Book 2!
Welcome fellow adventurer!
Herein is a more recent tale of my beloved Deathknight, Bloodrott!
I will be taking a few liberties here and there (plz don’t hold it against me 
, If only to make for a more epic story!
It takes place just after Dragonflight and just before The War Within.
It will be told in character-chapter format (each chapter from the viewpoint of a character, much like George R.R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” (game of thrones).
Without any further ado,
Let us begin!
Shadow, Blood and Steel
Bloodrott
The Incarnate lay dead.
A glorious battle it was.
All was made right in the realm of nature; The Emerald Dream.
You’d think dragons could put smiles on their scaly faces after this feat… All thanks to the many adventurers of Azeroth. Thanks was even given to those some would think walking abominations…
Were things so desperate they called upon the likes of those furthest away from nature herself? , the Deathlord thought as he meandered about Valdrakken’s grounds, a mounted armoured Tauren colossus of dead flesh and necrotic energies.
He was all too relieved to be out of a realm that he was considered to be the antithesis of. All the while he lingered there, that unwelcome feeling grew, and grew, and grew…
His shadow-plates seemed to shine despite their dark-grey color, tapering to deathly points about the shoulders and the various joints of his body. Underneath lay toughened, woven hides, and clad about his waist, back, and hooded head were cloth of deep, crimson colour, much like tapestries honouring a career of killing.
Deep crimson.
The colour of blood.
The medium of which a being’s Anima resided and flowed.
Delicious, supple Anima…
It has been a while since the Deathlord’s last “meal”, his hunger constantly teased in the presence of the living.
The heat of the day was of no help. If anything, it advanced the decay of his dead flesh, demanding more Runic energy to maintain.
To keep cool…
Soon enough the living would start to complain about the “stink” of a lingering deathknight. Sometimes, that fact alone was enough for Bloodrott to consider the school of Frost.
Those cold, calculating brothers and sisters of the Ebon Blade…
They, at the very least, received no complaint regarding their stench in the presence of the living. The envy was halted only for his love of Anima.
His forever-thirst for fresh, new blood.
So long as there was blood to shed, a deathknight versed in the ways of the school of Blood could, technically, live forever. Should a limb become lost, it could be “grown back”, or even sewn back on to ease the regeneration process, much like the various abominations that the Ebon Blade have created in the past on their floating fortress, Acherus.
If mastered enough in the ways of Blood, some could even manipulate their size and shape, growing to enormity, or to even shrink down, storing their blood away for another time.
All at the cost of being dead.
No joy to be had.
Barely any feelings to be shared.
Walking, empty shells.
Created, at first, to destroy the living. Some were fortunate to keep some semblance of their former personality, even emotional feelings they may once have exhibited. The vast majority of the time, all was lost and forgotten. Taste, smell, feeling… Not needed for a deathknight.
To say they have come a long way from the days of killing for Arthas’ Scourge would be a massive understatement.
Bloodrott was one such thrall, until Darion Mograine was first to defy the tyrant. Since then, they slew many of the Twilight Council, traversed the mists of Pandaria, stepped through the sands of time to confront a Horde threat from a previous generation, and even went on to sunder the Burning Legion. They even aided in pacifying the constant threat of the Old Gods!
Such feats for dead ones, indeed.
Yet, THEY remain, Bloodrott thought as his ice-glowing eyes stared down a familiar female Forsaken Priest among the grounds of the Valdrakken common area.
The Forsaken.
A problem Bloodrott considered long overdue for “rectification”. He considered them to be renegade undead, unchecked, walking amok in their vain attempts to reclaim their former lives to return to some form of what they once considered normal.
And look what happened.
Sylvanas Windrunner.
Arthas was cruel to keep her as his “banshee queen-pet”. All that festering vengeance… all that hatred. If she had just died with her brethren-in-arms the remaining undead would be united under one banner by now…
But such was obviously not the case. And should another rise to take her place… Another vile, scrawny little wretched Forsaken, it would not be in the presence of the Deathlord.
“Ah, what a pleasant day, Deathlord!”, She sarcastically stated from the ground below. This to-and-fro exchange happened on the regular. Yet, today, Bloodrott was feeling more self righteous than usual…
He paused atop his vicious steed, Midnight; An armour-clad war horse dressed in crimson barding who was effectively “confiscated” from the huntsmen Attumen by the deathlord himself. He stared the shadow-priest down on his approach.
Dismounting, he casually strode towards the scrawny Forsaken woman.
“Yes, it WAS. Vile little wretch.”, Bloodrott spat out a mere foot away from her face. His eyes shifted from that blue eerie glow the deathknights were known for, to a thirsty blood red.
“Ever so polite, Deathlord.”, she casually responded with a relaxed but clearly amused face, “I am quite blessed to be in the presence of a fellow undead.”.
With that quip, the Forsaken woman turned around and slowly began to walk away.
Bloodrott’s plated arm shot outward toward the Forsaken shadow priest, firmly clutching the entire torso of her body within his plated grasp. He held for a moment, conscious of all those fellow adventurers around…
“I could crush you like a grape… little wretch.”. He stated with an eerily calm voice, his grasp holding firm. She did not flinch, and kept her relaxed disposition despite the three pointed, large, cold steel plated fingers anchored to her cloth. After an awkwardly long pause, and a curious raising of the eyebrow of a few onlookers, the Deathlord released his grasp, slightly pushing the Forsaken woman forward.
“Hmmph.”, Bloodrott exhaled through his nose as he re-mounted Midnight.
“May the light bless you this day, Deathlord…”, the unfazed shadow priest said, casting a blessing of fortitude upon the Blood deathknight. He quickly turned and glared at her. She simply turned and continued about her day.
I still… to this day… do not know the name of that scrawny little wretch …
It, perhaps, was for the best anyway. The Deathlord had many an hour to brood upon a solution the Forsaken problem.
They would join the Ebon Blade, or they would die.
A simple choice.
One that should never have had to have been considered after Arthas fell.
Just then, another of his order approached him, matching Midnight’s stride.
“Sister Rimeheart.”, Bloodrott greeted with a salute and a nod.
“Deathlord.”, the Blood Elf Frost Deathknight acknowledged atop her Acherus death-strider, her breath condensing to a cold mist before her.
Bloodrott casually studied the grounds around him. There were far too many ears about the Valdrakken common area. Even the flowing fountain that dominated the Agora would not deafen their words enough for what information would be exchanged.
“Stride with me here, sister. Towards the bridge over yonder.”.
No doubt this new information would entail the latest progress regarding “the project”.
Should anyone discover this, there will be a reckoning… They would all come for me…
The Project…
Shortly after the Dragon Isles were re-discovered by the denizens of Azeroth nearly two years ago, the Deathlord ventured to Northrend to assess the remnant Scourge situation at Icecrown. He sought out Darion Mograine, the Ebon Blade’s current leader and “Lich King Interim”, as Bloodrott humorously deemed him as, since the “stepping-down” of Bolvar Fordragon. Many issues were brought forth by Deathlord Bloodrott, hounding Darion on the issue of the Forsaken and the ultimate purpose of their order; The Ebon Blade.
Roughly two years ago…
“You realize our order only becomes useful when there are unchecked undead still roaming amok about Azeroth. What thereafter, Darion?”, Deathlord Bloodrott’s deep Tauren voice echoed all around a frost ridden chamber at the base of Icecrown Citadel, his bland yet harsh tone accompanied with a slight rasp.
