Transformation: In which a choice is made

"You had better explain, Naaru," I said, my voice dark and threatening. "You were supposed to save her, so there is only once choice between those two."

Chromie winced at my harsh tone, glancing up at the Naaru floating serenely above us and I felt a heavy hand on my arm. Sebbat's hand, no doubt trying to keep me from doing anything rash. The chiming voice in my mind was once again calming, but I was not so easily soothed this time.

{Purah Bloodblade, as one of the undead, you know that the connection to soul and body is tenuous at best. Yrovi's soul is shattered, pieces of it already swallowed up by the Twisting Nether. I have the power to make it whole again, but if I do, the undead body will reject it. Her body will be a corpse, an empty shell, and her soul will move on.}

My face fell as I knelt by her side. Surprisingly, Chromie patted my arm, comforting me as she could. "Don't lose all hope, Purah. A'dal did have another idea..."

{Yes, which is why I called you. Though death is not a terrible end, as all things must die in time, Yrovi was not meant to find this kind of death, not now. As you said, Chronormu, Yrovi's timeline has been tampered with, and this was not supposed to be her fate. The other side of this coin, then, is to change her timeline again, to prevent this from befalling her.}

The gnome-dragon nodded. "Precisely. Yrovi was not meant to come into contact with whatever it was that sucked in her soul. There is a very good chance that I can alter her timeline to ensure this fate does not occur, it's just... well..." Chromie's face fell.

"What is it, Chromie?" asked Tyra, the worry obvious on her face. I stared down at the warrior, wanting anything except her death. "Tell us."

The dragon sighed. "I'll do another sweep of time, just to be sure of my calculations, however..." she paused again, wincing. "However, from what I can see, the only way to ensure that Yrovi never meets this fate is to go pretty far back in her timeline. Far enough that I'd be changing more things than just this unfortunate end. In fact, there's no telling what may happen if I meddle in her fate, or the repercussions it will have in all of our timelines, since Yrovi has touched us all."

So that was the choice, then, I thought to myself. Either she dies, or she is never here. But A'dal had said the choice was between... It hit me then, like a punch to the gut, just what the Naaru and the dragon were saying. "Oh, gods..." I groaned.

Sebbat and Tyra understood it too, as I heard gasps from each of them in turn behind me. Karrim grunted and turned away, seemingly disgusted with the whole affair. Cobb, on the other hand, seemed strangely still. It's so damn hard to read him, I can't even tell if that fool warlock even understands what A'dal has said.

"Let her die. The Yrovi I know wouldn't want to live again. She was a proud member of the Forsaken," Karrim said coldly over his shoulder. "I wash my hands of it. If any of you lot need me for anything, you know where to find me." He moved away and then disappeared in a flash of light, teleporting away.

"Damn him for leaving like that!" Tyra said angrily, but Sebbat gestured for her to calm herself.

"Karrim is a true Forsaken, Tyra, and cannot understand the position the rest of us are in. There is little room in his heart for compassion. Besides, I think this has hit him harder than he expected. He told me once that Yrovi had given him the willpower to be more than just a tool for vengeance. She taught him to enjoy his life after death, to explore and learn and become a better mage, not just for the glory of the Dark Lady, but for himself. I think the thought of her being gone for good frightens him a little, and he cannot bear to stay here any longer."

Tyra seemed satisfied, but I wasn't. I sat beside her and held one of her bony hands in my own, wondering if the pain in my chest would ever ease. What would I wish for her? No, that's not the question I should be asking... What would Yrovi want for herself? I thought of the days we would ride through the plaguelands, where she would tell me stories of her youth in Lordaeron. I thought of the days that we would fight, side-by-side, slaughtering Scourge, reveling in our power and skill. Of the stories we traded over the campfire of our experiences with the Lich King and how we escaped his power to be free again... Free again.

"There are worse things than death, you know," Tyra finally said, quiet. "I have seen terrible things, and terrible fates for men and women who fight the wars of this world. As a healer, I often must try to save them from their own foolishness, pull them back from the brink of death, even revive those who have passed beyond the reach of simple healing or the skilled touch of a field medic... and I've come to realize that death is probably pretty peaceful." I saw a single tear on her cheek before she wiped it away. "Yrovi was strong, and brave, and bold. She didn't fear death, or undeath. I think she'd want to go out fighting, like any good warrior, but I also think she'd enjoy peace."

With that she looked up to A'dal and nodded, and I knew she had told the glowing being to make her soul whole again and let her pass on. I found myself hating her for it. Sebbat and Cobb still hadn't made their choices for Yrovi. It suddenly seemed so wrong that this was how her final fate was determined, by us and not her.

Sebbat shook his head. "While Yrovi would no doubt like peace, I think she would like life better. Yrovi was always curious to me. I found her fascinating, her interest in life, in protecting others. As a Druid, I wanted to nurture that in her, and she spoke to me of her life and how she sometimes missed it." He turned to Chromie and continued, "If you can alter her history so that she does not die in the first place, I think she would be pleased."

The tauren's words echoed in my own heart. To live again... what I wouldn't give to feel my heart beating, and the air in my lungs, and the sun on my face. "I agree," I found myself saying. "Yrovi wasn't afraid of anything. And she'll find peace. One way or another. As you said, A'dal, all things must die, and humans in particular have such short lives. Let her live hers as she was meant to." I realized, then, that I would never meet her if she lived, and part of me regretted my words, but I didn't say anything more. I would rather she live and be happy having never met me, than have her die like this, in the darkness of that evil, her soul shredded and marred, even if A'dal can make her whole again. I would rather have never met her, than have her die like this.

I realized that it was Cobb's decision that would determine her fate. He realized it, too, it seemed, as his eyes were shut tightly. His imp minion tugged lightly on his tattered robes in concern, his squeaky voice uttering words I couldn't make out.

{He would have you hear his words, Purah. Will you listen?} Surprised, I turned to look at the warlock, and for the first time I saw the undead man as more than just a rotted, walking corpse. There was emotion in his eyes, one I knew was echoed in my own, and one that I was shocked to find there: Love. Love for Yrovi. Love that ran so deep that it was beyond the reach of the numbness that came with undeath. There was fear there, too, though, and I was afraid of what he'd say.

{I don't know what to do, Purah.} The voice wasn't the chiming of the Naaru. It sounded young, and scared, and... almost fragile. It was nothing like what I expected. {I know that you love her. I do, too, though she would never have... well. It doesn't matter now, does it? Karrim and Tyra say to let her die, to find everlasting peace, and I want to. I want her to feel happy again, but...} the voice in my mind trailed off as Cobb looked away, his yellow eyes glazing over, his hand clutching the soulstone he had used in the failed attempt at saving Yrovi.

"But you fear what will happen if she dies... If you know that her light, her energy, is gone from the world forever."

He nodded. {The thought of Yrovi not existing in the world makes it a much darker place. She was meant to help others, to protect others, just as she has helped and protected each of us. How many will die if she's not in the world in some capacity or another? I would have fallen in to madness without her guidance.} He turned to the Naaru and the gnome, his voice silent again. I looked at him with a new respect, not realizing just what kind of mind he had, the thoughts and emotions locked inside a body long past repair.

{It is decided, then.} A'dal's chiming voice finally said. Cobb and I looked at one another, and I could tell we both hoped we made the right choice. Tyra turned away, unable to watch, and Sebbat did his best to comfort her.

A little fearful, I moved back as Chromie reached out and touched Yrovi's pale face. The gnome-dragon shimmered and Yrovi seemed to fade in and out as the time-traveler adjusted the timeline: pale bones were suddenly covered with flesh that changed from deathly pale to rosy and lively, and her golden eyes, almost dark, flared with life again, changing to a hazel hue that fluttered open and blinked, seeing me. She smiled, though it seemed sad.

{You had better say your goodbye. The timeline is changing and all of you will be changed with it.}

I leaned down and looked her in the eyes. She seemed confused, and suddenly very fragile. "I love you, Yrovi Greenfield of Lordaeron. Remember that, always." I brushed my cold lips against hers, now red and full of life. I was surprised and pleased to feel her return the gesture and whisper "I'll remember."

Cobb shuffled closer as she sat up, my hand supporting her as she stood, still fading in and out as the time-stream started to take her back. She stared down at hands that were whole, then looked up to A'dal. "Thank you." She whispered, and turned back to us. "Thanks to all of you." She looked at Cobb as she said it, and reached her hand out to him, which he took gently. "Don't ever be afraid of who you are, Cobb."

Sebbat and Tyra nodded to her in farewell, and she turned to me one last time, her eyes shining with tears. "Where I go, you can't follow, death knight, but it doesn't matter. Part of me will be with you, always." She placed a warm hand on my chest, over my heart. "Remember that you are not the Lich King's and never will be again. Remember that undeath is just another way of saying a second chance. Remember..."

She was gone, as was Chromie. I stood under A'dal, the Naaru's light cascading down all around me, and felt the sorrow wash over me. I embraced it, letting it fill me, knowing that it was an emotion I shouldn't be able to feel, and loved the fact that I still could, no matter how painful it may be.

{The only gift I can give you now, is a memory of her to keep. Because she never became one of the undead, when you leave my light, you will forget you met her, forget she was once your ally. Think of how you want to remember her, and go with my blessings.}

Sebbat and Tyra left first, sad, but content. I thought of all the moments we had shared together, all the times we found peace in each other's company, and I found it impossible to choose only one. I realized that I didn't want to remember her as I had known her, that it would be an insult to consolidate our friendship into a single moment.

