Chapter 3:

I follow a narrow ice-clad pass near the foot of a mountain to my left as draw closer to my destination.

It leads directly past the large crater in the ice where once the Frost Queen Sindragosa found a tormented resting place. Curiosity demands that I take a short look over the edge as I ride by. Down in the pit necromancers are at working hard, trying to create more offspring of the former blue dragon matriarch. And they are at least somewhat successful as every now and there little splinters and scrapes of bone find together to create new un-life.

It always struck me, not knowing whether I should laugh about it or pity the little dragon whelps that are put together like this. These things even hatch from strange blue-glowing dragon eggs, leaving me no idea at all how those necromancers do this.

The little wyrms are already fairly aggressive. As I ride by, two of them begin following me, set on trying to attack me. I hit them on their little skulls with my fist, sending them tumbling backwards and fall to the ground again.

It's strange kind of question to pose but I wonder if the necromancers intend on letting them at that size or if they have some kind of spell up their sleeve to let them grow, to let them become like a live dragon.

There are many stupid little ideas I come up with as I ride on, thinking about it for another short moment before I finally clear my mind from any of it. Hesitant to acknowledge any of my own thoughts I shake my head and faintly whisper to myself "What nonsense..."

The fool I am I left my guard down during these few seconds but despite necromancers near Sindragosa's Fall having noticed me some time ago already, they rather kept on working like machines; plain puppets on a string dancing for their cruel, unholy king just like I once did too.

Venturing on I soon come to an open area a few smaller frostwyrms circling above my head.

It looks like they have been follow me for a while, at least since the moment to blizzard ceased away, but now they turn around, flying off back into the bleak sky and head for their new home in the citadel. Quickly it become clear why and it wasn't because of sloth or any like that. The moment I reach the slope leading to the tournament grounds, that whole area reveals itself to be heavily guarded, filled with knights, priests and other fine, probably holy, warriors. Even though the numbers of his armies is vast, the Lich King is not that foolish enough to send them directly into certain death.

Or maybe, just maybe – Arthas keeps Tirion on his own land for his sole amusement.

As I continue to make my way up the snowy hill I come past five wooden archways standing in a circle, each of them has a light hanging down from the middle of the arc. They were built around a crack in the ice, the hilt of a sword prominently reaching out of the ground. I can sense there is something magical about this place, although it's not too strong, barely present at all.

I shan't bother to waste more time or thoughts on this place

A large circular arena forms the center of the tournament as it has been finished a few days ago. It outshines the rest of the grounds completely. Still the overzealous crusaders had to build it in a way that it would look like some kind of church or at least a giant cross when you would look down upon it from above.

Two guards of the Argent Crusade look at me as I come up the small hill. They grant me a rather friendly greeting to which I don't respond at all. To my right I pass a large magnataur lying in chains. They are large four-legged creatures with a thick fur and muscular humanoid torsos. They could be related to centaurs, though I don't mettle with such information although the unrelenting stench coming from both those races, reaching even my nose could be a proof of their relation.

The head of the animal is hanging low, seems to me they got it to sleep somehow, which I guess should be rather difficult, as they are usually hostile to any other race except for kobolds.

It is just behind the beast that I see a round tent with flags of the Horde hanging above its entrance, signalizing this would be one possible place I had to travel to.

All around me the fights are on their way, horses charging at each other. Only the finest warriors of Azeroth, sitting on the back of their steeds, poking each other out of the saddle. Why do they have to do that anyways? It's not like we'll be able to use the horses inside the citadel...

I turn my attention to the tent of the Argent Crusade to the far west, if Cassi and the rest weren't there, I would surely find them in the Horde tent.

The tribunes next to the fighting grounds are already filled with spectators, most of them warriors that are waiting for their turn in line.

The long entrance way into the area is flanked by statues of heroes of the Argent Dawn, reminding me of the Hall of Heroes in the Scarlet Monastery. At first I can't really believe what I am seeing there, but the truth just doesn't back off and they actually built statues.

