#﹙ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴀʀʀᴏɢᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴡʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ. ﹚ knights of the ebon blade.

[necroarchy]

Arthas putting Orbaz in charge of the "Host of Suffering" that was explicitly shitty Ebon Blade 2.0 & giving him the unfinished Malykriss necropolis that was explicitly shitty Acherus 2.0

when Arthas' entire plan for WotLK hinged on the most powerful fighters of Azeroth wrecking his empire on their way to the Frozen Throne, of whom undoubtedly Knights of the Ebon Blade would be a significant part of

you can really tell who was the least favorite child, huh?

[necroarchy]

talk about the scourge!! arthas obviously had a lot of power over the minds of his minions, but how do you think belonging to this network of undead impacts others, specially the most 'aware' of themselves? how do you think that influences the unity we see in groups of undead even after they break away from the scourge, such as the ebon blade and the forsaken?

     “It is the will of the Lich King that drives us onward, <name>. None are more aware of this than death knights. Our very existence is intrinsically tied to his very consciousness. Surely you have heard him speak to you - invading your thoughts...

     Can you hear him now? Perhaps it is too early for you.

     <Mograine closes his eyes and nods to an unknown host.>

     Yes, my lord. It will be done.”

     --- Darion Mograine, “The Will of the Lich King”

     Oh, man. How do you describe a hivemind? I’m not familiar enough with bees and ants to draw the comparisons I’d like, but I suppose… imagine standing in a room where everyone is talking. No matter what you do or where you go, you hear that background murmur at the edge of your mind. And you know everyone who is speaking --- on a bone-deep level, you know these people, from strangers you’ve just seen to your dearest and oldest friends. They’re part of you, as you are inexorably part of them.

     And above the murmuring, a voice you can always hear as cleanly as though whispered straight into your ear…

     It’s difficult to maintain a true sense of “self” in this sort of environment. You’re forcibly part of something much bigger than yourself, and you can feel it. Always. As though having your will stolen weren’t enough, there’s no real chance for anyone to even be alone with their own thoughts. There is nothing of you not tied to this abomination of a kingdom. 

     Retaining your own mind wasn’t impossible in the Scourge, as we see with Anub’arak and Sir Zeliek. Their wills were stolen, but they clearly understood and despised their circumstances. You have to wonder how many initially-resistant Scourge members either willingly let themselves be subsumed or go insane. Either had to be easier than remaining as is.

     As for unity post-Scourge… it’s not especially relevant, I feel. As much as the remnants of that psychic link might haunt them all, they’re also just straight up trauma-bonded. No one can understand the precise horror the Ebon Blade & Forsaken have suffered as well as each other. I’m inclined to believe that has a stronger effect upon unity than anything else. Disconnecting from the Scourge disconnected them from each other, and while they’re still able to hear the Lich King’s call faintly, it’s not enough to extend to hearing the rest of their brethren. 

[necroarchy]

Telepathy

“ Ah, Deathlord, you have returned.

I have inscribed a series of frozen runes above Acherus. Once attuned, you will be able to communicate with the Lich King more… completely.

He will be able to show you things he could not before. ”

Amal'thazad emits a horrible, rasping noise, that you can only assume is a chuckle. [ xxx ]

   While the Lich King is generally depicted as being an exceedingly powerful telepath, both in terms of communication and mental infiltration, that is… super boring in roleplay for me. So let’s try to define the parameters of his abilities!

The Scourge

   For the Scourge and the Cult of the Damned, he is automatically capable of contacting them no matter the distance or other mitigating factors. Generally, this is due to the magical bonds which have tied that person to him. For the Scourge, it’s that they’re… Scourge. For the Damned, it is due to them drinking a concoction upon their initiation which binds their spirit to his will. ( Though the concoction is undoubtedly weaker than we are led to believe; while it binds them to him, it is not strong enough to override their own free will and their ability to turn cowardly when things go sideways. )

   For affiliate organizations of the Scourge such as the Wolfcult of Arugal and the Vrykul tribes loyal to him, there does not appear to be any analogous way for the members to be connected to him. Thus, they relied entirely upon messengers like the val’kyr who did have that connection and/or summoning rituals in order to draw and hold his attention.