"Let me remember her as she left, as a living, breathing woman, rather than the Forsaken I knew. Let me remember her parting words." I felt the chiming song in my mind, and closed my eyes to see her living face imprinted on my mind as clear as if she stood there now. If I was still capable of tears, I would have shed them.

Cobb nodded as well and we turned to go. I glanced at him, wondering what memory he chose.

"None of 'ya business, what the Master chose, elfy," his minion said, voice high-pitched and grating. I considered kicking the little demon, but simply shrugged and nodded to the warlock. He summoned his fel charger and rode slowly away towards the lower city, his eyes blank, his hand still clutched around the soulstone. As I watched him go, I felt tired and worn.

I glanced back one more time to the glowing chamber of the Naaru. A'dal hung there, serenely, the swirl of light the Naaru created illuminating the city. It felt so strange to be standing here... I was supposed to be in Northrend, wasn't I? I had tasks to complete...

I shrugged it off, the feeling slowly passing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chromie entering A'dal's chamber, and wondered what she was up to, and if she was the reason I felt befuddled. Damn bronze dragons, always meddling in the affairs of the mortals. As I lifted off into the night sky, I stared up at the stars and thought they were beautiful, and wondered why my lips felt so warm, and the echo of a woman's voice sounded in my mind.

...Remember.

((And that's that! Yrovi will get a few new stories that deal with her human self and Purah and gang will get different stories, too, now that Yrovi doesn't exist in the same way as before. That's not to say that they'll never meet again. I mean, Dalaran is neutral, you know!))

Transformation: In which a Naaru calls a Gnome

The chiming voice was soothing, calming, and warm. It filled my mind, and pushed back the dark thoughts and feelings that had nearly overwhelmed me... feelings that I thought I had completely overcome. It seems that the Lich King had trained me too well.

{Bring her to me} it chimed again, a little louder, as though to drown out my dark thoughts of death and blood.

I obeyed, leaning over her to gently scoop Yrovi up. Sebbat, Tyra, Karrim, and the still slightly shaken Cobb followed close behind me to the central chamber in Shattrath. There, hovering above the dais, in bright, shining glory, was A'dal. It was A'dal's chiming voice that urged me forward with Yrovi in my arms. The Naaru's voice was more obvious here, and yet not overwhelming. A little spark of hope flared in my cold heart.

I placed her beneath the great Naaru and bowed my head low. "Please," I said, quiet, pleading. "Please. Save her. If you can, save her. She deserves your mercy."

The light from the floating being of Light pulsed a bit and radiated down onto Yrovi's prone form.

{Mercy? An interesting word to use, Death Knight. Interesting, but fitting, perhaps, for one such as you. Yrovi had mercy, too. She, unlike so many of the Forsaken, clung to old memories of love, kindness, and hope. Through her strong will, she did not dispair, did not turn fully to the darkness of vengeance and hatred so common amongst the undead.} The song-voice turned a little sour, slightly off key, as though sad. {And she will need all her willpower now, as her soul has been shredded and pulled into the Nether by some old power.}

I clenched my fists and shut my eyes tightly. No wonder Cobb could not pull her soul into his crystal... it is beyond the reach of any mortal, now.

"Please!" I pleaded again, more urgently, knowing every minute that passed could be her last. "If there is anything you can do, great Naaru, do it! She means a great deal to us. To me."

I hadn't wanted to admit the truth about my feelings for her. I hadn't wanted to admit that she made me feel alive, and whole, and truly free. I hadn't wanted to admit that she made me feel love again. It shouldn't have been possible. I shouldn't have wanted it so badly. Yet... here I was, practically on my knees before a being that should make me cower in shame, begging for aid. Me, a Death Knight, a former member of the Scourge, an undead killing machine, begging...

{Let us see what can be done, then, Purah Bloodblade, though you may not like the choice that must be made, and it will not be you alone who will make it.}

The chiming in my mind grew louder then and seemed to spread out, into the world and beyond. The air grew still, then almost warm, and then hot. I closed my eyes, feeling the pressure build and wondering what the Naaru had done, when I heard a tiny pop and the heat and pressure vanished.

A high-pitched, bubbly voice spoke out, "Goodness, A'dal. If you needed to see me so badly, I wish you'd find another way to call on me. That was a bit uncomfortable." I spun around quickly, my runeblade finding its way to my hand automatically, before I realized just who it was.

"Chronormu," Sebbat said, his voice deep and full of respect. He nodded a greeting to the tiny gnome dressed in white and bronze. My eyes grew wide, as I had only heard stories of the well-known dragon of the bronze flight. Somehow, I had expected someone taller... and more... male.

The little gnome giggled quietly and returned the greeting, then turned to each of my comrades in turn. "Tyralina, hello again! And Karrim and Cobb still together, I see... huh, strange. Or is it not? Sorry, I do lose track of timelines now and again." The two undead glanced at each other, obviously wondering if the dragon-gnome was speaking of the past before they met, or of a future event yet to come. She turned to me then, a small smile on her face. "Oh. Purah Bloodblade. We meet at last. Or, have we met before?"

I shook my head, wary of the dragon. "No, we have not, though I am hoping that if A'dal brought you here, it is to help Yrovi." At the mention of the undead warrior's name, Chromie glanced past my legs to see the comatose Forsaken. "Oh, dear... what happened? This doesn't seem familiar to me at all..."

She pushed past me and knelt by Yrovi's side. "This wasn't meant to be in her timeline, A'dal. Someone or something has meddled with her." Chromie was silent, then, her head tilted up slightly as though listening to something. A'dal's voice, no doubt, speaking words mere mortals aren't meant to hear. My eyes narrowed in distrust as my inner voice grew bitter. I knew, deep in my heart, that I had no right to ask grand favors of creatures like the Naaru or the dragons. I had done horrific things in service of the Lich King, and I had not been a brave soul in life, either. I had a great deal of blood on my hands. Still, Yrovi had done heroic things, great things, in service of the Argent Dawn and the Horde...

{Listen now all friends of Yrovi. You who are her closest friends and allies must make a choice and it must not be made lightly.}

The chiming seemed a little off key to me, as though unsure. I turned to stare up at the Naaru's glittering form, my mind set and prepared.

"What choice, great one?" asked Sebbat.

A pause as the chiming nearly stopped entirely. {You much choose if Yrovi lives... or truly dies again.}

((Fail for me. Not only did I initially use the triangular-shaped brackets for A'dal's voice (which cause the text to dissapear, since it's used for HTML code) but I didn't save the Naaru's speech, so I had to write it again. Also, I totally realized that the first part of Transformation was written in third person perspective instead of first, so I'll have to go back and fix that, too. The story is nearly finished, and I'm really pleased with it, surprisingly. Most of the stuff I write I end up disliking at some point (like Brothers, which I'm actually in the process of reworking entirely), but I'm really digging this one.))

Transformation: In which healing fails

Sebbat, changed into a living tree, swayed back and forth, chanting quietly, his amber, bark-covered limbs glowing brightly with the power of his healing magics. Yrovi lay on the ground at his roots, bathed in the green light. Tyra, a Sin'dorei paladin, had joined the druid in his work, and the golden power of the Light flowed and intertwined with the power of nature.

I watched, silent, worried. Though I could tell that both of them were pouring all their power and knowledge into helping her, she didn't awaken... she didn't even move. I sat quietly, unmoving, my gaze unwavering, with the patience that only the dead have. I didn't even stir when I was joined on each side by familiar Forsaken.

"No change, then?" asked the one on my right, his voice gravelly. I said nothing. He shrugged a bit, and watched our leader and the paladin work. His companion glanced my way, but said nothing... though this was not unusual, since he was missing his jaw. Karrim and Cobb, a mage and warlock, one rarely seen without the other. The warlock's imp minion opened his mouth to speak, but, thankfully, Cobb silenced him with a kick. The last thing I wanted to hear was that screeching voice, no matter what it was meaning to say.

Slowly, the glow from Sebbat and Tyra faded, and I could see sweat beading on the lady's face. Even Sebbat appeared ashen, his usually golden leaves almost grey in the starlight. Yrovi still hadn't moved.

The paladin approached me, her face wary. "Purah," she began, and my gaze shifted from the comatose warrior to her green eyes. She winced and took a half step back, but continued, "We don't understand... Everything we do, every spell we use, all the power we pour into her body and soul is simply absorbed. Nothing we do seems to work. I'm... I'm so sorry."

She moved to lay a hand gently on my arm, but Karrim blocked her, shaking his head. He knew me well, and knew that the last thing I wanted was a comforting touch. I felt cold inside... empty and dark, and I could feel my eyes unfocus as her words set in. "Nothing?" I stood slowly, feeling a dangerous strength build inside, and though Tyra was tall, I still stood over her. "Nothing?" My voice was nearly a whisper, but it hit her with force, and she took another step back, her expression worried. My fingers twitched near my runeblade's hilt.

"Enough, 'Rah," the undead mage said, quickly moving to block my path. "We'll find something that will help, some way to bring her back, pull her out of this..."

I didn't notice that Cobb had pushed past us, his tattered robes sweeping the stone as he shuffled quickly over to Yrovi. His imp cowered a bit, but followed obediently after. The jaw-less warlock pulled out a ceremonial dagger, one that had seen a great deal of use, from the looks of it, and used it to cut open Yrovi's arm. I wanted to stop him, but if Sebbat and Tyra couldn't save her, then I'd let him try, no matter how terrible the magic.