What are they thinking? Holding this tournament, building statues... are they stalling for time? Every word they say spoke of how time was of the essence! I thought we'd have to make haste and not waste resources and time on bric-a-brac like this!

The fury boiling on my inside I get off my deathcharger and order it to stay put outside the tent.

I don't worry much about Abigore. He wouldn't let anybody except for me touch him and in case of real danger while I am not around, he would probably vanish to the realm of shadows. As a fiend he would find a safe retreat there.

A woman named Mariel Trueheart greets me as I am about to enter the large tent.

"Welcome to the Argent Tournament, Champion of Undercity." She smiles at me. "Magister Edien Sunhollow is the Sunreaver representative of the tournament and he will..."

I turn around and leave her while she is still talking to me.

Her look showing her bewilderment she stops speaking mid-sentence as I am backing off already.

None of the people I'm looking for is here so I have no need in staying and listening to the rubbish of the paladin.

I take Abigore by the reins and head back for the east side of the tournament grounds.

The people on the tribunes are cheering for their favorite fighters as they continue to fall for it. They start to see all of this as a game, a stupid, little, harmless game.

The tent where the representatives of the Horde reside is a lot smaller than the one of the Argent Crusade. As I enter, I spot them immediately: Cassiopheia, the bloodelf warlock, the troll called Seljun and a tall tauren shaman called Canthar are awaiting me here.

"What took you so long?" Cassiopheia asks me with her usual slightly aggressive tone. I don't bother to respond. Her imp is jumping around her feet, squeaking happily. After taking a quick look around me, I just can't hold back asking any longer.

"What are we doing here anyway?" I raise an eyebrow to complete the look on my face. "I'm not too keen on riding a horse of the Argent Crusade for shoving people out of their saddles..." I know I sound annoyed, but I can't conceal me thinking this way.

"That's not what we're here for..." Cassi, growing impatient, replies to my bad try for a last excuse. "We're here to enter our names into the list for the trials they are holding tomorrow. It seems not too many want to make an attempt on those because last time, yesterday, a couple of people died in the arena."

"So you are telling me that you want to enlist me, together with you for those strange trials of the old Fordring?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I plan on doing..." She narrows her eyes as I think about it for a moment.

"Why? Just why are you doing this? I know what I'm capable of, I mean... we all know what we can do, don't we?"

Seljun puts his hand to his long forehead covering his eyes with a sigh. He already knows too good what would happen now.

"You'll come with us, god dammit!" Cassi bellows at me. "You are the one that talks about wanting to join the fight against the Lich King, always nagging and bragging about their fighters and that you probably won't be able to go in there alone. If you want to go to the black citadel with them, then you'll have to go through their trial. Cope with it!" For a moment it seems she has calmed down again, yet with a final outburst she yells at me one final thing. "NOW SIGN UP ALREADY!"

With a sigh I take the quill idly lying on the desk in front of Magister Sunhollow as he offers me a bashful smile and enter my name into the list of participants for tomorrow.

"I'm going to Dalaran for the night... we'll meet here again tomorrow evening. Be there... and be on time...!" She is still angry, reminding me of how I had forgotten her once or twice, but I know by tomorrow she'll have forgotten about all this and be in a good mood again.

Contrary to me all three of them leave only moments later. I planned on staying here for the night. Should be as good a place as any... Outside the Horde tent the first fireplaces had been set up together areas where one can rest and take a pause after the 'exhausting' fights of the tournament. Silent I take a seat at one of the long tables and look around for a while, thinking I might spot at least one person I know.

As night creeps over these blighted lands, the fires are lit and a group of squires hastily brings along fresh meat that one could grill, roast or simply eat raw by the fireplaces.

The orcs take great delight in this service, as well as the trolls sitting around me. The tauren on the other hand watch the scene with a certain disgust hidden in their gazes. I always chuckle over the thought if one or the other of them was worried that the meat might have been somebody they knew.

I don't see a single bloodelf sitting outside amidst most of the fighters, nothing too peculiar though. Most of the elves are surely in Dalaran, keeping a safe distance to the savage folk..., ignorant fools they are.