After a moment in thought, a voice joined the cold ice-blue stare given by the former Death-rider, “What we have always done, Deathlord. Defend Azeroth in ways the living cannot.”
Bloodrott pondered momentarily, slowly turning and pacing about the room, his massive frame rhythmically thundering throughout the halls with every step.
“In ways the living cannot…”, he repeated what was said to him after a while, “I do agree with our… unofficial charge and duty, since the enemies of Azeroth will always thirst for her power… but… Darion… we thirst evermore… for blood. For the essence of the living. The eternal hunger, Darion. The Anima. Have you a final solution to that?
Do we feast upon the perpetuated war and strife until we are no longer needed, and die off, one by one?”, his eyes met with Darion’s as he finished his bout.
The two knights of the Ebon Blade basked in silence brought forth by the questioning of their purpose on Azeroth.
Their order’s very existence.
Deathlord Bloodrott would break the lingering silence with another issue.
“And what of the Forsaken, Darion? Those… scrawny wretched fools who think they can still claim their past lives? Why have they not been inducted into our ranks yet?”.
“Deathlord, you cannot possibly expect me to ransack the remnants of their faction by force. Even if I did consider it, there will be repercussions, let alone the debasing of our order we have fought so valiantly to bring it to a reputable standing, enough to keep the living from condemning us entirely from Azeroth. They tolerate our existence enough as it is… as custodians of the dead and watchers of the remnant Scourge forces. We shall remain as such.”, Darion finished with thud of a plated finger on the stone table.
“You do nothing, then? What will you do should we have another “Sylvanas Windrunner” on our hands? You DO recall how our forces were decimated within the first day of our little “foray” into the Shadowlands?”, Bloodrott shot back at his “leader interim”.
“Bolvar had little time to respond to the kidnappings, you know this, Deathlord…”, Darion replied with a slight scold to his voice.
“At the cost of nearly all our standing forces? Ever more the reason why we need to proceed with the acquisition of the Forsaken.”, Bloodrott demanded, followed by a slow-shaking head from Darion.
Bloodrott remained statuesque, his gaze meeting Darion’s, “If you do not, then perhaps I will.”, the Deathlord coldly stated.
Darion Mograine’s cold eyes were now wide open.
“With what army? By what decree? No. You cannot do this, Bloodrott. After all we have been through… This is madness! No other knight of the Ebon Blade will even consider following you.”.
“This is progress, Darion”, Bloodrott reassured his Ebon Blade colleague, “And it is perhaps long overdue that we found a true, elected leader of our order…”.
“You have crossed a terrible threshold here… Ebow’ji Darkclou-”.
“THAT NAME… NO LONGER HOLDS ANY MEANING TO ME.”, Bloodrott’s plated finger darted out towards Darion Mograine, his eyes flaring red, enraged of being reminded of that weak Tauren he had been those many years before…
Darion continued, “Know this, Deathlord. You will be stripped of standing with the Ebon Blade should you continue this route. You and those who would follow you in this folly of yours…”.
Bloodrott briskly made his way to the exit, before stopping momentarily, “IF that is what is to become, then so be it. Sit here and do what you do best. Rot.”
His pounding stride echoed through the halls as he approached the exit.
“Suffer well.”
Currently, in the present…
The pair of Ebon Blade deathknights crossed the bridge and made their way near a vista overlooking the grand waterfalls of Thaldraszus and the span before them, gaping the distance from the bordering mountainous terrain of the Ohn’ahran plains in the distance below. The setting sun lingered above the horizon, the perfect, private setting for a romantic couple.
Though, what was to be discussed was anything but romantic.
“I take it things are progressing as they should?”, Bloodrott asked of his order-sister.
Sister Rimeheart informed, “We have ransacked nearly every grave and battle-site in the area. Progress continues but we will need a lot more biomass… What do you propose, brother Bloodrott?”.
“I knew this would become an issue… What of our runic machinations? Do they still uphold and function well?”, Bloodrott inquired of his project.
“They function flawlessly. They integrate well with Maldraxxian construct technology. And of course, of no small part regarding your runic mastery.”
Indeed, runic concepts was one of the endeavours Bloodrott mastered in his undeath. The ability to wield magic in a stored potential form had many a use for the Ebon Blade. It gave the deathknights the ability to wield schools of magic they could otherwise have no access to. Such raw magic could have limitless possibilities… should you delve into an understanding of it.
And Deathlord Bloodrott delved deep.
“This is excellent to hear. We must remain concealed for the entirety of the project. Any compromise may very well destroy us, and any hope of ultimately saving Azeroth… our beautiful earth mother…”
Malorogg
The Portal remained open at the expense of the demon Imps that fuelled it, their bodies struggling aimlessly as the soul-cages that slowly sapped their existence remained sturdy in their function.
The Orc warlock recoiled at the piercing cold winds of Northrend’s Icecrown province. What the deathknights had planned here near this open plain remained a mystery to him. The souls they would be providing in return for his services was more than enough for him to bother asking questions. Such a commodity was hard to come by these days, in lieu of the legions defeat.
I wonder what gadgets they’ll haul in from the Shadowlands this time…
He had been compliant on his end of the bargain thus far. It had been over a year since accepted the terms of the task they had carefully and selectively sought him out for. The import of strange artifacts and technology from Maldraxxus did pique an interest from him, time to time, as he kept open portal after portal on the “down-low” for the Ebon Blade.
Or was it the Crimson Maw?.. I can care less what these deathknights call themselves these days…
Always in the same spot.
An open plain of large snow drifts and ice in the valley of a glacier. A quarry that was mined out for Saronite years ago could be seen in the distance. Other than that, there was nothing around him save for the massive looming profile of Icecrown Citadel.
No signs of the living anyway.
Once in a while he would have to reduce a ghoul or two to smouldering green fel-cinders. The deathknights did warn him of remnant scourge forces…
You’d think these deathknights could clean up their backyard after all these years , he thought as the last bit of Imp-essence was drained from one of the soul-cages. He was quick to refill it with another unfortunate Imp minion begging him not to be used as fuel.
After a short while of shivering and a shoulder-check or two, a steel sabaton of wicked steel-craft stepped forth from the green glow of the portal, slamming down into the tundra as if to brace for lifting something heavy.
About time.
The remainder of the Human deathknight came through, hauling the end of a Maldraxxian rune matrix. It’s profile was spire-like, made with a dark metal that emitted eerie turquoise pulses from it’s various pointed ends. On the other end of the dark apparatus emerged his Draenei partner, steadily lifting what was obviously the larger portion of the machine.
With a simple cast, the portal was closed, and the grovelling of the spared minions began.
It was a strange machine of odd make. Malorogg had ventured into Maldraxxus for a short time, during the pursuit of Sylvanas Windrunner. He would think he had seen such craft before, but this machine was… different. It reminded him of scourge constructs but with a Maldraxxian touch…
Whatever use it would see did not concern him in the least. Only the souls promised to him once this was all over. And if things had gone according to the schedule, this would be the final service rendered.
And now I collect my pay…
[Orcish] “Deathknights.”, the Warlock addressed the pair of dead men, [Orcish] “If I am not mistaken, this was the last of the shipments your organization required, was it not?”
The two former Alliance soldiers placed the apparatus down and silently looked at one another before slowly staring back at the warlock.