She had no blood to bleed, but the athame didn't seem to need actual blood for whatever spell the warlock was hatching, as a stream of dark magic pulsed between him and Yrovi as soon as the cut was made. His yellow eyes glazed over and flickered, and what was left of his face contorted into a grimace of what appeared to be pain. I knew something was wrong when even his imp began to keen. He shuddered, then, and collapsed to his knees, but still the spell continued, unwavering, through his sheer force of will.

I moved to stand at his side, and though I wasn't fond of Cobb, or his magic, I placed a hand on his bony shoulder to steady him. He seemed lost in his spell, whatever it was, and reached into his robe to pull out a light-purple crystal, a soul shard, I realized. The magical bind that linked him to our warrior pulsed and brightened, swirling up and into the crystal. It filled it with light... and then vanished, the spell broken. Yrovi remained still, and Cobb seemed exhausted with the effort. The soulstone was dark.

His imp coughed and sputtered, clutching at its neck, "It... it was too powerful... the thing, the blackness that has her. I couldn't pull her out. I couldn't..." The voice was forced, and less grating than usual, and I guessed that Cobb had spoken through the little demon. I squeezed his shoulder in silent thanks, though the demon looked irritated.

"You tried, at least. For that, I thank you," I said quietly, so that the warlock alone could hear. I felt as I had when I had died. I could feel nothing but pain, and my mind was clouded with grief. Cold gripped my heart and turned it to stone, just as it had when I had been raised from the dead to serve the Lich King... and then, I heard a gentle chiming in my head, and a warm light that melted my frozen heart again, pushing back the cold.

{Bring her to me.}

Transformation: In which there is a hasty flight

I could feel her leaving, feel the energy behind her golden-glowing eyes fading faster with every moment, and my still heart was aching at the thought of losing her. I can't bear to think of whatever fate awaits her if that light slips away.

My skeletal gryphon shifted and twitched as I laid her quickly, but gently, over the saddle, praying silently that whatever was wrong, whatever had harmed her would release it's hold, that she would blink and sit up and scold me in her echoing voice for worrying about her as she so often did. But she didn't, and her eyes remained dim.

Not a sound, no movement at all and I had to fight the urge to yell or strike her, anything to get a response of some kind...

"Yrovi, I swear to the gods, if you don't come back from this, I will hunt your soul down and drag you back myself," I whispered, my voice strangely hoarse and angry and raw. It shouldn't even be possible to feel this way, to have this ache in my chest where my once-beating heart rests, feel the constriction around lungs that no longer need breath, but I do feel it... and it was more painful than the lashes from the Succubus demons they had been fighting, more painful than the fel-fire burns I bore, so painful, in fact, that I wanted to trade places with her, just to escape the alien emotions that were clouding my mind.

The rush of the wind as the undead gryphon took to the sky on bony wings calmed me. It was cooler in the air above the fiery peninsula, the wind less heavy with fire, and ash, and sand. Already a call had gone out to the others, a plea for aid, and they were coming. "Meet in Shattrath," Sebbat had said, his voice strong and sure over the communication stone they all carried. "Tyra and I shall meet you there to heal Yrovi of whatever is harming her."

***

Shattrath was quiet, the night sky overhead clear. It would be almost beautiful under any other circumstances, but I didn't notice as we glided in to land in the upper ring of the city. A large, horned cat stepped out of shadows and transformed into an even larger, horned tauren. He nodded a silent greeting, but I cared little for formalities when Yrovi was this ill. I pulled her down from the saddle and cradled her in my arms, armor and all.

"She's dying, Sebbat. She's dying again, and I can't stop it from happening."

((A quick explanation for this story: I server and faction switched Yrovi some time ago in order to have a level 80 character on the same server that my RL friend was on for access to gold, heirloom items, run throughs, etc. Because of this, I of course imagined how it would be explained in terms of RP or a story that fit the Warcraft universe, and Transformation started coming about. I'll be borrowing some famous NPCs from WoW, including A'dal and the one and only Chronormu (aka Chromie) of the Bronze flight, along with my interpretations of some old characters that belong to previous guildies of mine. Enjoy.))

Bloodsword: 13 - Massacres

With the added prestige of a deathcharger, especially one as beautiful and deadly as the one he had earned, Purah continued moving up the ranks quickly. He raised ghouls for the Harvester, and dealt with the Scarlet Crusade as it prepared supplies for ships sailing for Northrend. Not wanting to allow those ships to make it out of the harbor, he found himself hiding in a mine cart to get past the multitude of soldiers at Light's Point.

That day was a glorious one for the Scourge, as he turned the cannons on the ships against the very soldiers who built them. At least a hundred Scarlet soldiers died by his hand alone that day, in glorious fire and destruction. The chaos and confusion he caused only made the cold indifference within him grow, that small part of him that still clung to the light nearly blotted out entirely.

Silea. What have I become? Does it even matter anymore? Does what I do in my death have any bearing on who I once was?

He was lost in these thoughts when Prince Valanar sent him back to the Ebon hold with the reports of the slaughter at the coast. He was going before the Highlord Morgraine himself. He couldn't afford to show weakness. Besides, he thought. It probably doesn't matter anymore. I've become a monster. Silea... he closed his eyes for a moment, that lone, warm place in his heart fluttering feebly. Silea would run screaming from me as those Scarlet fools do. My life is done. My death, on the other hand, could be so much more.

He could feel a cold forming deep within his soul as he approached the Highlord Darion Mograine. He wasn't sure what it meant, but had decided it wasn't any of his concern. His body and his mind were not his own, not anymore. He knelt in respect, holding out the report of the victory at Death's Breach for the Highlord's acceptance. He stood as Mograine took it, immediately breaking the seal and reading through Prince Valanar's words.

"The entire fleet?" the Highlord said, more to himself than to the death knight waiting patiently. Purah took little else in as the Highlord praised him, though Mograine's mind appeared to wander elsewhere, to his father. Nevertheless, he gave Purah new armor and a commendation, moving the dead elf further up the ranks of the Scourge army.

It was days later that he found himself in the middle of what was left of Havenshire, surrounded by ghouls and tossing human skulls into the newest plague cauldron of the Scourge. Noth the Plaguebringer stood nearby, talking mostly to himself, no doubt bored as his work was more or less complete. Purah had been in New Avalon, the town south of Havenshire, also full of the Scarlet Crusade. The skulls that now rested at the bottom of the bubbling cauldron had come from the town's inhabitants, both citizens and soldiers alike.

He was a shell of his former self, he knew. He rarely showed any emotion anymore, and when he did it was usually through a cold smile of triumph or frown of frustration. As he stepped back from the cauldron, his dreadsteed waiting patiently nearby, he looked back over the dead fields of Havenshire. The inhabitants were long gone, fled or dead. He rode slowly through the town, dead plague-hounds occasionally looking up from their pacing, but otherwise ignoring his passing. The lumber mill was still now. The paddock where he had once stolen his black stallion was now filled with other Death Knight's steeds.

Purah tied his stallion to a nearby post and walked up to a nearby tree. Its trunk was covered in deep gouges from swords and ghoul's claws. He touched it, running his gauntleted hand over the rough bark. The tree was trying to survive, but the plague and blight that covered the land was already starting to take over. He sat under it's branches, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was naked, standing hip-deep in the snow. Well, this is something I never expected to see again, he thought to himself. Instead of being surrounded by impenetrable darkness, though, he could see for miles and miles. Snow and ice as far as he could see. He wasn't shivering, as the cold didn't seem to bother him. He turned around and nearly jumped back, reaching for a runeblade that wasn't there. A cloaked figure had appeared, just on the horizon. He said nothing, wary of this new development. I'm dreaming, of course. This is all just in my head.

The figure gestured, beckoning him to follow. He hesitated. He noticed how gracefully the figure moved and he wondered if it was a woman, or another elf. Perhaps it's... her. He moved, then, slowly towards the unknown person. Every step he took, the figure took, too. After what seemed like hours of walking through the snow, he grew frustrated and threw up his hands.

"End this foolishness! I'm done. Let me wake, so I can continue my work!" The dark and mysterious figure gestured again for him to follow, but then pointed towards the horizon. There, small and nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the snow, was a small crystal dome. At least, that's what it looked like. It seemed to shine and sparkle without any light, a small star on the ground.

With a goal in sight, Purah continued, patient and constant in his trek through the snow. He rarely looked to the figure anymore, instead his eyes fixed on that dome. It was important. He didn't know why, but it was, and he had to get there. It came ever closer, but he was tiring. It was as if the snow was freezing him in place, or trying to. His legs were dragging, catching in the frozen landscape. The figure was gone now, nowhere to be seen. Only the dome on the horizon, beckoning to him, kept him going.

Finally, after fighting for every little movement, he made it. The dome rose up out of the snow before him, glowing from within. He staggered closer and touched the shining surface. It was ice, distorted enough to keep him from seeing what was inside, from seeing whatever it was causing the glow. He walked all around it, searching for a way inside. It was solid and impenetrable.

Purah, come inside.

He wanted to laugh, as he had been trying to do exactly that, but there was no energy left anymore. He reached out to the ice again, touching it, his bare hand slipping against its shining surface. He felt nothing. He closed his eyes in frustration.

And awoke, his back against the blighted tree, his deathcharger standing patiently nearby, standing watch over him. Whatever dream had gripped him, it was gone, and he rose, slowly. I can almost see the snow, even now. It is no normal dream, that is certain, he thought as he mounted again, turning his mount once again towards the crypt.

Bloodsword: 12 - The Shadowrealm

When the total darkness faded away, Purah found himself standing in the same spot, the tents of Death's Breach still around him, but all the soldiers, the geists, the ghouls, and the Horseman were gone. The world was dark, steeped in a perpetual nighttime, and shades seemed to creep in the darker corners. He stepped up to the edge of the cliff and looked over the edge. Havenshire still stood below, empty but for the shades and the Dark Rider.

