The Damned Saviour
I do not own WarCraft III, But I do own the prophecy. This will be about a special Frost Wyrm. The prophecy won't be poetic.
The Prophecy Malevolence, sheathed in ice, now freed Death its lover, chaos its mother Now freed, by the prince of darkness
From his realm Comes the saviour Damned by inheritance Born to that which the Alliance hates Flying on wings of death
Must journey deep within the past To recover the secrets of the Old Gods To bring himself back from death Back to the ground, from whence all Came from, and will return
He must journey deep within The twisting corridors of death In his hand, a blade of burning platinum He must journey deep within the dark Of the Twisting Nether and kill The Lord of Destruction Sargeras
Thrashing amidst his covers, Furion sat up, sweat beading his brow. Beside him, his wife, and half his heart, Tyrande, slept. The words were burnt within his mind, etched in fire. The room was lit in a soft, gentle glow of the trees, Nordrassil towering above all. Scrabbling out of the choking sheets, he stumbled over to the table and pulled out a sheaf of paper and a quill. Scrabbling down the words, he returned to the bed, Tyrande still asleep. Furion slowly faded into sleep.
Stirring from his perch, Drakanorth looked around the sprawling undead base. Recently, the Lich King had taken control of King Arthas, the undead king and now the undead were turning their sight to the ancient home of the Night Elves, Kalimdor. Yet Drakanorth felt uncomfortable with the slaughter that would follow. The trees around him writhed in silent torment, caused by the undead plague. Being a Bronze Dragon in his past life, he felt an affinity for nature, even though he flew on wings of death, as did all the other Wyrm's. Snorting in the humid air, icicles flew out and impaled several Acolyte's. But no one minded, for Drakanorth was the senior of all Frost Wyrm's, even over the one Arthas had raised in Northrend. Deciding for a flight over the base, he spread his wings and leapt off the perch. His inherent magic kept him aloft, as his wings were nothing but bone. Cruising over the base, he saw a massive Night Elf army advancing on the base. Taking a deep breath, the air rattled past his shredded lungs. Letting the cold frost gather behind his jaw for a second, he released it upon the unsuspecting Night Elves. Twenty archers fell to that single breath. Looking up in fear, they saw it preparing to finish them off. As Drakanorth prepared to unleash his final attack, he saw the fear in their eyes. Perhaps they deserve to live, we certainly need to die to regain our rightful peace, he thought. On a sudden impulse, he changed his course out across the verdant canopy of Ashenvale, toward Nordrassil.
I do not own WarCraft III, But I do own the prophecy. This will be about a special Frost Wyrm. The prophecy won't be poetic.
The Prophecy Malevolence, sheathed in ice, now freed Death its lover, chaos its mother Now freed, by the prince of darkness
From his realm Comes the saviour Damned by inheritance Born to that which the Alliance hates Flying on wings of death
Must journey deep within the past To recover the secrets of the Old Gods To bring himself back from death Back to the ground, from whence all Came from, and will return
He must journey deep within The twisting corridors of death In his hand, a blade of burning platinum He must journey deep within the dark Of the Twisting Nether and kill The Lord of Destruction Sargeras
Thrashing amidst his covers, Furion sat up, sweat beading his brow. Beside him, his wife, and half his heart, Tyrande, slept. The words were burnt within his mind, etched in fire. The room was lit in a soft, gentle glow of the trees, Nordrassil towering above all. Scrabbling out of the choking sheets, he stumbled over to the table and pulled out a sheaf of paper and a quill. Scrabbling down the words, he returned to the bed, Tyrande still asleep. Furion slowly faded into sleep.
Stirring from his perch, Drakanorth looked around the sprawling undead base. Recently, the Lich King had taken control of King Arthas, the undead king and now the undead were turning their sight to the ancient home of the Night Elves, Kalimdor. Yet Drakanorth felt uncomfortable with the slaughter that would follow. The trees around him writhed in silent torment, caused by the undead plague. Being a Bronze Dragon in his past life, he felt an affinity for nature, even though he flew on wings of death, as did all the other Wyrm's. Snorting in the humid air, icicles flew out and impaled several Acolyte's. But no one minded, for Drakanorth was the senior of all Frost Wyrm's, even over the one Arthas had raised in Northrend. Deciding for a flight over the base, he spread his wings and leapt off the perch. His inherent magic kept him aloft, as his wings were nothing but bone. Cruising over the base, he saw a massive Night Elf army advancing on the base. Taking a deep breath, the air rattled past his shredded lungs. Letting the cold frost gather behind his jaw for a second, he released it upon the unsuspecting Night Elves. Twenty archers fell to that single breath. Looking up in fear, they saw it preparing to finish them off. As Drakanorth prepared to unleash his final attack, he saw the fear in their eyes. Perhaps they deserve to live, we certainly need to die to regain our rightful peace, he thought. On a sudden impulse, he changed his course out across the verdant canopy of Ashenvale, toward Nordrassil.