Malorogg sighed, [Orcish] “Let me guess, you two don’t have a clue what I just said.”, he stated assertively, quite annoyed.
Yet again, both deathknights looked at one another, and looked back. They immediately began summoning undead minions from the ground around them.
Malorogg’s concern for the cold was abruptly replaced with that of his life. He tensed up, ready to flay what remained of the soul of the Draenei in a moments notice.
The freshly risen minions casually walked past him, towards the Maldraxxian apparatus, and lifted it as one, carrying it towards the abandoned quarry in a shambling mass of slave-labour.
The green glow of Fel energies subsided as did the quickened pace of his heart.
Without skipping a beat, the undead human lifted his plated armoured arm and pointed over to Icecrown Citadel in the distance. Seems his payment awaited him at the deathknight’s headquarters after all…
[Orcish] “Lead the way…”, he gestured heavily, stepping aside for the pair of deathknights. Like machines, they began their march towards the base of the Citadel, towards the horror gate; Corp’rethar.
The warlock rolled his eyes and reluctantly followed.
It had been some years since he had last been to Icecrown Citadel. The Alliance and the Horde had finally worked up the nerve to strike at the Lich King, and he could not wait to unleash his newfound Fel powers upon the Scourge. He fought through the horrors of the undead, as numerous as they were, and even fought the Alliance in an aerial battle to maintain dominance of the battlefield.
And here I am. Before two of these wretched former Alliance, ready to collect my due.
The latent heat from the Fel fires he kept about himself sufficed enough to keep him from totally freezing. He could not feel his extremities and was much relieved when he entered past the portcullis leading into the forge of souls.
The Soul Forge.
Where else would he find his payment of souls?
I should have known it would be here…
[Orcish] “Warlock.”, a female Orc deathknight addressed him as he parted ways from the pair of his deathknight guides.
[Orcish] “Throm ka.”, he said with a bow, [Orcish] “I had feared deathknights only spoke human common. I am glad to be mistaken in this case.”.
The deathknight replied with a “hmmph.”, and gestured for Malorogg to follow. Glad to be in somewhat familiar company, albeit undead, his curiousity became the better of him.
[Orcish] “I have been at the service of the Ebon Blade for over a year now. I cannot help but notice the large number of artifacts and gadgets brought in from the shadowlands…”.
With that, the deathknight halted pace, the echoing remnants of the last part of Malorogg’s statement bounced about the chasm as she stared down the warlock with an ice-blue glow.
With a slight look around the chasm, across the span they were in the midst of crossing, she quietly stated, [Orcish] “You are to remain silent about any and all involvement regarding the project.”.
Malorogg grinned, [Orcish] “…Pending my payment. I have waited a long year for souls. Do you know how hard it is to attain sentient souls with naught an enemy to fight?”.
The deathknight remained silent.
The warlock remained stern in his stare.
[Orcish] “SOULS. NOW. I wish to be done with this business and away from this… accursed cold.”.
He was promised enough souls that he could burn through three per day for five years straight. It was the best source he could find after the Primalists were put down and defeated. How he would transport them to his holdings remained a problem to be solved.
We’ll cross that bridge when we get there , he mused to himself as they crossed the last span over the chasm below, and entered a cavernous room.
He found it quite peculiar that a deathknight would even care to lower their voice… in their own stronghold. Something was surely amiss among the Ebon Blade, but it simply was not his station to care.
The pair of Orcs made their way to a platform that was surrounded by ornate constructs that seemed to point to an encircled centre. Malorogg was intrigued as any who would gaze upon such massive machinery.
Ah. This must be where they house latent souls… an interesting mechanism…
Malorogg pondered it’s design, wondering how he could store the souls he was promised.
The Orcish deathknight briskly strode forth, just about the edge of the centre. She turned about, slowly, encasing herself in what looked like a rune-barrier.
[Orcish] “Your payment.”, she stated simply, extending her arm out towards the eager Warlock.
Without a moment’s notice, he was gripped about the neck with dark energies, pulling him in towards the centre of the construct. He was asphyxiated by the same dark energy she cast about herself, prevent him from casting, let alone screaming.
[Orcish] “Courtesy of Deathlord Bloodrott. You will serve Azeroth in ways above yourself, Warlock.”, she explained monotonously as beams of pure runic energy stripped the flesh off his bone in a matter of moments, the broken down mass funnelled into the small orifice under him. His bone mass soon followed as he pondered the last panicked moments of his existence until there was at last nothing left of the Warlock Malorogg.
A life time committed to rendering the souls of others for power…
It seemed quite fitting his flesh would be paying the price.
Delphine
The wound on the ruby dragon whelp’s wing wasn’t the most gravest of wounds, but exaggerated were it’s cries as it sought help from one of the generous adventurers walking about in Valdrakken.
And it couldn’t have come to a better healer of the light.
“Shh shh shh…”, the holy Priestess consoled the young ruby whelpling, embracing it in her arms.
After it’s crying fit simmered to a calm whimpering, Delphine Solara further inspected the damage on the wing.
Pupstingers…, she concluded as evident of the small black venomous stinger lodged in the wound. One could easily miss it among the damage of the wounds the vile insect inflicted. Judging by the size of it, the insect must have been an adult.
“You poor thing…”, she empathized as it buried it’s pained expression into her arm.
She carefully extended it’s wing, fighting the involuntary resisting pull it exhibited.
Closing her eyes but for a moment, she placed a hovering, glowing hand above the wounded wing of the whelpling. The empathy, the compassion, the will to live and be filled her mind to the brim, evoking the holy essence of life. At once, the wound was enveloped in a golden glow, renewing the damaged area that caused the unfortunate young one to gasp momentarily.
Wide eyed and ever so thankful, the ruby whelp darted around the holy priest with joy, and nestled in the arms of it’s saviour.
“There there, little one.”, she began with a rocking motion, “That must have been a big Pupstinger, was it not?”.
The whelpling nodded. Although dragon whelplings are small and new to the world, they are as every bit sentient as the next being capable of pondering their place in the world, and perhaps even more so…
With a deep sigh of relief, the ruby whelpling would be more than content to be spending eternity in this state.
But such a state would not last long.
Perking up it’s head, and with a slight flare of it’s nostrils as if catching a scent, it turned it’s sight to behind that of Delphine. Before a moment’s notice, it was airborne and leaving to be elsewhere, as a hint of dead flesh accompanied the hoof-clattering of a horse approaching from behind.
“If only I could be made whole the same…”, the would-be intruder jested from atop his steed, the deep voice projected from a helm that was accented with a bit of a rasp.
“Deathlord.”, Delphine stated with amusement.
There had been many instances out in the field where she had come across other adventurers, and had battled with many others. Deathlord Bloodrott was one such patron. There was not an obstacle or force strong enough that they could not face down in their time together.
A massive undead guardian slaying all who would assail the holy priest that kept him from serious harm. A strong compliment to any party or contingent willing to challenge the impossible.
“I am afraid if the light came down upon you, you would burst in flames!”, she jested back.
“I could only hope for a more pleasant death.”, Bloodrott followed with a slight chuckle, “hmn-hmn-hmn, then who would keep the assailants off of you during the next tussle? Some white-robed, pristine wielder of the holy light would make for a most excellent target of opportunity…”.
The pair made their way casually forth on the cobblestone street-path, “Why, all the other guardians of course? Did you think yourself special, Deathlord?”.