He was huge. Covered head to toe in heavy armor, bristling with spikes, and carrying a rather large sword at his side, he was the epitome of death and destruction. The elf took a look at the Rider's steed, and immediately recognized his stallion, even transformed as he had been.

The hide had been bleached slightly, giving him a ghostly grey quality, and where hooves and fetlocks of flesh and bone had once been, now an eerie glow emanated, blue in the darkness. The stallion had been given armor: the champron over the stallion's face was black metal, decorated at the top with the traditional horns that curved down and out; the criniere was of matching black metal, spiked a bit to give the deathcharger's neck a menacing silhouette each time he moved; a peytral adorned with a human skull protected the stallion's chest, with more human skulls dangling as grim trophies on each side where it met the saddle, and a dark metal croupiere protected it's flanks and hindquarters. Truly, he had chosen very well. Now just to earn it back.

The Rider seemed to be oblivious to his intrusion to the shadowrealm, so he made his way slowly down the hill, his sword out and at the ready. There would be no hiding this time, no waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He would defeat the Dark Rider and take back his prize.

At the base of the hill, Purah broke out into a run. The Rider saw him coming and charged, the stallion leaping forward to barrel towards the death knight at full speed. At just the last moment, Purah leaped out of the way, cutting high. His sword rang out as it scraped along the criniere to hit the rider square in the chest. The blow would have killed a mortal man, but this was anything but.

The equestrian turned the stallion tightly and faced him, using magics to disease Purah's dead body. It slowed him, made thinking difficult. He returned in kind, using what powers of frost he had to make the rider's moves sluggish. Hopefully it would slow him down long enough to keep Purah's confused movements fast enough to dodge out of the way.

The sword fight seemed to last hours, though it had to only be a few moments. Racked with disease, desperate to escape the heavy blows of the rider, fighting at a disadvantage, he almost didn't make it. Blow after blow rained down from above, the deathcharger eager to please it's rider... but in the end, Purah's speed and his ability to keep his head through the magical disease saved him. A final, desperate blow knocked the rider from the back of the stallion. The moment his body hit the ground, the elf death knight impaled him to the earth with his runeblade. It was finished.

The Dark Rider twitched once or twice, but finally collapsed to the ground, a pool of green ichor and red blood mixing in the grass. He removed his sword, cleaned it on the fallen undead's tunic, and turned to his prize.

The deathcharger stood waiting as if it understood what had transpired. As Purah approached, it didn't turn or run. He prepared to mount and it didn't sidestep. Oh, yes, this is my stallion. This is my deathcharger. Mine, and mine alone. The ride back up the hill was swift and the little horn he had been given was a clarion call in the darkness. It seemed to tear the shadows away, revealing the true Death's Breach and Salanar the Horseman. Purah had to blink a few times, to adjust to the brightness of the real world.

"Welcome back, Bloodsword. You have succeeded where most initiates fail, Purah." He gestured to the deathcharger, now tossing it's armored head. He then handed Purah a sigil, a symbol of his mastery and abilities thus far and turned away. The elf looked down at his mount, at his perfect deathcharger, and smiled.

Mine, and mine alone.

Bloodsword: 11 - Shadows and Horses

There were indeed Scarlet Crusaders to deal with. More than Purah could count. With a new purpose and a new name, he returned to Death's Breach to serve Prince Valanar. He did well, slaughtering the living and obeying orders. Though that small part of him was still disgusted when he killed "innocents," like the villagers that fled in terror at the very sight of him. He would often tell himself that this was war. There are no innocents, just casualties, and he was already numbered among them.

When he first arrived, other Death Knights challenged him, thinking him green, or weak. After he went undefeated, other Death Knights tried to subvert him or take his place, so he challenged them. He never lost a duel. Every other Knight fell before him and soon none dared cross blades with him except for Lord Thorval himself, whenever he needed another "workout."

It was some time later, after he had returned from another raid on the small town, when he was stopped by an armored figure he hadn't met before.

"If you are wanting a duel, I warn you now, I'm not terribly in the mood. I might kill you just for the inconvenience."

The tall figure laughed. "No, Bloodsword, not a duel. I am Salanar the Horseman, keeper of the Master's stables. Every Death Knight should have a steed worthy of his skills, yet you do not have one. It is time that is rectified."

Purah knelt quickly. "Forgive my insolence, Horseman. Any task you set I will complete."

The Horseman just laughed again. "You do not have to apologize. I know your reputation and I know that it is well earned." He paused then and looked out over the cliff to Havenshire below. "I would love to create a steed for you, Bloodsword, but I haven't stock worthy of you."

Purah nodded, understanding, and rose. "When last I was in the Scarlet Crusaders' town, I noticed a stable, my lord."

The Horseman turned back to him. "How fortuitous it is that the Crusaders have a stable full of horses just a stone's throw from this post." He smiled wryly. "Go. Find one of good stock, something of your own choosing. Beware the guards there, especially the stablemaster, Kitrik, I think he is called. Find a horse you deem worthy and... "borrow" it. I'll be waiting. Suffer well, brother."

Purah saluted the Horseman and strode off down the hill. Geists passed him on all fours, hissing as they passed. Ghouls under the Master's control also thundered down the hill right into a passing Scarlet Crusade patrol, catching them by surprise. Focused, Purah passed by without stopping. They weren't his concern.

The stable, however, was his concern. The paddock was filled with horses of all kinds, mares, geldings, and even a few stallions. He stopped out of sight, upwind of the guards and beasts. Though the spells of preservation kept him from reeking, truly from seeming like anything but a healthy, if pale, elf, the horses would still know. Animals could always tell. If they caught wind of him, they'd get nervous, putting the guards on edge. It's the last thing he wanted.

The guards were otherwise alert, but not focused. They didn't scan the horizon well, or see him standing not a hundred yards out, though there was little to hide behind to stay out of sight. Fools, the lot of them. He found a gap in the guards, a part of the fence only held by one solder. He carried a pair of maces, but wasn't otherwise dangerous. Purah readied himself.

With a thought, he gathered Shadow energies around the guard, pulling him towards his blade. The guard, bewildered and full of fear, suddenly found himself flying through the air right to a waiting Death Knight. Like so many of Purah's fights, it was over before it began. With the element of surprise, the guard held no chance at all. The guard's corpse now at the Death Knight's feet, he turned his cold eyes to the paddock.

A few of the horses had been spooked by the sudden movement of the guard, but they were already calming again, as Purah was still upwind and hadn't made his move. For a moment, he simply stared at them all, quietly moving about the paddock, eating, resting, completely oblivious to the fact that one of them was about to be chosen to become something else. Something darker.

Purah had never owned a horse, but he had learned of them, about how to spot a healthy, well-cared-for beast. Most of these were in excellent condition, bred for war and work. A few were too young, and he had no interest in any of the suckling mares. Still, that left plenty to choose from.

A well-muscled bay mare caught his attention as she moved amongst the others, obviously one of the lead mares of the herd. Strong-willed, he could tell, and judging from her size could easily hold a fully-armored man in life. Purah could only imagine what she could do when the Horseman was finished with her. He was nearly ready to break from cover, had nearly made up his mind, when the stable master, Kitrik, came into view. Purah paused just in time.

The man was tan from his countless hours outside, scarred and well-muscled. His horse was the same, obviously accustomed to fighting off attackers, whether they be a danger to the herd or to his rider. Purah, however, could care less about the horse and rider. The stablemaster was leading a stallion, black as pitch, into the paddock. He was perfect in nearly every way. Spirited, he was already pulling on the lead, trying to buck out, trying to free himself. Him. That's the one. Not only will he serve me perfectly, his loss will no doubt come as a huge blow to the Crusaders. He's mine.

The Death Knight waited patiently, willing to stand completely still for an eternity if necessary. A patrolling guard came close at some point, and his body joined that of his companion. Still, Purah waited. Eventually the stallion was led back into the stable and Kitrik emerged, mounted up, and went on his rounds of the paddock. Now. This is my chance, he thought to himself. Careful to remain upwind of the horses, he circled around to the building, taking care to pull any guards away from the horses so as not to scare them with a battle.

The stables smelled musty and straw and dust floated in the air. The horses immediately sensed Purah enter. Even as well preserved as he was, animals could tell when death walked inside their home. The stallion was in the largest stable, snorting and pawing nervously at the straw, his black hide sliding smoothly over muscles accustomed to carrying a soldier.

"Shhh," Purah whispered, reaching out to the horse. At first the horse pulled back, unsure of the smell of death, of the old blood and the newer splashes of gore from his recent fights with the guards, but the horse was accustomed to fighting and slowly calmed. Smiling in triumph, Purah leaped up on the stallion's bare back, right as Kitrik returned.

"Ay! You! Get offa' him!" he shouted, oblivious to the danger he was in... except that his shouts immediately alerted several guards outside. Even with Purah's sword skills, he'd have to leave the horse's back. He was too close to lose like this. Go, stallion. Run. Run like the wind. Purah pressed the horse into a run and the steed broke from the stable like a Goblin rocket, scattering straw everywhere. Horses shied away and whinnied, spooking and running away. The stallion's gait ate up the ground and carried him easily away, as if Purah were nothing but a feather upon his back.

The shouts and commotion around the stable faded away behind him as he rode his prize up the hill to Death's Breach to the waiting Horseman. The stallion was fearless, only shying once as a Geist leaped past, and Purah was pleased with his choice. You'll be perfect. No one will have a steed such as you. You'll be mine, and mine alone.

