up or the ground around him would churn as the whirlwinds tried to lift him off the ground but nothing real ever happened.
Master! Your weak servant humbly beseeches your help! The living have-the acolyte reached out to the Scourge commander.
I know, loyal subject! I am on my way!, Arthas responded amidst his expeditious riding.
"There it is!", a footman called out, his plated hand pointing at the acolyte from the other side of a busted window sill. CRUNCH! Thundergut's meaty fist crushed the poor soldier into a pile of flesh, bones and metal.
Soon soldiers were trying to pile into the building from every angle and Thundergut was forced back itself and the acolyte into a corner. With each step another fat roll smushed the undead man into the crumbling walls of Dalaran. His black robes stained with they chalky dust that now caked the walls. Thankfully the acolyte did not need to breath or he would have been suffocated.
"This is your final stand, undead!", one of the many footman called to Thundergut.
And with a savage roar unlike any of them had ever heard Thundergut charged with its last hurrah. "Tear meat!" Thundergut yelled as he ripped the humans limb from limb. The waves of the living crashed upon the abomination's fat rolls until they were no more.
Yet, Thundergut was not without defeat himself. One of its arms was finally strewn from its body. The thick black ooze the Scourge called blood spewed from its torn appendage and made the battleground all the more hazardous for the Alliance. And with his last huff Thundergut crushed what remained of the humans.
The acolyte finally let out a sigh of relief (mostly a formality, not that any of them had breath to hold). Finally they were all dead. Or so the acolyte thought. One lone knight stood to the best of his ability and began hobbling towards the acolyte. The undead servant knew he could not hold his own with a knight, even a wounded one. He could have fought off a peon or a peasant, but never a knight.
"For the Alliance.", the knight choked out from behind his bloody teeth.
WHACK!
Thundergut's severed arm smacked the knight with such force that he flew into a crumbled wall and ceased all movement.
There was a brief moment the acolyte looked on in horror to how close he had come but that feeling of dismay quickly turned to humor. The Scourge servant chuckled to himself as he sat down on a boulder to plot his next plan.
Suddenly a manhole cover underneath a fallen human corpse began to jostle until a crypt fiend poked its head above ground. "I've found him, my lord.", the crypt fiend called aloud. "Why did you not hide here?", it asked the acolyte. "Too much commotion, I couldn't risk exposing myself.".
Finally Arthas made it. Soon all the human corpses on the ground were reanimating into mindless tools of the of the undead menace. They all formed ranks and stood guard of the acolyte as Arthas made his approach.
"Are you okay, loyal servant?", Arthas called as he dismounted Invincible.
"I am, my lord. Thanks to Thundergut."
Arthas looked down at the poor mangled body of the abomination. Quickly he tapped into the mind of the acolyte to see exactly what had transpired here. The Crown Prince of Lordaeron soon found out the heroic actions of the misfit science project and just how close his 'people' had come to complete and utter annihilation.
"We, above all else, honor the dead.", Arthas said solemnly.
"My lord, can you not resurrect it?", the acolyte wondered.
"It is too badly wounded.", Kel'thuzad quickly interjected.
"Kel'thuzad is right. But I want his heart. Thundergut's courage has yet to play his most integral role in the survival of our entire race."
"It is from here you went on to slay Antonidas?", Grizz asked.
"It is.", Arthas nodded, "I wanted you to know how special the heart is. This is the heart that saved our people."
Grizz put a hand over its meaty chest where the very heart beat. At this moment he felt, more than ever, that he was one with the Lich King. The corpse had value. He had a heart.
"Now go, back to the Lost Halls of Icecrown and wait. Your role will come soon enough."
"I see...only darkness...", the words echoed throughout even the Lost Halls of Icecrown. Powerful necrotic energies began to arise that stirred a beast within a cavern of the undead citadel that no other living soul on Azeroth had even the faintest idea existed.
Grizz, Codex of the Scourge, had awoken.
"I hear and obey."