I for my part... like every member of the Forsaken I look at the food and drink offered impassively.

After a while the squires return, this time bringing along alcohol for us: beer, wine and mead. It barely takes a couple of minutes until the first orc jumps onto the table making growling noises which could actually have be related to singing.

As he comes jumping along the table, I take a moment to think about grabbing his right leg and sending him flying, but I already see where this would lead to, and end. That brute surely could not rest without trying to regain his 'honour' after something like that. And I'm not too keen on spilling orc-blood today. I have enough trouble already with those ones that cry out 'Lok'tar Ogar' at every suitable moment.

As time continues to tick away I lean back resting against the firm wall of the coliseum behind me and decide on just keep on watching how more orcs will make fools of themselves.

The only thing that I found more disturbing and worrying than having to watch something like this is the fact that the noises coming from the other side of the building are quite similar to these here. The Alliance may call us savages or mindless animals, but if they were truly honest for once, they would all have to agree that we are more alike than we all believe it to be okay. Although I have to admit, I think the dwarves might be closer to the orcs than the humans are, but that's not up to me to decide.

The flow of alcohol keeps the 'festivities' going on for several straining hours. After the first orc collapses, the second makes his merry way up onto the table and shortly after that the third follows along whilst the idiot squires keep on bringing more and more fuel for their delusion. Was that too an order from Tirion Fordring? Only a healthy and drunk orc is a good orc? Still, the question would also apply to the Alliance, but I have to admit that may be actually out of question... Only a drunk dwarf is a good dwarf after all.

Throughout the whole evening I haven't said a single word, I've only been sitting there watching, keeping to myself. The others left me be, no-one played up pesky and those that knew my name made sure to stay clear. But by now I have enough of this pathetic show and decide to leave.

My mind on the run I head for the east-side of the tournament grounds.

As I follow along the way, I accidentally step on something that looks like a large white lump of snow yet as it turns out this snow is actually a rather large beetle that had been crawling around and about. With a loud crack its carapace bursts open scattering a violet liquid across the ground as well as my leg, ending his surprisingly large life. Carelessly I kick the dead insect aside, thinking about how I'll be able to get this violet slime off my armor now...

As I came here during the afternoon, I left Abigore standing out here without tying him to something. Not able to find him near the Horde tent, I guess he returned to the realm of shadows in search for food some time ago.

Trying this theory I don't hesitate to summon him to my side and with a loud shriek my steed enters this world, the blue flaming eyes staring at me unremittingly. Abigore slightly prods my arm with his head as a greeting. I don't know if it's a strange gesture for a deathcharger, but after a while I figured that this might be a friendly hello.

Shadow's Edge is still tied to Abigore's back. The moment back in Acherus when I took the axe with me, I didn't realize it yet, but after seeing it emerge from the shadows times and times again it has become painfully clear to me: That axe is a truly vile weapon. The moment my steed steps out of the realm of darkness, you can see the overflowing energy from the weapon spilling into this realm. It feeds on the dark energies, on the blood that was spilled, on the souls that were taken here. Seeing it in moments like this is the only reason why I haven't used it until now. Something about it strikes fear into my dead heart, even though I hate to admit it. I fear of what I might unleash, should it be wielded.

It takes several minutes for the weapon to fully lose its glow again. It takes up far more energy than it could possibly contain as the amount of energy flowing out of its blade is so great that you could actually watch how the trees next to me began to whither.

In these moments I come to find why I had built up a kind of inner restraint on using this weapon, but

Foremost of all it shows me how depressingly weak I have become. Alone the thought about how I bowed down to the request of the elf earlier reveals it all. What had become of me? Am I changing again, or was it already too late?

A small part of me hoped that Shadow's Edge might bear the answer for me. That it would make me whole again and I can't fully deny it. There are these moments when I want to reach out for the axe and grab it.

Yet there is more to it than meets the eye or mind. I can't really tell if this might be the real reason for me not using it. But something about it seems unfinished to me.

