Interlude: On Death's Doorstep
Lester Zank stared at the blank basement wall, a grimace on his young, pale features. He idly poked his rusty fork into the jar of strawberry preserves that had been his breakfast, lunch, and dinner and let out a sigh. It had been several months since he left the court of Duke Falrevere, where he'd been doted upon like a son, and now, after having struck out to make his own in the world by joining the Cult of the Damned, he'd been trapped in this basement eating nothing but fruit preserves and a few mean scraps of dried meat he'd found. He'd never told Falrevere his intention when he left, simply gone out into the night. However, when he found himself face-to-face with the victims of the plague, the young warlock had found himself absolutely terrified and hidden himself away in the basement, listening to the sounds of war raging outside. He ran his hand over his bald scalp and set the jar of preserves aside, the rusty fork still protruding from the mass of red goop. Something interesting seemed to be taking place outside, a scuffle of some sort. He headed towards the door and pressed his ear against it tentatively.
"The will of the Lich King will prevail, you pathetic form of life," a dark voice hissed.
"You are to be judged this day, you foul servant of the dark!" Lester rolled his eyes at the argument taking place. Two overdramatic zealots bashing away at each other while their allies fell by the scores around them without making any sort of dramatic speeches, with the exception of a few gurgling noises that, in Lester's opinion, could be considered rather dramatic, if not disgusting. He heard the sounds of an incantation and the second voice roaring in pain. A moment later, he was thrown backwards from the force of something slamming into the metal door he had been leaning against. He rubbed at his offended ear angrily, scrambling to regain his footing and starting to wish he had something to defend himself with, in case either of the warring parties decided to invade his sanctuary. Looking around the room, he discovered that unless the combatants were horribly afraid of being made sticky with peach preserves, he was completely out of luck.
After a few more moments of a scuffle, a wet crunching noise could be heard through the door, followed by the sound of a body dropping to the ground.
"May you be judged justly," the voice of the victor rang clearly through the door, "you foul betrayer of the Light."
"Come on, Hector, we need to move along!" a new voice called, "I've just received news from Lordaeron. The king is dead." There were a few moments of shocked silence, followed by questioning.
"Dead? What happened?!"
"Arthas returned... cut him down before his throne, now he's cutting his way through what remains of the countryside on his way to Quel'Thalas." A curse escaped from the lips of the holier-than-thou voice, a small irony that caused Lester's lip to turn upwards in a smirk. The sound of horses rushing off could be heard a moment later, followed by nothing but the crackle of burning buildings. Lester sniffed the air, smiling as he could smell the smoke from the destruction. Demonic fire smelled so much better than natural fire, he thought to himself, wishing that he had some way to conjure some to life just for his entertainment. As this thought passed through his brain, a second one followed it quickly and he rushed to the door, cautiously lifting the bar holding it locked and cracking it open.
The sight that greeted him was horrific, dead bodies littered the ground all around him, some of them still smoldering with fire, natural and holy alike, the latter of which Lester shuddered at in disgust. Immediately before him was the freshly slain body of what appeared to be a warlock of the Cult of the Damned. Lester beamed, trying to ignore the blood gushing from the man's ruined skull as he rushed over, crouching down and searching the body. Several moments later he found his prize: two spell component pouches. He let out a giddy laugh and rushed into the basement again to sift through his find.
All sorts of foul smells wafted forth from the pouches, and Lester welcomed the aroma of each of them, all of them bringing back memories of the first time he'd used them. Then, he found exactly what he'd been looking for: a few select crystals, a piece of red chalk, and vile filled with what appeared to be human blood (not that this was a scarcity in this land at present). Through attempts at scrying, Lester had already discovered the whereabouts of the only father he'd ever known: Duke Falrevere. Now all he had to do was make the right pattern with the chalk and he could attempt to teleport to that place, a very dangerous ordeal to undertake when one wasn't intimately familiar with the area they were teleporting to, but Lester was willing to take that risk if he could get out of this dank basement and this plague-infested land. He took a deep breath, clearing his mind and bringing up the proper pattern to the forefront of his brain and began work quickly. Soon, he hoped, he'd be basking in the sun of a distant tropical island.