“I thought myself able to halt entire armies of adversaries. A bulwark of shadow, blood and steel can become quite useful, could it not?”.
Delphine responded with an over-exaggerated roll of the eyes.
“One of these times there will be more adversaries than you can handle, should your ego continue to rope you along. I call your forays into the bulk of the enemy folly.”
“And I call it dinner-time.”, the Deathlord responded, cackling thereafter.
The midday sun lingered overhead above Valdrakken, it’s many towers and spire formations kept a balance of shade versus sunlight. It was business as usual in the city. People walking to and fro their places of leisure and business alike. Some gathering in meet, some stopping to admire the scenery, and some pondering what would be.
Delphine could have little to say about the Ebon Blade as of late. She had survived Arthas’ assault on her homeland those many years ago.
A deathknight he was.
In fact, THEE deathknight…
The Lich King.
But that was not the deathknight that strode beside her now. She was glad to have any who would uphold justice and maintain the sanctity of life, even though they were initially created to destroy those same tenants.
Through the small talk of the day, and the many rounds of the varying paths of Valdrakken, she found her self asking what a deathknight would be up to these days.
“Bloodrott, it has been many an adventure since Arthas fell. How has the Ebon Blade been keeping things in the North?”.
“Ah… you speak of Icecrown, and the remnant Scourge forces that linger there…”, the Deathlord responded with a slight, subtle change in tone. It was hard to distinguish a deathknight’s everyday tone of voice. Their general lack of emotion was well documented, and could be recognized every time they spoke. Delphine found herself repulsed at the idea of losing the ability to feel beyond touch.
There was an awkward moment that lingered upon the further expected elaboration. Delphine looked up at the Deathknight and noticed he was lost in thought, her attention focused on puffs of cold air periodically escaping his wicked looking steel helmet.
Bloodrott finally began, almost changing the subject entirely, “Delphine… have you often felt over the years of protecting Azeroth, that we are just… for lack of better terms… putting out the fires that come here and there? Never really keeping Azeroth safe, only just reacting to the threats that come?”
An odd question, she thought, keeping her focus on Bloodrott’s fixed gaze that kept itself straight on the path ahead.
After being slightly taken aback for a moment, she gave her unprepared answer.
“I… well, I mean… We can only ever do so much against such overbearing forces… at a time?”.
A false silence followed, for the Deathlord had many an important things to say that he ultimately had to keep secret.
“We react. The enemy, whoever it may be at the time, is ultimately defeated, and yet again, another one is there to replace them. Another power hungry mongrel that would take our Earth-mother’s life force for themselves…”.
Earth-mother?, Delphine questioned the statement in her thoughts.
“There must be closure to this… cosmic farce. This war. These threats… And, Delphine… I may have come to a solution to that.”.
his gaze locked to Delphine’s for the first time since they started their jaunt among the Valdrakken streets, his ice-blue glowing eyes meeting hers. He halted movement at once, prompting her to do the same.
“A solution? Deathlord?”, she asked simply, careful of her tone, “It seems to me we have won… yet again… Against perilous odds.”
“Yes, yes… indeed we have. And yet we react, again, to this… radiant song. Another cry for help from our imprisoned Earth-mother…”.
Imprisoned?!
He continued rambling on, “If I could solve this all… free her from this perpetual strife and offer her an alternative, would you condemn me, no matter how desperate or extreme it may have gotten?”.
Delphine was now beginning to worry where all this was going. This rambling was uncharacteristic of any deathknight she knew of, or of anyone else, as she came to think of it.
“Deathlord, where are you going with this rhetoric?”, she said, finally breaking the uncomfortable, accumulating feeling in her gut.
“… I am… forgive me, Delphine.”, he responded as if snapping out of a lost state of mind. She pondered if the deathknight was feeling well, but then realized asking a deathknight this very question wasn’t the best thing to ask.
“There have been many… developments… as of late, in the North.”, the Deathlord admitted, “I feel I may trust you in the near future, enough to let you in on these events. But if I am to have your ear, I must have your allegiance.”.
Delphine was not expecting such a request this day. This was most mysterious and concerning to say the least, and what made it so odd was the sudden change in the Deathlord’s demeanour and tone. Her answer was indecisive.
“Bloodrott. You know I would follow you back into the maw if it came to that. But what you ask is… strange, to say the least.”, she began nodding slowly, “You would need to give me time to ponder on such a vaguely detailed request…”.
The Deathlord nodded slowly as well, “I will be leaving for Northrend for a very important matter in the coming days. There is a slight chance I may not make it back… but that goes with any adventure we find ourselves in. Please, ponder on it if you must, but my endeavours will need support, and very soon it would seem.”, he stated as he strode forth and away.
Delphine remained silent-in-thought, as the mounted deathknight parted away in-stride. He turned back toward her, stating but a simple affirmation before continuing forth; “I trust you.”.
The holy priestess smiled slightly as the deathknight continued forth.
“But can I trust you?”, came her response in earnest under her breath, out of earshot.
It was memorably one of the more odder conversations she has had with the Deathlord. It was as if she was completely blindsided by fate.
By the light, she pondered about the request. A Deathlord asking a holy priestess for a possible allegiance. These were beginning to become the strangest of times indeed. She couldn’t fathom, or more accurately, did not want to fathom what was ultimately at stake in all of this.
An “alternative”?, she recalled.
It was all so beyond what she was willing to consider. She would always be there to care for the wounded, to pick up the shattered pieces of an individuals life and help them reassemble…
But this vague, uncertain, mysterious new endeavour…
She needed time. Or rather, needed more information.
“Delphine?”, a hooded figure seemingly came from nowhere, lightly clutching her arm, “You must come with me. Now.”.
Taken by surprise, and more intrigued than frightened, she complied and made her way to wherever the mysterious figure was leading them.
“The information you give us may be key in preventing something that may possibly be a threat to the people of Azeroth.”, the spy lowered her hood, revealing that of a Blood elf. She did not recognize this person, but did recognize the horde insignia on her brooch.
“Tell me everything the Deathlord said to you just now.”
Bloodrott
Atop the spire of Icecrown Citadel, A select few of the Knights of the Ebon Blade stood in attendance.
Bloodrott knew many of them…
Battled with them…
…Even trained some of them.
And here they stood. In contest with him for the unofficial title of Lich King.
Unbeknownst to Darion Mograine, a fair portion of the elite Knights of the Ebon Blade agreed to the outcome of this meet.
A meet to determine who among them would be best suited to lead the Ebon Blade, or at least those willing to follow whoever was elected.
Howling winds among grey skies accompanied those atop the spire-made-arena. Each potential leader had their entourage of followers spaced out among the platform. Nothing was yet said, as the last expected members flew in by mount.
To o many to name…, The Deathlord thought.
It was true. although they were all of the same order, there were simply far too many candidates for this meet to end in any kind of “civil” manner.
This will most likely be a bloodbath…
Though the thought of killing his brothers and sisters of the Ebon Blade crossed his mind as a possibility, he allowed it not to hinder him so.
I have the ear of many of our order…, he thought.
I must prove myself to the skeptical few…
The last of the deathknights flew in, completing the registry.
The anticipation in the air was palpable, as palpable as it could be among the dead hearts of the deathknights…
A lot was on the line. More than Deathlord Bloodrott cared to admit. Should he gain leadership of those willing to listen, the project would be catapulted to fruition in but a year. Then, and only then, would the whole of Azeroth understand this grand design of his.