"My, my, Bloodsword," the tall undead said as Purah rode up, dismounting to hand the dark stallion over. "You've chosen well. Very well, judging by the curses coming from the stable." Salanar stared at the beast, walking around him, taking him in. Then, with a word and a gesture, Shadows engulfed the stallion, seeming to devour him whole until he disappeared altogether.

"I have sent the steed to the Shadowrealm. There, one of my riders will slay and raise the beast as a Deathcharger. Now you have to earn it back. Take this horn and enter the Shadowrealm. Find the rider, slay him, and take your steed. If you should succeed, use the horn to return."

Purah nodded, taking the offered horn.

"Thank you, brother. I shall accept the challenge."

The Horseman nodded and gestured, pulling Purah into a whirlwind of Shadows where he fell down, down into the dark.

Bloodsword: 10 - What's in a Name

Purah learned much about the Scarlet Crusade over the next days, spying on them with the eye of Acherous, acting as messenger, fighting them for the glory of the Scourge. It was as he was returning to the fortress that Instructor Razuvious pulled him aside.

"You've done well, Purah Lightsword. Your determination is commendable. I've also gotten news that you continue to only improve on your sword skills and that no other Death Knight of your class can match your weapon work. Truly Impressive."

"Thank you, Instructor. I endevour only to serve."

"I think it is time you spoke with Lord Thorval. While you could learn a great many things from the Lady Alistra and Amal'thazad, I think it is Thorval's teachings that you will find the most interesting. You'll find him in the Blood wing, below us. Go, seek him out."

Purah nodded and saluted the Instructor, turning away to take the transporter to the lower level. He had been down only once before to get his initial orders from the Hight Lord and had not explored. As he emerged from the faint red light to the lower level, he looked out over the room. The center of this level was occupied by the High Lord Darion Morgraine himself, along with his advisors and information and reports. The three walls of the fortress to his left and right, and across from the transporter each held instructors in the three schools of Death Knight disciplines: Blood, Unholy, and Frost.

You could almost always recognize students of each at a glance. Those Knights who followed the school of Frost actually lowered the temperature of the air around them, and their armor often carried a very thin coat of ice. Those that followed the Unholy school were masters of the ghouls, and had one with them at all times. The undead under their control were often more intelligent, relatively speaking, and they could summon gargoyals to aid them, if needed.

All those that were left were of the Blood school, and it is there that Purah headed. Lord Thorval was an imposing Human, covered head to toe in black and blood-red armor, dead eyes filled with fury. His black hair was long and matted, pulled back into a tail. Ash-grey, tribal tattoos covered his eyes from forehead to cheek. His students were masters of the runeblade.

He sized Purah up the moment he stepped forward to ask for instruction. Before the elf could even open his mouth to speak, Thorval struck with a gauntlet-encased fist. Purah, surprised, but not unprepared, twisted and dodged, almost fast enough to escape the Lord's attack. Almost, but not quite, as the dead Human's blow glanced off his armor. Thorval chuckled, pointing to Purah, then speaking to his students who were watching the entire thing take place. "You see? That was excellent reflex. He was not expecting attack, but adapted and turned, ready to fight back." He then turned to Purah and asked, "What is your name, Death Knight?"

"Purah Lightsword, Lord Thorval. I was told to seek you out by Instructor Razuvious."

Thorval nodded. "He did well, sending you to me. We will spar, Death Knight Lightsword, and I will see what I can teach you."

They pulled their weapons, facing off against one another, as Thorval had done with countless others he deemed worthy to teach. "You will use disease to weaken your opponents, perhaps even a ghoul to distract them, but, in the end, it is your blade that will finish the job and earn you victory. Unlike our brothers and sisters of the other schools, we don't rely on magic or our ability to raise the dead to win our battles." He turned back to Purah. "Now, fight!"

Thorval was good. Very good, especially for a Human. Purah used every trick he knew, every twist, every dodge, every attack, but Thorval would not be defeated. Purah actually felt himself tiring, something he did not think was possible anymore. Thorval was slowly backing him into a corner, and even with his skills, he wasn't sure he'd be able to escape the bad position. In the end, though, it didn't matter. Right before Thorval would have landed a killing blow, he pulled back, laughing.

"By Ner'zhul, you're good! I haven't had a workout like that in some time, elf." He stepped back and sheathed his sword as the students clapped politely. Purah followed suit, bowing to the Lord as he put his own weapon away. "Very well. There isn't much with a sword I could teach you that you don't already know. Instead, I'll be teaching you how to use our unique skills in conjunction with your weapon to win against any foe. There is much about runes for you to learn, Purah... well, now, your name doesn't really fit you, does it? 'Lightsword' is foolish. I'm surprised our Master hasn't demanded you change it already, or done away with you like he did with Harmony."

Purah looked confused, and asked, "But, my Lord Thorval, what else would I be called? My name is all I have."

"Wrong. You have the Scourge. And your skills. Still, we wouldn't want to confuse that pretty head of yours. You'll be known as Purah Bloodsword, now. Yes, Bloodsword should suit you quite well."

Memories stirred in the back of his mind, of a human lying in a growing pool of blood, a silver blade in his hand dripping red... He pushed them away.

"Thank you, my Lord. I am honored."

Purah Bloodsword. You are summoned to Death's Breach. There are Scarlet Crusaders to deal with. Bloodsword, serve me and obey.

"Greatly honored."

Bloodsword: 9 - Rising Dead

Purah obeyed his new Master without question. When the Lich King called, he appeared at his side; when he was sent to do a task, it was done without hesitation. He was the perfect soldier and earned every reward he was given, whether it was new, more permanent spells of preservation, or better armor and status amongst the dead army. His once golden complexion gave way to paler hues, his blonde hair bleached white with the preservation of his body. His eyes, though, they retained the icy blue they had always been, glowing now in darkness.

In the following days he learned that this floating fortress was known as Acherous, and below, on the ground, was a large group of the Scarlet Crusaders, religious extremists who had taken an irrational dislike to the Lich King and his minions, along with any who got in their way as they pursued the walking dead. Purah was called once again to the balcony overlooking the settlement below, called to the side of his lord.

"You called for me, my lord," he said coldly, unfeeling, kneeling down with respect before the looming figure clad in full armor. The Lich King said nothing, at first, instead looking out over the fields below.

It is time for you to complete your training. You have served me well, here in the hold, but you are capable of so much more. Report to the Instructor. Become a Death Knight of renown, Purah Lightsword, and serve me further.

"As you wish, Master, so it shall be done." He stood, turning briskly away and walked down into the depths of the fortress. Anything left of the living Purah was so fully buried now in the darkness of his mind, that obeying orders was simply second nature. His inner voice was drowned out by the whispering, and his soul was cold and unfeeling. Death will change a man.

Instructor Razuvious walked slowly around the pit that Purah himself had once been chained in, watching new Death Knights chosen by the Lich King as they put their training to use. He didn't notice or care when Purah walked up, instead simply stopping to watch yet another chained initiate die to the better-armed, new Knight. His eyes showed no emotion whatsoever at the destruction of the prisoner, nor at the victorious combatant.

He waited patiently, as only the dead can do, until the Instructor walked back. "You show restraint. Impressive."

"I was told to report to you. It is in your judgment whether or not I continue. No amount of talking or convincing or groveling will change that fact." The pit... He pushed that inner voice back into the cold. Not now.

"Very good," the Instructor said as he turned to him. "Intelligent, for a corpse. Let's see if you can follow instructions. Go to a rack and choose a weapon, Death Knight. You shall learn of Runeforging, one of our greatest strengths."

The lessons continued for some time, teaching him the intricacies of using the magical forges in the fortress, earning him accolades and a fine, new weapon. A part of him disliked the sword he now held, that small part of him that still thought freely found it sub-par to his memories of a fine blade, but he ignored it, pushing it down, down into the dark of his consciousness once again.

"Now that you have a serviceable weapon, take this key." The Instructor handed him a heavy key, one that Purah recognized. "You will soon begin feeling what we call the Endless Hunger. There is only one solution and that key is your salvation. Go into the pit, choose one of those who are chained there, release them... Live or die - the choice is yours to make."

Purah smiled. "As you wish, my lord Instructor." He knew it would be simple, knew it would be child's play. They were newly wakened, clumsy, and weak. He would choose the strongest of them. He wanted a challenge.

The pit was filled with chained undead, varying from trolls to orcs to humans and dwarves. Nearly every race of the living world was represented, and at least one of the Tauren was there as well. He was huge, standing well over seven feet tall, and well muscled even in death. If nothing else, a single blow would prove destructive, Purah thought. A worthy challenge to see if he was as capable as he believed he was.

"You. Get up." He stalked past the undead Tauren and unchained him from the wall. The bull stood, eyeing the elf warily, but nodding in understanding... and... was that thankfulness? "Put on armor and grab a weapon." The Tauren, refusing to speak, simply nodded again, and lifted some rusty armor down from a nearby rack, as well as a large blade. It, at least, was in decent condition, though it looked a bit clumsy in the Tauren's hands. The large creature swung it a few times, testing the heft, then grunted. Apparently, the blade would serve.

Smiling, Purah knew this would be a decent duel. "Show no mercy." The Instructor's voice carried, and it was clear that it was directed at them both. Should the huge Tauren win, he would no doubt take Purah's place, and Purah himself would be tossed out with the trash. I would be at peace... No. The fight is beginning, and I won't fail. Now that no longer fear the sword, I will once again be the best. He pushed that voice back down into the cold and concentrated on the present.

