- Joined
- Feb 2, 2008
- Messages
- 41
The Creation of the Undercity
By Knight7770
By Knight7770
Sylvannas and Varimathras were in their relatively small tent, attempting to devise the optimal location for their new nation's capital city. Ever since her liberation from the Scourge, Sylvannas had been wondering how she was going to be able to start her new nation, the Forsaken. She had managed to form various alliances with the surrounding Undead forces, and now they were moving west, to Lordaeron. It was as if the Hebrews were once again trekking across the desert; however, these Undead were far darker than the Hebrews ever could have been. