Icecrown

Urilla stands in the empty valley, clutching the note from her father. The winds of the harsh Icecrown spring bore just as much lethal and withering force as they possess in the winter. Her hair flying in the whirlwinds of the northern winds, left snowflakes crusted upon her eyelids and eyelashes. Shivering, she drops her heavy coat she brought along from the citadel. It was another moonless night over the valley of the dead, and if one listens closely enough, they could hear the dead still stirring about.

She screams out in a feral voice of frustration and anger. “Why should I take up his failed responsibilities? If I am not some ‘vagabond child, born of a whore’, then why have you treated my mother and me so poorly?”

((Part 1 is here, Part 2 is here, and Part 3 is here. Sorry this took so long to post, Real life has kept me from doing much writing lately. Not that I'm complaining, it's been all good things <3 ))

The swirling gale drove the falling snow into a nigh-impentrable wall of white, erasing any trace of hoof-prints mere seconds after they were behind her. The Vindicator's hair whipped against her cold-numbed face and icicle-covered pauldrons. She smiled, even as the wind threatened to tear the Me'dun Menis - the strips of cloth with the Naruu's Benedictions written on them - clean off her armor. At least she wasn't in danger of being lulled to sleep.

The cold wind whipped around him, his cloak billowing out behind him as Daraman enjoyed the splendor of Alterac Valley.  The beautiful white snow that blanketed the ground and covered the trees, the graceful and majestic white wolves that stalked their prey amongst the forests, the feeling of life that seemed to simply flow through the valley.  It was so different than the last snow-covered area he had been to, Icecrown. 

They arrived alone, in pairs or small groups.  Slowly trickling through the portal to stand exposed at the top of Icecrown.  Snow swirled around Elrin's legs and his cloak drug a thick line in it as he strode to greet them.

He ran his eyes over them as they checked their gear and said their prayers or passed their hands over each other, sharing blessings and gifts.  Chapped lips cracked again when he shoved his second-to-last cigarette in between them, lighting it with a snap of his fingers.

They were ready.


Arthas pumped his legs faster, flying across the icy top of Icecrown and leaving Tirion Fordring encased in a block of ice behind him.

Amara stood ready.  He gave Elrin a curt nod just before Arthas slammed into him, bowling him over as he scrabbled for a hold in the icy ground.  Elrin stepped quickly, turning aside Frostmourne with a curving sweep of his polearm.

“When a crusader’s sword turns rusts and his bones turn to dust may their soul reside with the light.” 

Finishing the prayer as I close the unseeing eyes after the captain’s last breath escaped her lips. 

It would be considered a victory to lose so few storming a Zuggernaut  and putting it to flame and this was just a mopping up operation to prote

((this is a crap blog.  Damn you Lorith.  Set next Friday))

((The night following “The Sister Blade”))

Nightmares from that place don't fade easily, I know.

If I tried to slip him a sleeping potion, he'd know. The hazards of us both being alchemists.

He's not entirely out of trouble yet, but he's aware of it, and trying. I still see the self doubt and loathing when he thinks I'm not looking. There's still anger and fear.

Lirriel looked around the staging area into Icecrown Citadel, wincing at the cold air striking the back of her neck. The goblins in Dalaran had done a decent job bobbing her hair, and the blue and silver gown she'd dug out of storage felt looser now. It was part of her gamble, praying he'd listen as she saw his familiar form standing near the forge. Lirriel walked over and cleared her throat. "Hello Drauglos."

Drauglos turned from the fire. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. “What are you doing here?”
 
“I came to see you.” Lirriel smiled at him, then examined the forge area. She saw Light's Vengeance, sealed vials containing something foul-looking, and stacked saronite so green it seemed to glow.

“If you came to try and... I've made up my mind,” he said, sounding less certain than he had the last time she'd seen him.

Lirriel settled onto her folded cloak, hands folded on her lap. She breathed deeply and evenly, calming herself.

A short while ago, I had a conversation with a strange Quel'dorei Priest. He told me how everyone had a song, and that my song was ending soon. Of course, I thought by this that he was telling me that I was going to die. I returned to Dalaran later that night and entered my room. Velli wasn't yet, as usual. I undressed myself and hopped into bed, thinking about what the priest had told me. I couldn’t die, I thought, because I knew that if I did, it would destroy Velli.

She was almost afraid to go to sleep.

Not because of the nightmares that had grown in frequency and intensity over the last year—particularly in the last few weeks. She was more concerned that the man sleeping next to her would leave again before she woke.

Cerwis tilted her head as the heavily armored warrior strode into the garden, she nodded at him, "You. Sit." Drauglos peered at Cerwis, confused, "'Kay." He shuffled over and sat on the stone bench next to the silver-haired warriorette. It was clear he'd had a few drinks before answering her summons. 