    Admittedly, most undead who wish to contact the Lich King need to do so via rituals. Mental speech is not the most effective way of communicating complicated information, which is why even the upper echelon of the Scourge do not approach the Lich King mentally with their reports. We see this when Archlich Kel’Thuzad must talk to Arthas via wizard telephone when we raid Naxxramas, after all. Additionally, it’s a very top-down connection; few individual undead possess the mental power or allowance to spiritually contact the Lich King without his explicit say-so, and that’s probably best for them. He’s not especially patient with those who speak to him in this manner, as it goes against the flow of how he ties his telepathic connection to his subjects with his ego. Don’t call him --- he’ll call you.

Everyone Else

   Attempting to contact anyone who is not Scourge affiliated depends upon a number of extenuating factors. Distance and location, for one. It is pitifully easy for him to infiltrate the minds of those who walk the halls of Icecrown Citadel, as we see in the fire mage artifact quest; the Citadel is his domain, from the Throne to its wretched depths, and nothing occurs within it which he does not know. On the other hand, he has no clue what anyone in Uldum is thinking, ever, unless he physically stepped foot there ( which he never will, because fuck the heat and fuck the sand and royally fuck all that Titan bullshit. ) ( He can’t even truly feel heat and he’d still hate it. )

   The minds of the living, though he would never admit it, are difficult for him to infiltrate unless they are standing in land which is ‘his’ --- Northrend, the Plaguelands, his territory in the Shadowlands, anywhere which the Scourge has blighted and desecrated and thus turned into his unholy ground. Wielding artifacts connected to his power such as Shadowmourne also drastically reduces an individual’s ability to keep him out, due to those artifacts serving as direct conduits through which he may travel into your brainspace. Minds which lack the acuity to keep him out are easier to penetrate than those which understand the danger and are prepared against it. Those who are protected by the Light, Elune, powerful loa, or some other patron will also be harder targets for his mental invasions than those who are not.

    Undead which are no longer bound to him or whom were created by those who used to be bound by him are in something of a liminal space, mental invasion wise. They’re practically as easy as the Scourge for him to contact mentally, as we see with the Deathlord quests, but actually reading their minds isn’t nearly so simple. While he can catch the general impressions of their thoughts, such as if they’re angry or focused or lying or any such other thing, actually deep-diving into their minds requires effort. And, like the living, they too benefit from whatever walls they can put between him and their brainspace --- though perhaps not as much as the living, depending upon the individual undead in question. They’re his but not, and that warps the whole interaction into a strange cant that leaves him perturbed.

    However, with time these defenses can wear away. According to old Forsaken lore, the undead run the risk of falling into a mindless state in which they “ revert to the Scourge's will and lose themselves to the Lich King. ” His call is ceaseless. Ignoring it is difficult. Eventually, you might not be able to.

    Undead resurrected through means wholly divorced from the Scourge are weirdos and  not really something he entirely knows how to handle / has ever had to handle in his existence thus far. He’d loathe them utterly and immediately attempt to destroy or dominate them.

[necroarchy]

Ah, the Horde... meddling, as always. I suppose a welcome is in order. So welcome, insects. Welcome to my world.

You have crossed into the world of the dead in search of answers. You wish to save your ally and have risked life and limb to be here. Allow me to help.

The boy believed that he was free, but free will has a price. The demons I kept at bay are now loose upon him and all death knights that attempt to flee...

Mograine's sacrifice was for nothing. You will let Koltira know, won't you?

And remember this, mortal: for now I give you the choice. I allow you to pick your allegiance, but in the end, you will be mine - one way or another.

    --- the Lich King, “The Power to Destroy”

     I’ve always held an especial fondness for this interaction. Arthas casually barging in on a quest to monologue at us is hardly a rare occurance in Wrath, but showing up on dragonback in the middle of the shadowlands might take the cake for style. (Least ‘til that tantrum during “Banshee’s Revenge,” but I digress.) It’s always fun when Arthas casually shows up in the middle of a questline to monologue, but descending on dragonback into the shadow realm is so extra.

     Additionally, the insight we glean into the Knights of the Ebon Blade over the course of Koltira’s questline is devastating. As though being wracked by the Endless Hunger were not enough, their spirits are still tied to his territory in the Shadowlands. His servants can ever find them and torment them, like a legion of Furies nipping the heels of them all.

     While all Scourge-raised undead suffer myriad afflictions which strongly incentivize them to stay Scourge, the particular, specific viciousness of Arthas siccing tormentors upon the Ebon Blade fascinates me. Of course he takes the desertion of death knights especially hard. The entirety of his plan in Wrath is to try to convince everyone that the face they see in the mirror is actually his own. He calls the Scourge his “children” at least once, and doubtless he means that especially for death knights. He was the first; all the rest are descended from him, in one manner or another. There’s no doubt they’re Greatfather Winter’s favorites, and so for a whole necropolis full of them to supplicant themselves before the mercy of mortals and then turn blades against him? He takes it very, very personally.   

     Never mind that they only deserted because he sent them all to die on the holiest ground on Azeroth, whereupon it took a literal miracle stripped them all of his shackles. This is still their fault, somehow.

     I can only presume these tormentors were called off when Bolvar took up the Helm, as I doubt even in his worst moments, he would ever stoop to perpetuating needless suffering upon anyone who isn’t the Red Dragonflight, rip. For a while at least, the Ebon Blade would have some respite.

     Then, of course, Arthas retook his throne. And. Well.

     Mograine’s sacrifice was for nothing. You will let Koltira know, won’t you?

     Respite from the tormentor spirits would have been a negotiation point during the Legion alliance. It’s a demand Arthas would eventually capitulate to, with the most hideous grin. The spirits only haunt errant death knights, after all.

     Last but not least, Arthas calling Koltira a “boy” always catches my attention. Koltira’s an elf; he likely has decades if not centuries over Arthas. It helps solidify my feeling that he truly does see the knights as his children, with absolutely no consideration to who or what they were in life.

[necroarchy]

"Who do you love?” asked Kel’Thuzad, and the answer is “No one,” we know --- Darion fresh-dead knows --- “Who do you love?” asks Archlich Kel’Thuzad of the Scourge, and he would answer “No one” as well, and never mind the cat which lurks in Naxxramas’ halls...

It gets me thinking. About Koltira and Thassarian, how they’ve adored each other across deaths and factions and dangers. How Thassarian damned Koltira once and repays it by saving him again and again and again

Of Nathanos following Sylvanas wherever she goes even past the grave, and how King Thoras Trollbane is now best friends with General Nazgrim. Derek quietly admitting he’s the bomb to his poor grieving sister. Darion Mograine dying and allowing himself to be enslaved for love, Darion Mograine finding freedom because of that love

And I think of Arthas, of how he loved so much so fiercely that he bled to death from it, how he never stopped loving no matter WHAT he did to try to exorcise himself of the burden. He fed his own soul to Frostmourne, murdered his father and Uther and all, cut out his literal heart and throw it into the great dark deep. Slaughtering his own soul again and again. 

Except he resurrected Invincible as soon as possible, and he screamed when Anastarian cut off the horse’s legs. He called Kel’Thuzad a loyal friend. Promised the nerubians he would never abandon his loyal subjects. The outstanding offer to Jaina to come to his side, the lectures of Terenas’ ghost that he actually listened to, the box of memorabilia from his life*... 

It’s just interesting, is all. How Arthas cuts out his heart and cuts out his soul and he tries to cut the world’s throat. How he takes people apart and stitches them back up strange. The Scourge can recycle people into almost any horrifying form you can imagine, it can strip away bones and willpower and joy with ease, but it cannot erase the ability to love. You will lose everything in undeath, but you will not lose that. 

I think about it sometimes. *(and Sylvanas’ blood and Alexandros’ soul gem for the conclusion of other narratives but whatevssss i’ll justify them thematically for him later)

[necroarchy]

In Shadowlands, Arthas would have to deal with Darion the entire time and I'm sure that would be very interesting

     ( I want to make a father and son joke here but Alexandros is also in SL which somewhat complicates matters. )

     I reckon that’s an upgrade for poor Darion, to be honest. They had to work together in Legion quite a bit, and Arthas was utterly insufferably smug that entire expansion. He’d managed to drag Acherus back under his wing, and it didn’t matter how much Zoen and Darion protested that they weren’t Scourge because they were still fulfilling his orders. 

     Now, Arthas has been knocked down a few pegs and he isn’t quite so disaffected as before. The Ebon Blade aren’t as... disadvantaged... in their dealings with him as they were before.

[necroarchy]

hallo , frost ; less headcanon that goes both-ways , as there's yet to be crafted a way in which our muses can meet , but please consider for me : in the winter , when shit starts freezing over , one of flynn's most-used complaints is "it's colder than a menethil's tongue" 'cause , y'know , biting winds , biting words ;;

Come to my inbox and share a headcanon you have about our muses --- accepting!   @middenwake

     I am ABSOLUTELY IN LOVE WITH THIS!