Failure would set him back considerably in efforts with the project…
“LATE. AS USUAL.”, the Orcish Deathlord Hellskar shouted toward his dismounting competitor; Dalton Withers. A Forsaken convert specializing in the Unholy ways.
“Complain not, brother… for your leader has arrived. You just don’t realize it yet.”, brother Dalton’s raspy voice danced upon the cold wind as he approached the encirclement.
It was agreed upon that a handful of followers may accompany the potential candidates. Each group gave each other space as they awaited the address of their host, Deathlord Bloodrott.
He approached the middle of the platform, the sound of hollow bones beneath his plated hooves demanding the attention of the unholy assembly.
He produced a parchment containing the list of the valid candidates.
“Brothers and Sisters of the Ebon Blade. You know why you are here.”, he began, looking about the cold, sleet laden Zenith of the Citadel.
“The outcome of this meet will determine who among us is fit to rule our order from this day forward.”, He brought the parchment before him, reading out the contents scribbled on it’s surface.
“Deathlady Dharana.”, Bloodrott called out. He was met with a simple acknowledgement of a runeblade thrust in the air.
“Deathlord Hellskar.”, he was met with a nod from the former Horde warrior.
“Brother Dalton Withers.”, he turned to the undead convert to acknowledge him.
“At your service.”, the former Forsaken replied quickly with a bow.
With a quick roll of the eyes, Bloodrott continued.
“Deathlady Shadowmight.”, Bloodrott called out with a nod, acknowledging the former Nightelf Sentinel that trained in the same blood-discipline as he.
“Deathlord Scarhide.”, he called out, which was met with a loud clang of an axe head hitting the ground, announcing the Tauren’s presence as he placed both hands over the base of the hilt. The unholy energies blackened the ground where the axe head rest.
He gave a nod, and continued down the registry.
“Baron Edward Hall.”, the Human male rose from his knelt position, using his runeblade as support. With three icy steps forward, he replied with a raggedly modest “Here.”.
“Sister Dren’emar Roottender.”
The Nightelf frost deathknight clanged both her runeblades together, clearly eager to get started. Bloodrott has never heard of her before, but it was clear she seemed like an upstart.
“Deathlady Drixxa the Pale”, he called out, easily finding the little female goblin. Her unholy energies pulsed at the mention of her name, flaring the runes in her blade to emit that eerie green colour.
“And finally, Deathlady Goremonger.”, He finished nodding at the capable blood-rival. The human female once of the Alliance guard nodded slowly, studying those around her.
Bloodrott continued, on edge as much as a deathknight could be.
“We will begin with what each candidate brings to the table. RELEVANCY TO THE EBON BLADE ONLY. I will not have personal disputes as the basis of discussion here this day. What you bring here pertains to the future of our order.”, he said, pausing while slowly looking around at everyone locked onto him.
“And with that, we shall begin. Does anyone care to start?”.
Baron Hall began immediately, “Given there are many here who think they can hold the mantle of Lich King… You all are not among the first of us to be risen in service to Arthas…”, he began, striding forth towards the now empty centre of the platform.
“I have YEARS of experience under the sway of his will. I was there when we began the scourge of Lordaeron. I was instrumental in the ascendance of his rise to-”.
“We are not the Scourge, brother.”, Deathlord Hellskar pointed out, “Arthas is dead. TRULY dead. You bring naught but the snuffed out ashes of the Scourge’s former glory with you.”.
He stepped forth, clad in death-plates with a black cloak about his back, slowly turning to address all those around him as he made way to the snowdrifted centre of the platform. The howling winds whipped the impossibly small ice shards into the armour of his Ebon Blade peers as his cloak flayed about.
“I have seen his rule. His disregard for his minions.”, the Orc’s glare met with that of Baron Edward Hall, “Do you not remember his domination of your mind as your rotting husk of a body was being disintegrated by the light? I will make sure we are never again used as lures as we continue to keep the dark corners of this world free from remnant Scourge and other undead threats.”.
“How noble.”, Deathlady Shadowmight replied with a role of her eyes.
“Yet, how do you suppose we are to replenish numbers, brother Hellskar? Our standing forces pale in comparison to what we had before the whole Shadowlands incident.”.
Deathlord Hellskar remained silent.
“I’ll tell you how. We must fan out. All of us. Spread across Azeroth to every battle and every government holding a seat of power.”, she began. Were it not for the ice-blue glow emitted from her glowing eyes, one would not be able to tell if she had once died before. As a deathknight versed in the ways of blood, regeneration of tissue was that of second nature which made it difficult to determine her undead status.
Ah, the benefits of the Blood discipline , Bloodrott thought.
Deathlady Shadowmight continued, “We must work our magics to raise a new generation of deathknights. Until that can be accomplished, I wouldn’t even start to think about a more military approach.”.
Deathlady Dharana stepped forth.
“Sister Shadowmight, we will start another war with the living should we continue to defile the dead without their permission. We must consider strengthening our position and standing with the adventurers of Azeroth. Not just the many governments of the living.”
“Agreed.”, Deathlady Goremonger called out.
“Oh and what? We are all to become mercenaries now?”, Sister Dren’emar Roottender spoke up. She made her way to the centre in a brisk manner, dual runeblades in hand. The stitches on her face were beginning to form a layer of frost.
“You all stand here and discuss what should be done with the Ebon Blade when it should fall to that of who wields the most power among us.”, She looked around raising one blade in the air, “By this blade I rule. Until I get challengers to my claim as the Lich Queen, I elect myself as such.”, she finished brazenly.
A guffaw escaped Deathlord Scarhide, “You’ve been oddly silent, brother Bloodrott. As host, what say you to this claim? In fact, what say all of you?”, he finished brandishing his large, wicked runic axe.
Drixxa the Pale was inclined to agree to the notion.
A heavy sigh escaped Brother Dalton as he drew his runeblade.
The rest of the candidates took battle stances, eyeing each other down.
Alas, here we go…
Somewhat disappointed of the eventuality that was a melee for the title of Lich king/queen, Bloodrott was quick to make last minute conditions.
“So, it has come to this has it. Candidates only. Interference of any others in this audience is grounds for disqualification of candidacy, since you relied on the might of another save your minions. Do we all agree?”
A communion of nods followed.
I didn’t even get to speak my piece…, Bloodrott thought, raising his massive runeblade in the air, When I win this, I will make them listen… He thought, studying the combatants around him.
…If I win this.
Immediately, skeletal minions were summoned by those of the Unholy discipline.
Those skilled in the way of Frost made haste to the nearest target, a flurry of cold steel and death barrelling down on their adversary.
The scene was quick to chaos as the grand melee began.
Deathlord Bloodrott gave a quick glance to all those in attendance around the ring of honor ensuring none of them interfered, and quickly he was beset upon by a charging Deathlady Goremonger.
She was met with a heavy strike from Bloodrott, expertly parrying the assault. Her answer was an inside step, twirling about to close in with her blade rotating as she did so. It was a fast attack, one that the deathlord could not deflect, as he felt the runeblade’s edge slam against his armor.
The edge cleaved beyond the protective deathplate and sliced into his left arm. Dark blood began to pour, but that did not hinder him in the slightest as he countered with a back-stepping blade-rake across the back of the deathlady.
