The Scourge

Images of the pale man and the Chieftain. Behind the break~

The pale man looked down upon the runed axe in reverence of what it had become. The bloodstained blade had passed through two worlds; through very planes of existence, only to reach him. This weapon, unlike that of his comrade and brother-in-death, who the pale man could no longer remember, had no voice, no identity. It possessed only the overwhelming ability to calm; to manipulate one into letting their guard down. By the sheer force of its own black magic, it made itself a friend and ally to all that could not resist its silent charms. The pale man was no different.

The armored monstrosity glared down at the pale man, grip tightening on the wicked axe it held. It took a slow, heavy step forward, and the pale man's heart sank. What faced him was both his life, and his death twice over. It was his past and his future, and yet it seemed to exist only to hold him back. His realization was interrupted by another strong footfall. His eyes, hidden behind his mask, darted upward to see his opponent raise his axe high in the air, ready to strike.

The leader of the village was a tall, lanky fellow whose arms seemed to outgrow him. Each movement of his was slow and deliberate. The pale man mused that it could very likely be a means of preventing himself from knocking into things. The Chieftain kept his head low at the pale man's arrival; the woman had stayed outside. The Chieftain wore a metal band across his eyes, but beneath his long, thin nose grew a hefty beard that reached his chest. From beneath the hair, two grey tusks grew. The pale man lowered his head in deference to the Chieftain. "I am but a guest in your village, though I find it welcoming and peaceful. In any case, I was told to speak to you, Chieftain."

The white road streched on, the pale man's destination forever in the distance and just beyond his vision. A gentle breeze blew, shifting the white sand beneath his feet. Soon though, he would make his first stop.

A small fern grew beneath a tree. Its caretaker watered it and stroked its leaves delicately.

The pale man stood upon a long, straight road. The path was white sand, and on either side of him, endless plains of beautiful green grass. He walked along the path, the sunless yet illuminated sky never fading into night. He did not need sleep. For a long time, he had not needed sleep. His muscles did not tire, his eyes did not grow heavy, and his mind did not grow weary; he simply was. He continued, undaunted, along the white road.

((Did some doodling, and came up with this. The future is mysteeeerious~...Pffbt))

Twenty-five hours, Dubaku thought, since the breakthrough.

Dubaku the Sleepless sat upon his perch, deep within the black halls of Icecrown Citadel. All around him were more of the walking dead; his comrades, his allies. Geists patrolled the darkest reaches of the hall, their lonely gaze barely falling short of Dubaku's detailed habitation. Dubaku's station was devoid of luxuries, despite its eminence. This was something he had grown accustomed to, and came to prefer. His subordinates grew in number exponentially with the influx of Argent Crusaders and their allies.