     Azeroth doesn’t have enough in-universe-specific swears and saying for my tastes; I’m reminded constantly of SWTOR and the Sith Empire saying of “It’s enough to wake the Emperor!” and how that sort of small worldbuilding adds so much depth to a game.

     Also, the idea that Arthas’ sarcasm is so universally well-known that it’s part of common idioms is fucking hilarious.

     Related to this, I have a few Scourge-ish idioms that I keep forgetting to put here!

     1. melt the throne --- to indicate a ultimately futile, or almost impossible task, i.e., “You’ll melt the Throne before you defeat him  /  Could quicker melt the Throne than learn that spell.” 

     2. wake the lich king --- yessss I’m stealing straight from SWTOR but Arthas took a long nap! That had an effect! Often used when things are going wildly off the rails, or crisis after crisis is piling up around you.  “The way things are, it’s enough to wake the Lich King  /  You’ll wake the Lich King if you keep this up.”  ( “Wake the Emperors,” incidentally, could very easily be used as a reference to the Old Gods considered the Black Empire. )

     3. training ghouls --- similar to Melt the Throne, but with a greater emphasis in the frivolity of a useless task. “You’d spend the time better training ghouls than trying to sort that mess  /  Fishing’s as useful as training ghouls.”

     4. burn in holy --- an emphatic assertion of earnestness; references how fucking painful holy magic is for the undead. “I’ll burn holy before I kneel to you!  /  I’m serious. Burn me in holy if I’m wrong.”

     5. unborn --- a major Scourge insult adopted from the Val’kyr term for their new sisters. It calls the recipient weak, untested. Often starts fights. “She’s an unborn brat who has no idea what she’s doing  /  Back down if you wish to survive, unborn.”

     6. by the deathlord --- an actual, canonical idiom used as an expression of astonishment. 

     7. dangerous as the scourge navy --- a disparaging assessment of a person or organization that is significantly less of a threat than one might believe at first. A reference to the fact that the Scourge have absolutely no naval presence on Azeroth at all. “Gnolls are about as dangerous as the Scourge navy if you’re at all competent.  /  You’ll be dangerous as the Scourge navy if you keep using that sword.”

     I genuinely adore idioms and expressions like this with all of my heart, so if you ( or anyone else who happens to read this ) come up with any more, please let me know!

[necroarchy]

Father’s Day

   SUMMARY: In the wake of the Second Battle of Light’s Hope, the Lich King contemplates his Deathlord in a strange, rare moment of camaraderie. Except not really.

   OR a conversation that doesn’t end with anyone dead for once, but just barely.

    NOTE: Reposting 'cause we live that life around here and also it’s got lines I needed to find.

   WARNING: This is from Arthas’ perspective, so it’s just all kinds of awful. Mental and emotional abuse, as well as references to past physical abuse. Manipulation, intimidation, victim-blaming, etc. etc.

     “ What’re you doing, Lich King? ”

     The unsettlement of air announced his Wraith just before her voice, the syllables carrying with them the distinctive sensations that made up the patchwork of her presence - the whisper of ice, of shadow, of wolf’s teeth and bottomless hunger. He did not turn to the child as she leaned irreverently against the balustrade that wrapped around the overlook they stood upon, the hollow thunk of saronite striking saronite muffled by the material of her coat. He had forgone his helm for a short while today, and she stood just at the edge of his peripheral vision if he focused on her. ( He didn’t. ) The wolf, cleverly, settled between Lord and King. While the barrier of fur and bone and blood would not be enough to make Arthas so much as hesitate should things edge towards violence, it would stop Zoen in her tracks.

     Idly, he wondered why she was here.

     “ Observing. ” Beneath them, knights-in-training battled furiously against one another while instructors waded fearlessly amidst the fray, shouting threats and criticisms. The din was almost pleasant, yet another form of background noise to join that of the endless clamor of murmuring souls that echoed through Arthas’ skull. “ You could benefit from doing the same. ”

     He heard the shift of metal and leather as she turned to split her attention between him and the knights. “ They’re awful. ”

     “ You were worse. ”

     She scoffed in disdain, and he glanced at her just in time to catch her unconsciously raising a hand to rub at where her throat had been sawed open barely a week following her rebirth. He did not try to suppress his smirk. “ Inaccurate, and not the point. ”

     “ Isn’t it? ” He tilted his attention further to her, both approving and condemning how she rocked back on her heels away from him.