For a brief moment, they simply watched one another, trying to find an opening, each looking for the other's weakness. The bull shifted and the elf saw it... his moment. He could have given in to the quiet inner voice, could have let the prisoner win and survive, except that the inner voice was no longer telling him to lose, to be at quiet peace. End it quickly, before this poor soul must endure being chained to this Master. Look at him. He was once a wise man, or a shaman, at one with the world. Now he is at complete odds with it, an abomination to Nature. End it. Do it quickly. I will endure.

The bull lunged, quick and capable, using some magic to disease Purah's body. Too little, too late, he thought, twisting out of the way and turning again, gracefully, into an attack. Remembering the dance he had practiced for months as a young trainee, he spun and struck, perfect, laying his own diseases into the bull's corpse. It was over nearly as it began, swift... and merciful, in its way, he knew. That part of him that remembered life had spoken truly.

Purah, however, found himself overcome with a strange bloodlust, a desperate desire to continue the dance, to slice his blade into another victim, and another. He was angry, and he didn't know why. He nearly turned on the closest, chained body, but was halted by the Instructor's voice.

"Well done, Purah. I have not seen such swordplay since the second war, when the elven warriors of Quel'thalas came forward to aid the Human kingdoms against the Horde. Beautiful, even now, in its destruction." Purah controlled himself enough to salute the Instructor and step out of the pit, allowing the bloodlust to slowly drain away, though he felt almost pained.

"With skills like that, I believe you will advance quickly. Very well done indeed." The Instructor saluted him. "Now, report to our Master. He is waiting for you."

Purah turned, walking slowly around the ring to the balcony once again.

I will endure.

Bloodsword: 8 - Darkness

Blood. Gore. Cold.

Run, beloved. Run, run...

Darkness enveloped him. He was freezing, shivvering and naked in hip-deep snow that seemed to go on and on into the darkness all around. He wanted to cry, or scream, or laugh. He wasn't sure which. Perhaps all three at once, over and over. Sometimes he'd think there was a light in the dark, but it was always just at the edge of his vision. When he'd turn, it would always be too slow, and the light was gone. Maybe it hadn't been there at all. Maybe he was just mad.

What is your name? A voice from the darkness asks.

"I don't think I can remember," he replies, wishing he could answer, knowing that he can't, not truthfully. The voice leaves him alone, then, for an eternity. Alone in the cold snow.

He never moves from the spot he's in. There is nothing else there, no shelter, no other people. Just him, and the snow. And, occasionally, the voice from the dark.

What do you remember? It asks.

"Blood. Lots of blood. And dead flesh. And a bad smell, like all the world had died except for me, and I was drowning in the corpses." An accurate statement. It laughed then, the voice, and dissappears again for immeasurable time.

It suddenly asks, What else? What else do you remember?

"A wall. There was a wall as tall as a mountain. And a wooden gate."

Images rushed into his mind, then, all at once, overwhelming. Soldiers screamed and shouted orders, abominations and ghouls crowded in around him, but fell, as a sword cut through them. His sword, his perfect dance of death and destruction. He wanted to scream, to cry out to make the images stop. They brought back the smell and the death and the pain. Lots of pain.

Then, he saw her. She stood, a beacon in the cold and in the onslaught of nightmarish memories. Silea.

The voice laughed again, cold, unfeeling. It was a false laugh, he realized. Not a real one, not one that mattered. It had never loved something, someone, like Silea. Her name he could remember, even if he couldn't remember his own. It gave him strength.

The voice seemed to realize that he wasn't listening anymore, wasn't paying attention, and it got angry.

You'll never see her again! Never again! She's not for you, not now! It yelled, railed against this surge of warmth he seemed to feel, blocking out the freezing snow. He could almost see her standing there before him, reaching out. He wanted to reach out, too. To touch her hand, but...

What's wrong? Why don't you reach out? Go on then! DO IT! It was almost screeching, like a harpy or a gargoyle. A gargoyle...

More memories rushed to him now, memories of a battle. They were swooping down from above as they ran through the streets, he and his love, his Silea. They had to get out. That's when they ran to the gate, the northern gate in Silvermoon city. It had fallen to the Scourge. They were everywhere, even here, and they ran through the scattered lines of the enemy to the gate. Guardsmen were holding it off, and he helped, his shining blade in hand, until she had called out to him.

"Purah! Purah, over here..." and he had run to her, run to see the hole in the wall where she slipped through... and he fell. Down, down, down into the dark cold. This dark, where the voice was his only company, and the memories were all he had left.

"My name is Purah Lightsword, a Quel'dorei of Silvermoon and Quel'thalas, and you killed me you sick, twisted bastard."

The voice just laughed and laughed and laughed, unending, turning into a howling wind that bit deep into his body. But it wasn't his body, not really. It couldn't be, because he had been hit from behind by a Death Coil spell just as he had reached the hole, just as he had been so close to freedom. He turned his mind away from the memories, away from the pain. He wanted to turn numb from the cold and forget.

But something wouldn't let him. The light was back, stronger now, and the cold voice in the wind sputtered and died. You promised... you promised you'd wait for me, my love...

I did, he thought. I did promise, but it's hard to stay awake, here. It's hard to fight the cold.

Wait for me, beloved. Wait for me on the other side. One day, I'll join you.

I'll wait. I'll wait for you. Just run, run like the wind...

.: * :.

"Run."

Cold, blue eyes snapped open. They sat in a pale, numb face, surrounded by long, white hair that fell over his shoulder and back. He wore nothing, and knew this, yet didn't care. Finding it very difficult to move, he tried to sit, wondering for a brief moment why he wasn't still standing in the snow in the darkness. He tried to look around, to take in his surroundings.

The ground beneath him was stone, and the wall nearby was as well, though this had carvings of skulls and bones. Eerie green, glowing light allowed him to see, though not well. He had never seen anything like it before. A soft moaning came from beyond his range of vision, and he heard wails in the distance. He noticed, then, a robed man leaning over him, chanting quietly. Slowly, his neck cracking, he turned his head to look around. A mountain of corpses stood nearby, all of the bodies in decent condition, some covered in dirt, others embalmed.

He tried to speak, but it just came out as a mumble. The acolyte grimaced. "Welcome back to the waking world, unworthy initiate. You could have been great. You could have served, but you turned from the Master and will now pay with your life."

Purah was confused. Master? Who- You're not for her anymore, Purah Lightsword. Not now. Not now that you are this, one of my creatures, unworthy though you are. The voice from the dark. It was still here, now in his head.

Get up. Get up so that my Acolytes can continue their work. Get up, Purah Lightsword. He obeyed, complusively. It didn't hurt to stand, not really, though it seemed uncomfortable. He realized he wasn't breathing at one point and tried to make himself do so, conciously taking deep breaths. It was too much effort, after a while, so he accepted that breathing wasn't all that important anymore. He finally worked out the kinks and the stiffness. When he seemed to be moving well, he looked around him. Arching walls reached up into darkness. The architects of this fortress had used actual bones in its construction, instead of carvings as he first thought. His musings were interupted, then, by another robed figure.

"This way, Unworthy Initiate. Even though you were chosen out of many for this opportunity, you failed and must be dealt with." He led him down into a pit where other undead were chained around the circular wall. He stood, forced to obey, and caring less and less about his fate. If the Lich King wants me to be destroyed, I'll so so. I'm dead, Silea may or may not live. What difference does it make now? A feeling deep in his mind tried to stir, the only warm place left, and his still heart remembered what a fluttering beat was once like. Silea, I'm so sorry.

The Acolyte chained him to the wall, and he sat. To his left was a human woman, her face sunken and green. Whatever spell they had used to preserve him had worked far better than whatever they had done for her, though she didn't seem to care. To his right was a troll. For a brief moment, he felt fear, apprehension, and anger swell from that lingering warmth, but it all subsided quickly. Though in life the trolls had been his bitter enemies, he found he didn't actually care now. There were whispers in the back of his mind, but he ignored them, instead waiting to see what would happen now.

Other undead came and went, all of them in plate armor. Death Knights, he realized. This is a training fortress for Death Knights. And I'm fodder for the new recruits. Indeed, they would come, fully armored and armed with swords that glowed with strange light, down into the pit. They would choose one of the chained unworthy initiates from the wall and release them. Then, the initate would be allowed to put on ancient, rusted armor and pick up a rusted weapon. They would duel, and the one left standing would be rewarded with further training and continued existance. It seemed that, nearly always, the Initiates chained in the pit would lose to the better-armored knights.

Strangely, this fact didn't bother Purah in the least. If he was destroyed, fine. Apathy had set in and he couldn't shake it. A small part of him, though, that warm part that still seemed to cling to a shadow of life, wanted to fight, wanted to try to run. Run. No, not run, where would I go.

His train of thought was halted, though, as a stooped Undead, his body rotting and falling apart but still standing quite well, stopped in front of him. He was in full armor, and was marked as a new Death Knight and Purah knew his time had come to fight. To be destroyed. It grunted a bit and walked past him to the wall, unlocking his chains. The cold whispers in his mind grew strong again, then, saying he should put on armor, pick up a blade, prepare for battle. He did as he was told by the voices in his head, finally facing off against the rotting, former Human. He was ready to be tossed into oblivion, ready for destruction and peace. But that warmth inside actually faltered.

I wonder who he was, once. His build suggests a blacksmith. He'll hit hard, but not fast, even with his undead speed and strength. I wonder if I faced him before, in Quel'thalas. He bears a mark of Lordaeron. It is a pity, this existance. He seems almost... sad. The thoughts coming from that warm part of his mind tumbled out, distracting him, making him think instead of concentrating. The battle started quickly and he reacted, parrying the undead's attacks and he pushed the warm voice down, down into the dark. It made room for the other whispers in his head. Don't lose. Don't take an easy road. Fight. Do what you couldn't do in life. Let's see if in death, you can still fight with grace and beauty and strength as you did at the gate. You are dead, Purah Lightsword. Can you fight?

The answer was a resounding 'yes.' He could still fight as he used to, and he was as beautiful, graceful, and deadly as ever. His blue eyes, now faintly glowing in the dark pit took in the destroyed corpse as the whispers deep in the dark of his mind solidified and spoke.

Well done, Purah Lightsword. Come here. Come to me. There is much to discuss, now. A great deal of work needs to be done. Yes, lets speak together now, you and I.

"Yes, Master. I shall be right there." His voice echoed strangely, as though it came from beyond the waking world. It was unusual, frightening...

He decided he liked it.

Bloodsword: 7 - The End is the Beginning

"Purah. You were right," Silea whispered, and Purah winced at the fear in her voice.

"I wish I hadn't been. I wish I had just been paranoid, or crazed, or even insane."

The glow was getting stronger and the haze was beginning to get closer, but the worst thing was the smell. It moved ahead of the army, announcing it's putrid presence to anything living within miles. Sounds from the city drifted up to his window. Shouting, and screaming, and the sounds of men preparing for battle. Silea gagged behind him as the stench reached her, and he did all he could not to do the same.

"We need to run, Purah. We have to leave. We should warn everyone we can, and just go." Silea let go of his hand and rushed out of the room. Shortly, Purah heard her in the kitchen, no doubt gathering what little food he had in the apartment. He remained by the window, knowing in his heart that it was too late. Too late for the city. Too late for him.

She was coming back now, he could hear, something heavy in her arms. He never turned from the window. "Purah, come on!" She gasped. "There's no time."

Purah smiled sadly. "You're right about that, beloved. There is no time." Even as he said it, a loud boom sounded from the Southern Gate. It's under bombardment from siege weaponry, no doubt a catapult or, what were they called in the reports? Ah, yes, a 'Meat Wagon.' Purah looked out over the city one last time. He would get Silea out. Even if it killed him.

Turning away from the window, he made his way out to the front room, to the wall. For a moment, one that felt like an eternity to him, he started at the weapon that hung there. "Purah, what's wrong with you?" Silea asked, almost unheard. He was too focused. He reached up, for the first time in years, and gripped the hilt. It slid down easy, so easy it seemed as if it should have fallen off the pegs ages ago on its own. It was heavy in his hands, yet right. Comfortable, like two old friends meeting again after being apart for a long time.

He chuckled at that. Silea no doubt looked terribly alarmed now, worried about him again, perhaps worried that he was, in fact, insane. "Purah?"

He lifted the sword, and stepped back from her, swinging it from side to side in perfect, circular motions. She gasped, surprised.

"So it was true? You used to be a swordsman?" She stepped back, now, giving him more room. He smiled ruefully. "Oh, yes, Silea. I was the best student they had ever had, the best in centuries. Until..." Even now it was hard to talk about, to say out loud.

"Until the accident with that nobleman," she whispered. Purah nearly dropped the blade.

"You knew?!? How?"

She nodded. "I looked it up, did some digging in the archives, nothing special."

He turned away. "How could you bare to be around a murderer?"

She dropped the basket of food and walked to him, gripping his free hand. "You're no murderer, 'Rah. It was an accident, a terrible one, yes, but an accident nonetheless. You gave up your sword because of it, and never looked back. I can forgive you that, even if you can't forgive yourself. Look at me." He did, nearly losing himself in her deep, blue eyes. "Don't beat yourself up over something that happened over 50 years ago. Learn to look back once in awhile and let it go. Forgive yourself-"

"Forgive myself?" Purah shut his eyes. "I'm not sure I can. But I can get us out of the city. Let's go." He moved towards the door, opening it to the warm night. "And leave the basket. We need to move fast." Silea had only just reached for it, when another scream, this one closer, came through the open door. She left it and returned to his side. "I'm afraid, 'Rah."

"So am I, my love. So am I." He gripped her hand tight with his left hand and made his way down the stairs to the street, his right hand holding the blade before them.

Even though it had seemed like a long time that they had stalled in the apartment, the majority of the city was still only just realizing the danger. He made his way with Silea towards the nearest gate, only to suddenly be stopped by a loud crashing noise from the South. They turned in that direction, seeing clouds of smoke billowing up. "The gate..."

"It's fallen." He finished her sentence. Other crashes sounded now, and roars came from the broken gate. Foul things were entering the city and he was on the far western side. Screeching sounded from above and they looked up. Dark shapes glided in the night sky, gargoyles that fed on the flesh of the living and turned to stone to regenerate. Purah knew of them from his studies, but had no idea the army of the undead included them in their ranks.

He pulled Silea under cover, hoping that they hadn't been seen. They weren't that lucky, although it wasn't the gargoyles that had seen them. A different screech sounded from the darkness and a ghoul launched itself from the ally nearby. It flew through the air at the couple, only to be sliced neatly in half by Purah's fast blade. Still, it didn't die immediately, or, rather, wasn't immediately destroyed. It's front half crawled towards Silea for a moment before collapsing to the ground. She stared, wide-eyed at the thing, then turned away and retched.

Purah wanted nothing more than to do the same, but couldn't, as more of the things came out of the dark. Gods, where are they all coming from? They're faster than they look... he hacked and slashed, ensuring that none of the foul creatures got anywhere near Silea. Unfortunately, some of them showed no interest in the swordsman and his companion, and continued straight onward, disappearing again into the dark city. They were flowing north, ever north, and his fears were proved true. They were heading for the Sunwell.

He grabbed Silea by the hand and led her east a bit, hoping to make it back into the main part of the city again, away from the dead army heading to the fountain of energy, and out through one of the other gates. It was as they were running that they began seeing the terrible destruction. Meat Wagons had rolled into the city, Necromancers were raising fallen elves to serve as skeletal soldiers, and ghouls were feasting on the flesh of the newly dead.

The worst came when they passed by a large town home near the wealthiest part of the city. Silea gasped and came to a halt, forcing Purah to stop as well. "Silea, what is it?"

She pointed to the open doorway, the curtain that normally would be across it, dangling by just a few threads, the rest of it torn beyond recognition. "That... that was the Lady Kinedra's home." She let go of his hand and raced up the steps to the curtain. "Silea! Wait!"

He followed close behind her, sword at the ready. The courtyard was empty, but there were large splashes of blood on the walls. A nearby alcove revealed one of the drunken youths from that celebratory dinner from so long ago, his neck slashed, his chest torn open. Red blood puddled all around him. Silea choked back a sob.

She and Purah quickly and quietly searched the house for any survivors. There were none. They found Reth'al, the other drunken bully, cut to ribbons on the upper floor. Purah could see that the man had actually tried to defend the room behind his corpse, unsuccessfully, but he had tried. He guessed who would be inside. Unfortunately, he was right.

Kinedra lay in a pool of blood. Silea couldn't hold her tears back any longer, and stood, sobbing over her. The lady was in what would have been a white dress, now stained red. Silea knelt down and reached to close the lady's eyes. She jumped suddenly back, though, when the corpse seized and slashed out. Kinedra wasn't dead. Or, at least, wasn't staying dead.

The body twisted and contorted, jerking upright and lunged at Silea. Purah was too far away, too slow to stop her... but a single word from Silea and Kinedra's body, now reanimated by Scourge magics, burst into flame. She had never been a particularly powerful mage, Purah knew, but the girl did know the basics and put them to use. Still sobbing, mourning her one-time friend, Purah grabbed her and pulled her out of the room, afraid that what had happened to Kinedra would happen to the other bodies they had found in the estate as well.

Luckily, the body outside the door was much too damaged to have been reanimated, as was the first they had found in the courtyard. As they burst out of the house, though, Purah thought he heard something skittering away into the dark courtyard. He didn't look back, instead running as fast as possible out of that part of the city, Silea crying silently at his side.

As they neared the Northern gate and wall, he slowed, worried now that they had been flanked or even surrounded by the Scourge. "I'm sorry Purah. I just... I wanted to see if we could have saved them." Silea quietly said. Purah squeezed her hand, reassuring her. "I know, love, I know. I would have done the same, had I known they lived there."

Cautious, he poked his head around every corner and tried to look deep into every alleyway for lingering undead. The entire city reeked of the walking corpses, now, and it was getting harder to tell where they came from when they attacked. He heard fighting up ahead, which was revealed soon enough to be guardsmen doing all they could to hold off a huge Scourge force from the gate. They were losing.

Purah turned to his companion. "Silea, listen to me. Listen very, very closely." He paused to make sure she heard, and she nodded. "I want you to run. Run as fast as you can, straight for the gate. Use your magic, frost, fire, whatever, to keep the path clear. I'll be right with you, right there, to keep them off. We have to get to the gate. We have to get out of the city. Do you understand?"

She nodded again. "Yes. Run. Run and don't look back."

He nodded grimly. "Good. Okay then," he looked out again, trying to time the erratic movements of the undead. An opening in the lines appeared and he swung out from the hiding place, pushing her ahead. "GO! Run!"

And she did, fast. It was all he could do to keep up with her. He noticed her flinging spells out, slowing the undead that noticed the two elves rushing to the gate, keeping them from getting too close, and allowing him to easily remove their heads. She used frost to slow them as well, though it was less effective. She was tiring already, he knew, her magic getting tapped out. His sword arm was just as tired, not having had to swing a weapon in over half a century. They dodged around smoking remains of Meat Wagons, and fallen undead. Still, they made it to the battered gate.

Too late. The guardsmen had barred it to keep the Scourge from getting any further north. It had come under heavy fire from the Meat Wagons before the soldiers had destroyed them, and now, most of the guards were half-dead. Their morale was gone, after having to deal with killing the stinking, rotting undead and, on occasion, one of their own that had fallen only to rise again. And now, just as he and Silea had made it to the gate, more of the Scourge catapults were rolling up, and this time, they were flanked by Abominations. Behind them, in the haze of disease and dirt kicked up from the machines of war, a large figure, mounted on the back of a skeletal horse, stood silently amongst the destruction.

Silea tugged at Purah's sleeve, begging him to get out of the way. She knew before he did that he couldn't leave these men. He couldn't leave them to die when he could fight, and fight well. The Meat Wagons let loose and loud thuds sounded behind and above the soldiers. Stinking flesh rained down on them, and Purah realized that the ammunition was bodies, most in armor, along with stones.

The wooden gate groaned, the last two attacks nearly pushing it over. A gap in the stonework opened, then grew wider as the gate shook under more attacks. The flanking abominations charged forward, and Purah turned to face them. His sword danced through dead flesh, making mincemeat of the stitched horrors and covered him in gore. Sickened he wished he could stop, but the undead kept coming, and he couldn't allow them to get to Silea. He didn't even care about the gate anymore, or the Sunwell. It was her.

"Purah! Purah, over here!" She shouted, the only thing that could get his attention. He finished off a ghoul and turned, flinging himself away from the battle. There, near the bottom of the near-shattered gate, the wall had crumbled. Silea stood next to a hole big enough for them to slip through. They could escape, they could get out... if he ran. Her shouts had gotten the attention of some Necromancers as well, and even now they were raising skeletons from the dead.

This was his chance. He ran, faster than he had before, as fast as the wind. He gestured for her to go through, he'd be right behind her, he was right there, go, go quickly. She hesitated for a moment, but finally ducked down, and through the wall, out of sight. He was close, so close, near the wall. The stone was rough under his hands, but the air on the other side seemed sweeter, clearer. He reached down, and nearly screamed in agony as his body was enveloped in green light. The Necromancers had caught up.

He was falling, slowly, so slowly down. The stone street was cool against his skin, even if it was now covered in blood and gore and disease. The Necromancers loomed closer and, try as he might, he couldn't rise. He wanted to. His sword was still in his hand. It twitched futilely as he moved his hand, wanting desperately to behead the nearest foe, but he couldn't move. He just watched as the gate fell. The mounted figure rode up, all in armor, like a knight. A Death Knight, he realized. A strange, glowing sword stood naked in the Knight's hand, and it caught his eye. Is it... whispering to me? How strange, he thought, trying to clear his head, finding it hard.

The Knight got closer and dismounted, walking slowly between the skeletons, and abominations, and Necromancers, until he stooped down over Purah. The fallen elf wanted to spit in his face, recognizing the Human as he got close. Arthas, you bastard. You traitor... Oh, gods, my love, I'm sorry.

He hoped Silea had gotten away. She had gone through the hole, gone out to the other side. She could run fast, he knew. She might still get away. Run, beloved. Run as fast as the wind, and stay as a shadow. Run. Run...

.: * :.

The Necromancers were about to use the body for it's skeleton, when his voice rang out. "No." The Death Knight stooped low over the dead Quel'dorei, blue eyes open, staring with hatred even in death. He had watched the swordsman defend the gate. He had seen the single elf destroy ghoul and abomination and Necromancer alike, more or less single-handed. He would not allow talent like that to be used for a simple skeleton. No, not this one.

The special Meat Wagon he had appointed rolled up, slowly, a hollow echo sounding from within, as it was far from full. He gestured, and the acolytes that flanked the war machine moved forward as he mounted and left, following his army north to the great fountain the elves kept.

These living servants stooped down, their dark robes a stark contrast against the pale skin of the dead elf, his golden hair coming loose from its tie and cascading down. They used their magics to preserve him in this moment of death, this perfect moment of transition. And they placed him in the Wagon, him along with others, those that had caught the Master's eye, those that had fought with ferocity to defend their homes, their families, everything they had. Some were human, some elf, some were of the Horde, too, for there is no discrimination in Death.

Run, my love. Run. Run as fast as the wind and be as shadow, and live. I'll be waiting for you.

That, beloved, I promise.

Bloodsword: 6 - Fallen Gates

The days passed in a blur as Purah worked himself to the bone. The Rangers went out regularly, until finally all of them had been sent out, including the Ranger-General herself with an elite group of her finest scouts and soldiers.

It was shortly after her departure, however, that all runners stopped. No news came from the front lines. For the military, it was generally assumed that sending a runner was simply dangerous, and that things would be taken care of. Ranger-General Windrunner knew what she was doing, knew how to handle the front lines, and that things were going smoothly. The gates still stood, and the city was safe.

Purah, on the other hand, stood on edge. This wasn't normal, or right, and he knew it. The best runners were those who could move with speed and do so silently, unseen. Someone, somewhere, should have been able to send word. Even if that word was "All clear." His nervousness got him into trouble. After another day of pacing in front of his desk with no runners in sight, Runner-Commander Bur'ir sent him home. "You're making the others nervous. Hell, you're making me nervous. Go home, Purah. It's slow now anyway. I'll send a messenger for you if your services are needed again." A dismissal, pure and simple. He had left without argument.

But he didn't go home. He found Silea near the school, reading on a bench. She was fully engrossed in her book and didn't look up as he collapsed onto the bench beside her. In fact, he sat staring at her for some time without her noticing him. He was glad of the silence, for the time he had to look at her. He loved her, he realized. The way she remained optimistic, her steadfastness, her friendship... she was perfect.

"I think I love you," he whispered.

Startled, she looked up from her book. "Purah? When did you get here? Did you say something? I didn't hear." She immediately put her book aside, worried again. About him, he realized.

"Silea, I shouldn't tell you this. I could lose my job, even be put in jail..." he paused, the gravity of what he was going to do stopping him for a moment. "Something terrible is going to occur. I don't have proof, except what I know, and what isn't happening. I want you to leave. To get out of the city."

Once he said it, he realized how foolish it sounded, how crazy. He realized how he must look, in day or two-old clothing, his hair mussed, his hands and clothes and face smudged with ink. He hadn't slept in his own bed in days, and he hadn't slept well in far longer than that. He knew the next words out of her mouth would be for him to stop worrying, that things are fine, that the city is safe behind the gates. He was surprised, then, by her reaction.

"Okay." He started to protest, to try to convince her to go, when he realized she had already agreed. "What?"

She almost laughed at him. He must have looked ten times more absurd than usual. "I said 'okay.' I believe you. I know you wouldn't lie to me, or to yourself. I trust your judgement. So, when do we leave?"

He almost breathed a sigh of relief. Almost. It was that last bit, that last little sentence that stopped him. "We?" he turned to her. "'We' go nowhere. You, on the other hand, you have to go. Take basic supplies and get out of the city. I have to stay, to work."

"No. Absolutely not." She stood then, and put her hands on her hips. Purah would have laughed if he didn't feel so afraid of what might be going on outside these walls, with no word getting through. "Purah Lightsword, if you think for even a moment I'd leave this city without you, you're as crazy as you look. You do look terrible, by the way. Have you eaten today? Hell, have you eaten this week? Month? You look half-crazed, skinny, and pale. In fact..." she stopped down and grabbed his arm. "You're coming with me. Obviously you're done with work for the day."

She scooped up her book and marched away, Purah in tow. He didn't realize until a few minutes later that she was taking him home. She opened his apartment with a key she pulled from her pocket (When did I give her a spare key? he was thinking rapidly, then remembered that he had asked her to check in on his apartment occasionally) and sat him roughly down on his couch. She then scurried about, fixing him a light lunch and pouring him a glass of wine.

She made sure he ate, then sent him off to bathe. Bewildered, and far too exhausted at this point to argue, he did as he was told. By the time he was done, she had laid out clean clothes and turned down his bed. "Sleep," she commanded. As he collapsed into the bed, he reached out and grabbed her hand.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Please... don't go. I'd like to talk, later, if you can." She smiled, then.

"You're welcome, 'Rah. And I'll be here. Knowing you, you'd probably just wait 'till I left then jump back out of bed to go work. Now, rest mister!"

She walked out and closed the curtain behind her. Purah, for the first time in days, finally slept soundly and dreamless.

.: * :.

He awoke to someone shaking him. For a brief moment, he completely forgot where he was. He had expected to see the desks and scribes from the runner's station, not his bedroom at home, and nearly bolted from his bed. Slowly, the day before came back to him, and looked up to see a frightened Silea attached to the hand that had woken him. "Silea? Silea, what's the matter, what's wrong?"

She gulped and gestured to the window. He stood and pulled the sheer curtains aside... only to see a terrible green glow in the forest surrounding the city. Fires. Not campfires, but simply the destructive, magical fire of the approaching Scourge army. It was muted a bit by a strange, hazy cloud of dust or smoke that hung over the horizon. His eyes widened in shock and dismay. Reaching behind him, he found Silea's hand and held it tight.

No runners came to Silvermoon, because none got through. Things had not gone smoothly. Things did not turn out okay, and the city wasn't safe. The gates had fallen.

Arthas was on his way, and all the walking dead of Lordaeron were at Silvermoon's front door.