I scatter bones in Icecrown. I must. They must be broken and they must be scattered, as much as possible. It had been a skeleton of a man or an elf or an orc... I had not looked closely when with a gasping howl it had attacked. It had been Scourge, I had dispatched it, and now I scatter the bones. Among them, clinging to the small bones of the hands and wrist, or twisted around a vertebrae, I often find little reminders of a shadowed past. Rings, trinkets, talismans. I found a rotting leather pouch once that broke open at the touch of my boot; teeth fell out, little whisps of hair, another bone, whiter than those here, untouched by the pervading evil of the Scourge. They scattered into the dust and snow and were whirled away by the wind. Lost in Icecrown, as the Lich King's cold hand must sweep away all such things.

The hard, frozen glacier of Icecrown was as cold and unforgiving as the Lich King himself.  It was almost amazing that a fire could even be brought to life on the frigid tundra.   Despite the environment, a fire strong enough to reduce even bones to ash burned brightly on the battlefield, eagerly consuming the cloak-wrapped form of a once-living, but newly deceased armored warrior.

Tending the flames was a squad of five men and women of various races, each bearing the tabard of the Argent Crusade upon their chest.  They stood stoically around the rough, makeshift funeral pyre they had crafted from the bare bones of the Scourge minions this human had managed to slaughter before he was finally overwhelmed.

Cassie raised her head as I entered the room. In an instant, she was clambering from where she had curled herself in the armchair to reach for me, and in two steps I had her in my arms. I kissed her like I had been away for years. I had thought my lips would never be so warm again.

 She broke the spell.

"HEAR YE!" the king's crier announced through the Trade district. "His Majesty has added the following names to the rolls of the Knights of Morgraine, defectors to the cause of the Alliance from the evil of the Scourge! Ji the Gnome, Apathy the Night Elf, Fnord the Dwarf..."

"Can you believe those names?" I ask my banker, John Burnside, as we go over the records for the Order's vault together. "Think their mothers named them that, or they chose them, or it's some sick undead joke?"

"Seach me, Niall," he says. "Hand me back page three."

I shuffle the papers and hand him the one he wants. "There you go. Ah, at what price, immortality?"

"About 30 gold, but go check across the street," John suggests. "Get the price list from Chilton... you did mean a unit of Eternal Life, right?"

“She hates being called a hero. She asked me if I knew the definition of "Hero" once. I gave her my definition and she looked at me and said, 'Someone who gets other people killed.'”

Reggie's words rung in Lirriel's ears as she followed her own personal Hero outside to the Cathedral stairs while other, less exhausted priests and surgeons worked on Cerwis' shattered leg. They'd all come home as promised from this preliminary foray into the enemy's lair, but not all intact.

The spire leans out at an angle over the gulf, far below the levels of the surrounding walls, but high over the floor of the valley, which at this time gives no sign of the horrible death-in-life which inhabits it, and through the hours of darkness imitates the true dance of life and death in hideous parody of natural wasteland. It looks almost as though it was broken out from the mountain walls and guiltily shoved back in, in effort to conceal the accident, but it is not really sheer at all, and there are many natural steps and crannies that make ascent possible.

I dreamed of Nagrand. I dreamed of the water resting and flowing through the Telaari basin, and the smell of her sun-warmed skin. We laid out on the bank sunbathing, the breeze bending the reeds carrying just enough coolness to keep us from becoming too warm. Draenei do not burn in the sun like the pink-skinned humans; we absorb sunlight, revel in it, glow. We were both glowing, in my dream, basking and glowing and there was nothing between us but light.

I am beginning to believe Night Elves do not sweat. This one has come running up the long road from Darkshore through the tall pines to find our camp. And yet his hair lifts freely with the wind, and though short of breath, no perspiration dots his brow. Though it could be, perhaps, all because a mere moment ago he was a cat.

After handing me a folded letter he shifts again, back to the padded feet which carry him so swiftly through the woods. I barely have time to mutter my thanks for his delivery, so wave a hand of blessing to him before returning to our campfire.

He stared at the orc in disbelief, "You want me to what?"

((In case the tags aren't enough, plot/quest spoiler warnings go here. Also, this is what happens when I should be sleeping and decide to write instead.))

Going through my belongings, I stumble across a ring in my jewelry box. A simple thing, bearing the crest of Lady Jaina Proudmoore. It was a gift given in thanks for helping out with some problems in Theramore with turncoat troops a while back.

I used to wonder—and I’m sure others did too—why Lady Proudmore trusted me, an outsider, with such a problem, at a time when her own men were untrustworthy. But examining the last few months, and the heavy contact with the Bronze Flight and their wretched Caverns, I begin to see pieces fall into place.