     Wariness of him was smart, was right in a knight of his, no matter their errancy - especially due to their errancy. The Ebon Blade yet had treasons to atone for, sins whose punishments he’d flay from their souls as soon as they had returned, properly, to the heavy fold of his sovereignty. Amusing though it was to watch Acherus’ children scurry around doing his bidding while stubbornly clinging to their delusion of independence, he ached for when they’d kneel in reverent, dutiful loyalty at the foot of his throne, minds reconnected to the grand nexus of the Scourge and the chains of their wills wound firmly around his wrist.

     From beneath came an especially loud shout, followed by a gradual decrease of noise. Arthas looked down and saw a rough circle of acolytes forming around what appeared to be a newly-disarmed initiate who stood clenching his lone fist whilst an instructor shouted at him. At their feet lay a severed, leaking limb. The instructor roared for a few more moments before apparently dismissing the acolyte, who took the chance to snag his arm off the ground before stiffly making his way towards the doors that would lead him to the nearest necromancers’ hall. The clamor from before rose back up, knights fighting knights with renewed vigor.

     “ See? ” Zoen murmured, tone edging irritatingly similar to smug. Was she closer than she’d been before? “ Awful. ”

     “ If any of them surpass you, Deathlord, I’ll replace you. ”

     “ If any of them surpass me, Lich King, I’ll deserve it. ” She twisted around to rest her back fully on the railing, dismissing the knights below with silent contempt. The consequence was that she now no longer had anything to really focus on save Arthas himself, which she seemed to only truly understand at the end of her little rotation. To his entertainment, she seemed incapable of regarding him for any protracted length of time, as though he were the sun and to look directly at him would burn her eyes. No, not the sun, he thought. A god, his divinity too darkly radiant for a creature of such profound imperfection as Zoen Mith to gaze upon without suffering vastly for it. The idea pleased him enough that he magnanimously declined to call out the weakness for what it was.

     The moment extended awkwardly --- for the girl, of course, not Arthas, who really couldn’t care less about her dilemma except the ways it may compliment him --- wherein Zoen shuffled between gazing down at her dozing wolf and sending furtive, disturbed glances at the sculpted skull of his right pauldron. Her eyes dropped to her feet and her hands fell from the railing to inside her coat’s pockets. She pulled out what looked to be an old, brass pocket watch and frowned briefly at it before curling her fist tighter around it and jamming them both back into her coat.

     They fell into silence, leaving one another to their distractions: Zoen her growing unease, Arthas his supervision of his knights’ training. Nothing so gruesomely inconvenient as dismemberment plagued any of the remaining acolytes, though such mercy could not be attributed to hesitancy or consideration on behalf of their brethren; indeed the tide of their ferocity and bloodlust seemed to rise higher in concurrence with the growing length of time that their mock battles stretched on. Except mock began to seem too trite a word, now that he thought about it, its connotations almost too passive for the crashing violence that swept across the floor below - as though it was not a legion of fallen, desecrated heroes pitted in a dozen vicious wars but a pack of squealing children artlessly swinging sticks at one another. Puerile, even - and of course thoughts of puerility inevitably drew his attention (and eyes) toward the child leaning artlessly against the balustrade at his side, one of her hands curling loosely around the hilt of her overhyped stick.

     It dawned, suddenly, that he had never before shared any moment of remarkable length with this child of his that did not involve violence of either a physical or mental capacity. He would not call what they dwelled in currently peace, aware as he was of the literal and proverbial wolf slumbering between them, and the blades they both carried at their sides should the metaphorical beast awaken. But it was not violence, nor teeth-clenched toleration that would only last the very bare minimum of time until they could hastily part ways. It was, temporarily, a state of coexistence.

     Arthas seized the opportunity to really, truly look at Zoen. His child was a mess of poor construction, avian bones wrapped up in lambskin with shark’s teeth jammed into a too-small mouth, her own weak jaw muzzling her better than any man-made contraption. Lordship had settled heavily on her shoulders, rounding them until he wondered for a moment if they had been wrenched from the sockets. He could see the tension in her neck, how the tendons were taut as bowstrings beneath the skin. The dark shadows that clung to her eyes spoke of an exhaustion she could not even experience anymore. Her cheekbone was splattered with the telltale discolorations of a nearly-healed bruise, and below her jaw, just above the line of her coat’s collar, a sloppy row of stitches ran diagonally down her throat.

