Friday, August 27, 2010

The Fruits of Wrath

Fulguralis turned and calmly wiped his blade clean with one of the discarded scraps of frostweave that seemed to fall as frequently as snow flakes in Northrend.  It was not blood on the blade that bothered him.  No, a good Warlock would never get blood on his blade.  A good Warlock would never let anyone close enough to need to use a blade, much less get it bloody.  It was rust, and the wiping didn't help a whole lot.  They had been living out of tents for far too long in the snowy wastelands of Icecrown.  The harsh winter weather had begun to take it's toll even on good steel.

Still, he had filched the blade off the corpse of a multi-headed, reanimated sack of bones.  How good was the steel?  Fulguralis had no experience as a smith.  Who was he to judge?  Maybe actual metal was complete crap, and it was simply the magical resonance that made the thing valuable. 

In any case, the Warlock felt the urge to do something dramatic.  Here they stood before the Frozen Throne of the Lich King himself.  Fulguralis would not stand there all wide-eyed.  This was not his first dance with the shadows.  And wiping your blade felt suitably menacing.

That is, until he saw what Arthas was packing.  Frostmourne.  Devourer of souls.  That thing sure must like cookies.  It was pretty large, and a lot less rusty.  For a sword that spent so much time around ice, you'd think it would have at least some rust.

Fulguralis slowly returned his sword to his waist.  It was clear swords would not be what would win this fight.  Instead, he cracked his knuckles. Yeah, he thought as they made a series of loud crunching noises, shoulda went with that in the first place.

He and nine other adventurers clustered behind Tirion as the Great Orator himself blustered through yet another Light inspired speech.  He seemed to be full of those.  Fulguralis supposed it was suitably epic, considering the locale, but he would just as soon get on with the killing.  Sorry, the justice.  He needed to remember that.  They were here on business, not pleasure.

Fulguralis glanced at his companions.  The short, robed priest that was Jessabelle sat wringing her hands and standing on her toes trying to soak the scene in, while her druid tentmate stood right behind her, talking animatedly to several other group members behind her.  She tried to shush him a few times, but, as usual, he was all up in his limbs, unable to hear the noise down by his roots.

One of their two Paladins, the dwarven one, stood off to the side, sharing what appeared to be an inside joke with one of the Hunters.  They always were having their own side conversations.  What could a Paladin and a Hunter possibly have in common?  They both turned and eyed the Lich King with equal parts apprehension and anticipation.

In front of all nine of them, just to the right of Fordring himself, stood Fuubaar.  And his wife looked pissed.  Before most battles she might be found joking around with the dwarf, deciding which aura to use.  Or chatting it up with the priest, commenting on which ale to celebrate with.  Or any number of other things.  Never before had she seemed so focused.  Never before had she seemed so on edge.  She was like a felhound, pulling at the leash, begging for the chance to rip at her enemy's jugular.

Fulguralis felt a chill run up his spine.  He had seen many moods in his young wife, but this one was new.  The world could cease to exist, for all she appeared to care, as long she got to take a swing at Deepthroat up there on the throne.  The thought popped into the Warlock's head, what did he do to her? 

He had no time to reflect on the thought, however.  No sooner had Tirion ended his exchange with Arthas, than the big, cold man hefted Frostmourne and charged down the stairs toward their group.  The battle had begun.

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