As if not feeling any pain, she reversed her pivot to minimize the Deathlord’s slice and brought about her blade towards the right leg of the Deathlord. This attack cleaved even deeper, another gout of blood acknowledging the damage done.
Enraged at Goremonger’s attacks, the Deathlord clutched her in his left hand and began digging his gauntlet’s pointed fingers into the deathlady, holding her off her feet.
And yet again, she was quick to counter, stabbing the deathlord in the chest with a quickened thrust. A quick “HRRNNGHN” involuntarily escaped Bloodrott’s mouth. He was also suddenly hit with a painful heat as Deathlady Goremonger bursted forth a blood boil onto the deathlord as he still had her in his grasp.
Like a reflex, his runeblade, grasped in his other hand, was brought upon the face of the Deathlady, a sickening dull ring of his blade accompanied a spray of blood as her jaw now dangled from her face.
With her runeblade free from the chest of the deathlord, she brought an end to Bloodrott’s grasp as she severed his arm about the elbow with but a one-armed upward-arcing slice.
The two Blood deathknights began backing away from each other slowly, dark energies and torrents of blood re-entering the heavy wounds of either.
Bloodrott’s arm was reattached as the swirling torrents of blood mended the limb in place. Each stab and cleave wound given by the Deathlady emitted a torrent of blood and dark energy as they sealed themselves shut.
The Deathlady’s recovery was even more impressive.
She held her jaw in place as the torrents of blood swirled about it, sealing it anew. The broken, crushed bones of her rib cage and clavicles reformed beneath her skin with sickening popping and cracking. Lastly, the massive open wound on her back sealed up.
The two took defensive stances once again, and both chuckled in laughter.
“Very good counter, Deathlady.”, Bloodrott began.
“You could use another lap around Valdrakken, Deathlord.”, she jested with a wink upon her newly regenerated face.
The clanging of steel garnered their attention, impossible to ignore. All combatants were engaged with one another, with no prejudice to one or the other.
Only with one goal in mind for each of them.
Drixxa, the pale, little, unholy goblin broke away from her quarry that was Dalton Withers as he was stolen away in combat by Deathlord Hellskar. She found two new combatants in the form of Deathlord Bloodrott and Deathlady Goremonger. Her approach to engage the pair of blood deathknights was interrupted by a loud shrieking gasp from deathlady Shadowmight. It seemed to put a temporary halt to the melee as all combatants turned to face the commotion.
Deathlady Dharana’s runeblade had pierced the back of Shadowmight and was now sticking out of the chest of the former Nightelf warrior. Her weapon fell to the ground at her side as she writhed in agony from the unholy energies coursing from her attacker’s runeblade into her being. It seemed any attempts of the Deathlady to regenerate and recover from harm were folly against the unholy discipline of Deathlady Dharana.
Shadowmight yelped once more, shouting, “I… YIELD!”.
With a quick retraction of her runeblade from the back of Shadowmight, Deathlady Dharana took a defensive pose to counter any would-be attacker. Her combatant fell to the ground before her, breathing heavily in defeat.
“I… yield…”, she quietly repeated, lain heavily with self disappointment.
The other Tauren Deathlord, Scarhide, laughed heartily as his upward swinging axe met with the blades of sister Dren’emar, forcing her to stumble back quite a distance.
“ONE DOWN! NINE TO GO!”, he stated with dark glee as he re-engaged his melee with the frost deathknight upstart.
The attention to battle took hold of all the others and the loud clamouring of the unholy steel orchestra continued.
Baron Edward Hall began the three-way fight between Skarhide and Sister Dren’emar which resulted in a rapid ringing and clanging of parried attacks and blocks. A blinding burst of sleet from the Nightelf deathknight caught both her adversaries off guard. The baron swung viciously and blindly to any and all that may or may not have been in his vicinity, whilst her Tauren assailant staggered back slightly, but slammed the surface of bones before him, causing a miasma of pure unholy energy to radiate from his position; a summoned area of death and decay. The upstart Nightelf sister knew better than to engage in an energy field not of her own making, and left the blinded baron to be swallowed up in it’s creeping influence.
Pivoting quickly, she turned only to have the runeblade of brother Dalton cleave her head clean off. The former Forsaken quickly turned to parry an assault from Deathlord Hellskar and was successful in his attempt, but was booted back quite a distance.
The former Orcish Horde warrior looked down at the head of Dren’emar separated from her body. Her eyes looked up at him angrily with her teeth still baring.
“You there.”, He pointed at the deathknights that had been part of her entourage at the edge of the ring of combat, “Get her to the stitch-works. With haste.”, he instructed whilst he held her severed head back onto her body, and released a bolt of a death coil onto her. It seemed to keep her whole and restore little motor function back, however greatly weakened it may have been. “I would hate to lose one of our already dwindled number…”.
“Does that make me Lich King now?!”, Dalton cackled from a distance away.
Deathlord Hellskar simply rose back up and brandished his runebade, ready to face the former Forsaken again.
“It makes you eighth in line to fall.”, he stated plainly as he witnessed Deathlady Dharana deathgrip brother Dalton toward her grasp. She was standing near the edge of the spire’s platform, and as soon as her target fell into her physical grip, with all her might, she roared as she threw him from the peak of Icecrown Citadel.
An angry, rasped growl and a few curses that got quieter and quieter as brother Dalton Withers disappeared into the blowing snow of the clouds below. A Frostwyrm could be seen on the flight path to intercept the falling former Forsaken warrior. Deathlady Dharana was deathgripped in-turn by Hellskar, back to the platform’s centre, who readied a thrusting blade when she would be within his grasp. She parried the thrust perfectly to the side and used her travelling momentum to smash her armored elbow into the face of Deathlord Hellskar. The recoiling orc staggered back to regain his composure.
“I think I may have actually felt that.”, he said, rubbing his broken jaw with a smile. Deathlady Dharana answered with an immediate snap to a defensive stance. Hellskar finished rubbing his jaw bone back into place and entered a stance of his own, ready to continue the battle.
Back on the platform on the other side of the melee, the three Death-lord and ladies continued the runeblade symphony of ringing steel. Each deathknight had much experience honing their blade mastery over the years. The witnesses present began to make way for the developing battle, careful not to interfere with their respective champion’s brawl, yet were still captivated with anticipation and wonder… as much as any aspiring deathknight could be.
Drixxa’s movements were hard to gauge from the perspective of the massive Tauren Deathlord. Bloodrott would swing downward, only to plough the bone laden surface where the little goblin once stood. She would carve him up here and there, and would then be forced to defend against Goremonger, in which Bloodrott took the opportunity to strike against the former human alliance soldier.
Looking to gain an edge in the three-way, Drixxa disengaged for a moment to summon an army of skeletal warriors and magi, greatly diminishing her unholy energies.
Just as Goremonger began her assault on Bloodrott, she was swarmed by Drixxa’s minions as they bit and tore into her limbs, holding her from moving effectively.
Deathlord Bloodrott backed away and held his position, looking around to see the battle unfolding around him as Drixxa strode forth for the kill. The minions held Deathlady Goremonger in place, pulling plates back to expose a less armored section of her torso, in which the little goblin thrust upward into.
In a frustrated growl, Deathlady Goremonger yelled out, “I CONCEDE.”, dropping her runeblade harmlessly to the side. The minions released her as she fell to the ground. As one, they now locked their eyes onto their next target before them. Drixxa’s little plated finger pointed at the massive Tauren and thus began her minion’s charge.
