"I don't know about you," said Nova, taking a sip of the ginger ale, "but either this is all a coincidence, you have incredibly bad luck…or the Nexus, and the universe as a whole, hates you and is trying to make your undead life as miserable as possible."

That made Sylvanas glower even more, hellfire eyes smoldering balefully at the gothic graveyard; Raynor and Tychus just so happened to be taking a pleasant, bromantic stroll through it, talking about whatever brothers from another mother were wont to. "This is not fair," she said. "This is not…fair…at all."

"The odds are certainly stacked against you. Me? All I have are those guys and Kerrigan. Not such a bad deal, if I do say so myself."

Sylvanas's lip curled up, revealing a wicked set of elven incisors still sharp and pointy in undeath as they were in actual living, breathing twenty-four-seven life. "Oh happy days! You never fell in battle. You were never raised against your will and forced to fight your kith and kin. You never had to wait for your captor to wane in power and steal your body hanging off the back of a meat wagon."

"And you never got to kill him," added Nova. Then, nearly falling off the fence at the murderous glare sent her way, "I'm just saying, I'm just saying! You were never there. Those adventurers and—uh, what's his name? Oh, right, Tirion! Him and the others got to him first while you were busy clearing out that citadel. But you wish you could have, right?"

"Yessss," said Sylvanas, turning back to the graveyard, glare intensifying, fingers pressing deeper into the folds of her cheeks. "How I wish I could have. It would have been the best day of my life."

"The best day of your life so far."

Sylvanas sit up and made to stand, reaching for an arrow in her quiver.

Nova blanched and scooted away, drawing up her knees defensively and hugging the mug of ale closer to her. "Alright, alright, I'll stop," she mumbled. "But man, talk about timing! Why, just a couple weeks back you were complaining about Johanna and the beatdown you received. How's your nose, by the way?"

"It's fine, and I don't want to hear that woman's name! To me she's just another zealot. Another bible-thumping, Light-loving, people-hugging zealot who probably wears all that armor because DEEP DOWN she's very insecure about herself both physically and mentally!"

"This coming from someone who constantly claims she's not a music box but a heartless banshee …yet she goes with Valla to play with the quilen and the horses in the pens…."

"I didn't ask to get imprinted by those…dog-cat things! I've told that ranger wannabe plenty of times to keep them away from me! It was bad enough back on Azeroth; I don't need it following me here like Nazeebo's ravenous spirit!"

"That doesn't explain the horses."

"That's only because the Nexus affects them, too! I can't raise them into undeath without them respawning seconds later, so I'm stuck riding a living one and they're stuck putting up with me, the cowards!"

Nova shrugged. "Well, there are always those mechanical spiders that showed up out of the blue a while back. Or those cyber wolves. It's better than hoofing it back and forth across the battlefield."

"Oh, you mean like you?" Sylvanas sniped. She relished at the affronted look Nova wore, the flush on her face alternating between various shades of red and purple.

The girl squirmed uncomfortably on the fence. "I…I have my reasons…."

"Whatever you say, Miss I'm-too-good-for-a-mount."

Her eyes followed Raynor and Tychus. They were drawing close to a particularly large tombstone bearing a weathered, stony cross. So engrossed were they in their conversation that they never noticed the skeletal hands popping out of the ground until they were wrapped around their ankles. Then the bodies emerged, shaking off soil, strips of ragged clothing, and chinks of rusted armor, some with notched weapons strapped on their backs or sheathed at their sides, and they pulled and tugged at their legs.

Cold laughter rang forth, drowning out the cries of the startled soldiers and the reports of their guns (they had left their assault rifle and minigun behind at the dormitory and carried pistols). The earth around the grave exploded outward, and from the confines of cold darkness the corpse of a man in ornate plate, crown, and flowing red cape pulled himself out and level with the rest of his minions. A massive mace rippling with blades was gripped tightly in one black gloved, gauntleted hand.

The bones of King Leoric's skull shifted into a gleeful, feral grin. "Surpriiiiise!" he bellowed, and sauntered after them. Not walk, saunter, like he was just taking a pleasant stroll through a park that had seen better days and didn't give a damn.

Especially when he started swinging that thing in slow, lazy swings, as though it weighed nothing, but those swings must hit like a wrecking ball at full momentum because his skeletons were flying everywhere—a ribcage here, a femur over there, a cracked skull where the tip of an arrowhead surely met between the eyes sent sky high and in their direction—

"Ahhhh!" Nova shrieked as it landed directly on top of her mug, its mouth staring up at her with its mouth set in a startled O shape. She toppled over the fence, spilling the skull and the mug over her head.

Sylvanas glanced disinterestedly at her, scoffed, and watched as Leoric smash Tychus upside the head; the man dropped his gun and fell without so much as a grunt. Raynor just stood his ground, sweating profusely, looking down the sights and popping round after round at the Skeleton King. The bullets ricocheted off his breastplate in tinny little pings! One even grazed the side of his crown and knocked it askew, right over one of those dark caverns where his eyes used to be.

A fell, ghastly pinprick illuminated the depths of the uncovered socket. "Oh you foolish mortal," he giggled. "THAT DOESN'T HURT AT ALL! Let me show you…how it's done…." His free hand shot forward, and from where Sylvanas could see some sort of tomb sprang up behind Raynor and a pair of iron-wrought gates penned him on both sides. No room to jump over them, no place to run except straight ahead.

Sylvanas yawned loudly, squinting, with the tip of her tongue curling. Raynor was reciting a prayer, or a litany of words strung together to sound like a prayer (although it was a very rushed and nonsensical one), between the meaty smacks of the mace pummeling his flesh, his girlish cries, and Leoric's manic cackling.

Nova picked herself up off the ground and draped her body over the fencing. "That…was way past not cool," she huffed, blowing the hair out of her eyes.

"Hrm," Sylvanas grunted, chin propped up on the heel of a hand.

"I hope we get another Hero a lot less…bloodthirsty…next time." She winced as Leoric kicked Raynor square in the crotch, causing him to bounce off the tombstone and onto his face, his rear end sticking up in the air.

"As long as it's not a former prince or king made corrupted by eldritch powers beyond mortal imagining or a follower of the Light." Sylvanas sneered. "Darkness help me if they turn out to be a draenei or King Wrynn's kid. Then I will never truly hear the end of their preaching…."