Absently I shake my head towards my own resentment as I take up Abigore's reigns and head with him towards the hillside in the east.

The first mountain ridge extends itself in front of me, reaching far beyond my head as we come to the end of the way, leading half-way out into the endless ocean of nothingness.

The snow around me shines in a bright white. It appears so clean and untouched, but with every step I take further it becomes more churned up and dirties from the blood of the insect I accidentally had squashed earlier.

The wind rustles through the twigs and branches of the few heavily snow-covered trees standing up here alone, granting faint fellowship only to each other. Surefooted I step to the edge of the land, only a few steps away from me, having a look down to the cliff below. It is tall and jagged - no one would ever survive falling down from here.

Directly to the north of the tournament there lies a small isle offshore that was once home to a tribe of the Kalu'ak. But now the former inhabitants lie scattered across the island..., dead and plague-ridden. The sound of a low pitched horn is heard every evening lamenting on their death, or maybe foreboding what to come. The Argent Crusade is investigating this matter currently.

Not much left to see but the slow waves of the northern seas flowing towards the land I turn around and lead Abigore away from the cliffs. Having a casual look to the west I face the coliseum, the wind never ceasing to play with the flags up high.

Don't they see that they are only wasting time, precious hours and days? They aren't preparing anybody with this tournament! Maybe they can actually sort out a few people that would only be dead weight for the charge on the citadel, yet is toying around with horses and wooden sticks really the right way to do this? They are only getting the worthless ones killed that much earlier. The graveyard that lies not too far away from here proving my point... roughly sixty or seventy people have already been buried here.

And again the thought about death only heightens my senses. I'm growing anxious to find out what this trial, as they call it, is about; though on the other hand I already know that it will be nothing more than a huge disappointment.

With the wind howling in my ears I stand here alone and gaze upon the little playground of the Argent Crusade. All the weapons had been put down most people are now dancing as colorful little sprites around the fires, drunk of the alcohol or their own pride. Only the few guards in the towers stand fast, keeping watch over the shades of the night as they lurk about amidst the mountains close by. They all feel safe up on this ridge, such fools. If he truly wanted, everybody here would be dead already. He only lets them live because all of this is amusement for him too.

It is times like these when the chill of Northrend clutches even my rotten heart, when I see the faces of Corren, Keira and a few others before my inner eye and then it overcomes me.

This feeling

This anxiousness

I feel left alone.

And I can't deny it even - I am alone. Leaving me with I want being somebody to talk to and yet I know fully well I can't. I wouldn't say a single word, would not spill a single emotion. My feelings are not for them. They wouldn't understand... They couldn't! How would they? How could they know how it feels to be me? How it feels to live with mistakes as grave as the ones that I have made?

I turn around and take a few steps over to the side of the graveyard, buried underneath the thick layer of snow.

My soul is at unease, I feel restless. I have been agitated since I first set a foot into Icecrown, all because of him, because of his weapon. But soon this will come to an end. Soon I will offer the last drops of the vicious black blood that is flowing through the veins of his undead body to the suffering souls such as mine.

Soon I will find peace.

With a short gesture I signalize Abigore to stay outside the graveyard's bounds, as I start to stroll the lines of little tombstones, barely reaching out of their cover. I don't know why I am doing this, any dead body would do.

I come to a stop in front of a fresh grave. For a short moment I concentrate on the creature I want to resurrect.

In such dire need of company anybody or anything would do for now.

A digging sound announces the awakening of my minion, mere seconds later an undead hand bursts out of the snow, followed by the horrible disfigured face of a ghoul.

After clawing its way out of the ground completely, it shakes itself once to get rid of the snow in the rags it is still wearing. I on the other hand had already turned around and started heading back to Abigore, the ghoul now following closely behind.

"I LIKE GLITTER!" The wretched creature bursts out as it stumbles through the deep snow.

A few sole snowflakes come dancing down from the heavens as I take my place again, overlooking the tournament grounds.

"I know Ratcarver..." I say without bothering to take another look at him. "...I know..."