But the Deathlord anticipated this.
A small target she may be…, Bloodrott thought, … but it is hard to move within a crowd…
Bloodrott performed Gorefiend’s grasp onto the little goblin. Her charging minions were sucked into her position and onto her body, forming a broken bone and steel armor cage. Drixxa was taken by surprise, clumsily fighting her way out from the pile, pushing the last bit of bones to the side with both her hands.
She looked up to be met with massive runeblade coming toward her like a meteor. Bloodrott had cleaved the blade through the torso of the unholy Deathlady down to her midsection.
“Ughghghh.”, Drixxa emitted wheezily, her runeblade buried in the bone pile.
Bloodrott watched for a moment before the pale-green Goblin Deathlady began to fade away. He removed his blade from her torso and pulled her from her own minion mass of broken bones and crumpled armor. Holding her together as best he could in his massive clench, he delivered her to the recovering Deathlady Goremonger.
“Take her to the stitch-works. Keep her together as best you can.”, he instructed, torrenting some of his blood into the fading goblin before handing her off to his fellow blood-sister.
“So be it, Deathlord.”, she fell to a knee for a moment with a bow, and did as instructed.
The melee continued on the other side of the platform.
Despite being bogged down within Deathlord Scarhide’s death and decay, the crafty and clever Baron summoned a path of ice upon the unholy Tauren, extending behind him toward the edge of the spire.
“Was that suppose to chill me, Baron?”, Skarhide jested, shaking off the ice that covered his arm and armor. The former living Human had been building runic energy into his dual blades since the start of their duel. He prepared an obliterating attack, charging up speed and building momentum toward his large adversary, despite being continually assaulted by the dark energies of the miasma that surrounded Deathlord Skarhide.
Naturally, the Tauren took a defensive stance but could not quite find the proper grip on the ice with his hooves. He stood wobbling as the Baron leapt at him, bringing both blades down onto the defensive axe face. With extreme force, this knocked the Deathlord off his hooves and onto his back, sliding ever so closer to the edge with surprising speed. Nearing the edge, he failed to grip the steel edging and began to slide over. Were it not for his axe anchoring him to the ledge, he would have gone completely over.
Never one to panic, he had not been helpless the whole time.
During his slide, he had summoned a geist who rose behind the Baron stealthily, stalking him until the approaching Baron smiled down on the dangling unholy Tauren Deathlord.
“This is it, brother Scarhide. Do you forfeit?”, he asked, raising a single blade above himself that began to glow blue with energy, ready to come crashing down on the axe that held the massive deathknight to the ledge.
With a death grip on the hilt of his anchoring axe, he released a small swarm of bugs from his other hand up toward the unsuspecting Baron. Forced to try to swat the diseased swarm away, he was all to unprepared for the leaping geist that slammed into him, embracing him tightly as they fell off the platform.
“No, brother.”, Scarhide casually retorted as he witnessed the pair plummet down in cold silence.
“Then that is a shame, brother.”, Deathlady Dharana simply stated, forcing the dead Tauren’s unholy green eyes upward and wide in what horror a deathknight could exhibit. Instantly, her large runeblade slammed down onto the axe head, knocking it free from the edge. In a last ditch effort to bring her with him, Scarhide attempted a deathgrip on his sabateur. Like any prepared knight of the Ebon Blade, Deathlady Dharana had the death’s advance runic spell coursing through her, anchoring her invulnerably to the platform’s edge for the time being.
Deathlord Skarhide began his plummet, closing his eyes and nodding, accepting his fate.
Deathlord Hellskar had finally broken the asphyxiation spell cast upon him. Gasping for breathe, rage began to spur him into determination. With as much unholy energy he could muster, he summoned forth an abomination that took form rapidly before him.
Deathlord Bloodrott ended his own recovery and made his way toward the summoning.
Deathlady Dharana did the same, making her way from the edge of the platform.
The abomination finalized before him as he growled menacingly. He faced Deathlord Bloodrott, teeth bared, ready for battle as he held his runeblade in one hand, and a clenched fist in the other. His newly summoned minion turned towards the other direction and began to lumber towards Deathlady Dharana, who stood at the ready, blade drawn above her torso in a defensive pose.
With surprising speed the abomination broke into a charge with a roar, a mass of rotting flesh, bone, and sinew barrelling down on Dharana with a massive bone cleaver and a wicked large chained hook ready to tear it’s target apart, and claim the title of Lich King for it’s master.
It’s creator did the same towards Bloodrott, breaking into a charge with a battle-roar. Unholy energies enhanced his frame, moving him effortlessly within the death and decay Bloodrott had summoned in his defensive stance.
He parried the flurry of steel from the Orc, giving ground as he bided his time to recover precious runic power he had spent the battle before.
Deathlady Dharana danced about, getting attacks in as much as she could whenever an opening would present itself, but the massive abomination was proving too difficult to handle. Room to dodge it’s massive cleaver was diminishing fast, as she was being forced ever closer to the ledge of the platform where Deathlord Scarhide fell. Seeing it’s only opportunity, it charged the Blood-Elven Deathlady towards the edge.
There was very little room under the abomination, but Dharana decided to chance it and slid as flat as she could make herself under the massive rotting beast. She had cut deeply into it’s inner tendon on it’s leg and it stumbled forth toward the edge, rolling until it was but mere inches from falling off. It could not attempt to rise up as Deathlady Dharana did.
“Hmmph.”, she exhibited contentment at the ordeal, turned, and left the abomination to dangle immobile near the edge.
But it still had it’s meat-hook at it’s disposal.
The persistent minion of Hellskar threw the bone-chained hook and found it’s mark, digging deep into the stomach of Dharana and yanking her toward the edge. Pull, by pull, it pulled her closer as she fought to resist it from taking her with it, turning and digging the heels of her plated sabatons into the skeletal flooring that was the arena’s surface.
Bloodrott was beginning to notice the energies of his assailant diminish, despite the damaging assault he endured. Hellskar managed to pierce the guard of Bloodrott on several occasions, causing heavy wounds to the legs and torso of the former Grimtotem Tauren shaman.
He parried Hellskar’s attacks until he felt that a counter attack was most effective. He let the Orc’s runeblade pierce through deep into his torso, just under his ribcage. Bloodrott grunted, accepting the attack and preparing to enact his counter, sinking to a knee.
“I have you now, brother Bloodrott. Forfeit here now, or be slain whe-.”, he demanded of the Tauren before being interrupted by an explosive blood boil. Hellskar recoiled for a moment in pain. Bloodrott dropped his runeblade to the ground, and with his other hand, gripped the hilt and hand of Hellskar.
Slowly, the runeblade retracted out of Bloodrott as Hellskar fought to keep it buried, but it was to no avail. Bloodrott suddenly stood upward off his knee, eyes glowing deep red as he towered over Deathlord Hellskar.
He raised his plated gauntlet, opening his palm with his digits facing his prey, and began a cast of blooddrinker, torrenting blood out of his assailant.
The anima was not as sweet as it was from living targets, but it was still sweetest in the midst of battle. Hellskar began sinking to one knee, grimacing as he did so. He started to become paler than he already was, and began to feel weaker and weaker as Bloodrott continued to torrent the corrupted life energy from him.
“…Brother…”, Deathlord Hellskar struggled to speak, “I… concede.”.