     “ You look atrocious. ”

     Candid, but he had never been the liar between them. She grinned sardonically, and at the corner of her mouth he could just make out the faint, silvery line of where a blade had broken through the skin long ago, trailing from the edge of her lips to the swell of her chin. The scar was unnotable enough on its own, but compounded with his intimate knowledge of the mutilation that destroyed the other side of her face, its inconsequence was practically insulting. Arthas entertained the thought of taking a blade and digging through that pathetic blemish, turning it into another emblem of ruination. Another lesson.

          Perhaps this time, she would learn it.

     “ Do I? What a shame. ” Her voice was a desert. “ Somewhere between slaughtering demons and leading armies I suppose I let my skincare regimen fall to the wayside. ”

     “ If you crumble, child --- ”

     “ Yes, you said, ” she snapped, and he so dearly desired to reach forward and pluck out those teeth she dared turn against him. Petulance could be amusing, and spite had its charm, but little mitigated such outright disrespect. “ You’ll replace me with one of your pets. I’m very sure they’ll have better luck attacking the paladins than I did. ”

     “ That would not be difficult. ” He rounded on her, paying no heed to the growl building up in the wolf’s chest as it scrabbled to its feet and backed up against his Wraith, its fangs bared uselessly at him. “ Your failure was a spectacular display of the incompetence characteristic of your Ebon Blade. ”

     Below them, the din of battle lessened as distracted knights turn from their combatants to the storm quietly brewing on the overlook. Arthas lashed out at their minds in painful chastisement, disgusted at such a large-scale lapse on their part. He would not allow his loyal servants to succumb to the same weaknesses that crippled his traitors - crippled his daughter, who for all her snarling, sputtering outrage could inspire only a swell of disgust in the Lich King.

     “ We aren’t --- ”

     “ Maxwell Tyrosus and Liadrin were at your mercy, ” he spat viciously, “ and rather than bring them into --- ” my “ --- your fold, you chose to leave them crumpled on the ground, battered but alive. Tirion Fordring rests peacefully in his grave still, because you were too weak to claim him. Time and again, you are given chances to prove yourself, and time and again, you fall short of expectations. You disappoint me. ”

     The effect was immediate; Zoen reeled back, face crumpling in a way that brought to mind Archimonde’s destruction of Dalaran; the experience of watching something vaunted be brought down by a power so totally beyond its scope that resistance was completely inconceivable. She built herself back up, brick by brick --- swept away her horror and dismay behind a curtain of rage and hatred, but he could still see it through the gossamer threads, he still knew how fragile the foundations of her construction were.

     “ I disappoint you, ” she sneered, shaking her head, as though that might bolster the illusion enough that he couldn’t see through it. “ I disappoint you how, Lich King? ‘Cause I didn’t slaughter my way through Light’s Hope? ” And he could kill her for the ghost of guilt he saw cross her face. “ It only took me four knights and a handful of ghouls to reach their Sanctum. You sent ten thousand soldiers and you didn’t even get through the door! ”

     “ Tread lightly, ” he warned softly, taking a step toward her. His Wraith almost tripped over herself in her attempt to not mirror him with a step back, and this was godhood, was sovereignty, was power, this ability to dominate with nothing more than a twitch and a breath. “ Mograine died for you, Deathlord. Don’t throw that sacrifice away out of petulance. ”

     But godhood, sovereignty, power --- none would be nearly so gratifying if the whole world simply rolled over, quavering in fearful submission, meekly accepting his dominion without giving rebellion a fleeting thought. Zoen tilted her chin up, the line of stitches across her throat stretching, and Arthas delighted in the defiance as much as he loathed it. There was incredible satisfaction in possessing something that had once fought tooth and nail against being owned.

     “ I’m right, though, ” she said coldly, hollowly. The lack of arrogance ensured that his loathing did not outweigh his delight for now. “ Other than bringing back Tirion, we’ve done everything right. Got the weapons, got the Horsemen, got a couple mountains’ worth of dead demons behind us, got a… glowy, floaty, singin’ thing hangin’ out in the corner of Acherus that I should probably throw back into the ocean or something ‘cause it’s giving everyone a headache and it clashes with everything and we’ve got a bloody aesthetic to maintain --- ”

     The wolf chuffed, breaking the flow of Zoen’s ramble. She spared it a blank, indecipherable look before returning her gaze to Arthas.

     “ So --- so you could kill me ‘cause I’m petulant, and replace me with one of those --- those unborn brats down there, and see how that goes. Or you could… not kill me, and not replace me, ‘cause so far that seems to be working out pretty well. ”

     “ Is this a plea for mercy, Deathlord? ”

     A laugh tore its way out of her throat. “ Mercy’s a sin. I’m asking you to be practical. ”

     It was not pride that unfurled, sleepy and disoriented, beneath his rib cage, but its precursor. The acknowledgement that pride could exist within him, that one day it might settle in his bones, that looking at his Wraith would not inspire frustration and betrayal and and a sinking, clawing feeling that he could not name. And if she could scrabble her way towards such glory as the Death God’s approval, imagine what the rest of her brethren could accomplish, those whose only disappointments had been betrayal.

     A crooked grin crossed the Lich King’s features, and that precursor must have bled through because Zoen lowered her chin, looking somewhat disturbed. “ Then consider yourself forgiven, Deathlord, ” he said with all proper magnanimity of a god. She wasn’t, really, wouldn’t be for a long while, but if she could offer candor, he could offer lies. “ I’d suggest returning to your knights before you need seek it again. ”

     His Wraith, for all her faults, was not quite foolish enough to dare stay when a clean exit was offered; and thus with a short whistle to her wolf, she lurched away from the balustrade, hands raised and wreathed in shadow as she wrenched open a death gate. The wolf padded obediently through the portal, and she had nearly taken her first step through when:

     “ Though I do wonder, Zoen, why you came here today at all. ”

     With her back to him as she stood before her gate, Arthas could not see what sort of emotion might have twisted her features, but he knew enough from the stiffening of her shoulders, the way her hands curled into fists before she shoved them into her pockets, that it would have been interesting. And as the silence grew between them, festering like an infected wound, he began to consider reaching forward, yanking her around that he might find out.

     “ It’s Father’s Day, ” she said at last, and that strange, sinking feeling clawed at his insides. “ Thought about just sending a card, but I’m pretty sure the postage would’ve bankrupted me. Suffer well, Arthas. ”

     And then she was gone, the gate sealing neatly behind her, nothing left behind to indicate she had ever been there at all. Arthas found himself staring at the space she’d occupied for a moment too long before finally returning his eyes to the knights training below, clashing in their mock battles like a pack of children.

    Father’s Day.

    The claws sunk deeper.

    He should have carved up her face again.

[necroarchy]

an old but critical conversation with @ridefourth about internal hostilities between death knight organizations and Arthas’ blatant favoritism.

[necroarchy]

     Switching up to Arthas needling the Ebon Blade into stealing corpses. Hmm. Hmmmmm.

     Strangely, that’s one of the evil Bolvar things that would be a little difficult to replicate here ( because honestly he’d rather just take them for himself and make them Scourge ) BUT if he set it up as an “ either you take them or I WILL ” scenario....

[necroarchy]

What does Arthas think of the fourth war deathknights?

     Nothing especially different from his view of all the other Knights of the Ebon Blade.

[necroarchy]

relations tags.

[necroarchy]

How do the other members of the Scourge feel about the defection of some of their ranks to the Forsaken/Ebon Blade?

     “Now this is a surprise, Thassarian. I hadn’t heard from Mograine or the other death knights for months. You’ve come to rejoin the Scourge, I take it?”

     Heretics, the lot of them.     

     There’s a special place in the rotten heart of the Scourge for the Forsaken and the Ebon Blade, full of rage and incomprehension and gut-wrenching betrayal. 

     The tragedy of the Scourge is that they’re proud to be Scourge. Forced to be proud, twisted and brainwashed to be proud, but still proud. They worship the Lich King, subscribe wholeheartedly to his aspirations and goals. He’s their god. The living? Of course they defy him. They’re fools blinded by their own mortality and “morality,” too mundane to comprehend his glorious view. Detestable, of course, deplorable, but that’s just how they are. They just don’t understand yet.

     Forsaken and Ebon Blade? Saw the truth of the world, have been exposed to the glory of service in the Lich King’s honor, have ascended to the higher plane of undeath, and then turned their back on it. That’s blasphemy! Sacrilege! Profanity! You can’t go back inside Plato’s Cave after you’ve finally seen sunlight! You can’t unenlighten yourself! Who do you think you are?!

     That’s how the Scourge feels about their errant brethren, manifesting itself as murderous violence and caustic words every time they come within aggro range of each other.