Delicious…
Supple…
“…Brother…?”, Hellskar said in a sluggish panic.
ANIMA.
Bloodrott’s gaze was voracious. The noise this insect was making before him concerned him not. He would feast upon his anima like a starving wolf on a carcass.
“I…CONCEDE!”, Hellskar cried out.
The Abomination that had the Deathlady in-hand was mere moments from casting her over the edge. Sensing a diminishing of unholy influence on the minion, it paused, becoming confused about what it was doing for a moment. She seized the opportunity at hand, assuming control of the rotting beast and forcing it to comply to her will, dropping her safely back on the platform. Casting a death coil on her newly acquired minion, she looked back at the center of the arena to see a most peculiar sight.
“Brother… acknowledge… you… Lich King!”, Hellskar managed to get out before becoming comatose.
“Ebow’ji Darkcloud.”, Dharana shouted from across the top of Icecrown citadel.
The Deathlord snapped out of his anima-thirst, releasing Deathlord Hellskar’s limp body before him. Picking up his runeblade with a deathgrip, he strode forth to the centre of the platform to the final combatant at hand, recharged and ready for battle.
Followers of Deathlord Hellskar hauled his limp frame from the battleground in the wake of the Tauren Deathlord.
“Deathlady Dharana.”, Bloodrott stated as he slowly strode forth, “Do not call me by that name no longer.”.
“Then what am I to call you?”, she retorted, readying her self for the impending battle.
“Lich King.”, the former Grimtotem restoration shaman demanded.
In a moments notice, the Deathlady began to summon a small squadron of skeletal minions and magi. One by one they took form from the dark magics that borne them locomotion. As the last minion formed, the indoctrinated abomination began it’s charge on the Deathlord.
The runes on Bloodrott’s armor and sword flashed with a crimson pulse. Bones from the very ground began to encompass the Deathlord in a cyclonic flurry, and his runeblade had conjured two copies of itself.
A barrage of ice-bolts and arrows descended on the Deathlord as the abomination raised it’s cleaver. The majority of the projectiles were intercepted by the orbiting bone fragments just as one of the dancing rune-weapons parted the cleaver-arm from the abomination. The defensive measures proved effective, however, some projectiles did make it through along with a swarm of diseased carrion and plague cast from the vile Deathlady.
Bogged down but still able to function, Bloodrott began carving up the disarmed abomination whilst fending off the melee minions bearing down on him. His rune-weapons dispatched minions here and there, and his bone shrapnel would disintegrate the incoming barrage projectiles.
And yet the Deathlady had not made her move.
Ever so patient…, the Deathlord thought.
A sharp pulse of pain rang throughout Bloodrott’s body.
Deathlady Dharana had been using the acquired runic energy to put her microbial magics to work, flaring up the decomposition of tissue and breakdown of body-mass within the defending blood deathknight.
And yet the Deathlord did not falter.
Bloodrott had been feeding off the abomination that had been used as a glorified punching-bag, absorbing mass and latent anima in a vampiric manner, restoring a fair portion of the damage he had taken.
The rotting colossus still had fight in it, using it’s other limbs and meat-hook to score hits. And yet, not all of the minions within the melee of the Deathlord had been felled by the conjured rune-weapons.
But their time came to an end as they parried their last attacks and faded away like the conjured weapons they were. The last of the bones orbiting the Deathlord had run their course as well, and the Deathlady’s army of dead magi and archers volley was now unhindered.
The Deathlord parried an incoming blade from a skeletal minion, but could not stop the meat-hook from entering his torso, and one by one the blades of the minions entered the Deathlord from various angles, despite all the parries done to prevent them. They held Bloodrott in place as the ranged minions held their fire and began collapsing one by one at the will of the approaching Deathlady.
She clenched her fist as the runes about her gauntlet pulsed a sickly green, forcing another bout of flare-ups in the Deathlord, which was met with a growl through clenched teeth.
“I have you now, Deathlord Bloodrott.”, she said with a sublime confidence, and continued forth, “Your body is pierced, and my diseases ravage your blood and tissue. Yield, for you have lost.”
“Your attacks do nothing, Deathlady Dharana…”, Bloodrott responded, raising his head to look his quarry in the eyes, “FOR I AM A BULWARK OF SHADOW, BLOOD AND STEEL!”, he roared, fortifying himself with stored blood magic and releasing a massive pulse of blood boil.
The weapons that had previously pin-cushioned him had ejected rapidly from their bearer’s grasps as quickly as they had been thrust in.
The abomination gushed violently from it’s wounds with steam immediately hissing from every rotted pore and opening as it fell backward on it’s back, and the skeletal minions were blasted away, crumbling mid-air into bone pieces held together with what little sinew and armor that remained attached.
Deathlord Bloodrott had grown considerably, engorged on stored blood energy that had been kept in runic form. Now a towering giant compared to the Blood elf before him, he focused on his recoiled adversary who found herself ready for his newfound assault. Unwavered, she stepped forth offensively.
The Deathlord answered in kind.
Before the cacophony of battle could commence, a deathgate ripped open before them.
Suspiciously eyeing one another, the finalists of the grand melee turned toward the gate which revealed Darion Mograine stepping forth, followed by a contingent of Ebon Blade deathknights, followed by Brother Dalton Withers.
The howling winds kept the tenor of the situation as the brief silence fell among everyone present.
“You will stay this madness and explain exactly what is taking place here.”, Darion Mograine coldly demanded as Dalton Withers made his way to the leader-interim’s side.
Ever still, a quick response was given by Deathlord Bloodrott, “Progress.”.
“Is that so? Slaying eachother in some… grand tournament without my knowledge?”.
Bloodrott shot a quick stare at brother Dalton Withers before beginning his explanation. He pivoted slowly to the crowd of bystanders, ensuring the captivity of their attention before pacing about in a slower fashion.
“Do you recall our conversation two years ago, Darion? What concerns of mine were brought forth regarding our order that were casually brushed aside because you were to afraid of change?”.
Darion remained silent.
“We were here to determine which of us should bear the title of Lich, leader of the Ebon Blade.”
Darion’s judging silence was not enough to dissuade the Deathlord from continuing.
“… A contest in which you interrupted. I had thought you happily stagnant in your chambers below, rotting awa-”.
“You were warned what would happen should you continue this route. Bolvar may yet return and we’ve not the numbers to engage in any form of major expansion beyond Icecrown and Acherus.”.
Seizing an opening in Darions retort, Deathlord Bloodrott jumped at the opportune moment, “Again, you admit to the continued complacency of our order and this inaction that seems to have rendered you so.”, he surmised, facing the crowd yet again.
This is it. No going back now…
“I have taken your ultimatum into consideration for what is to come next.”, he continued, “Ebon Blade, follow me as your new Lich King. TOGETHER, we shall bring this order to a grander future wherein our sacred charge and duty will be fully realized…”.
Darion angrily interjected, the ice-blue glow flaring beneath his helm in the howling winds atop the citadel.
“You are not Lich King, Deathlord. Even if you were the majority of this order would not follow you to such reckless ends.”
Bloodrott faced Darion, “Is that so?”, he turned about, continuing to the crowd, “Those of you who wish to usher forth our grand responsibility onto a better tomorrow without hindrance of past influence, follow me.”
He turned to the small contingent staring directly at Dalton Withers.
“The rest of you, stay here and rot.”.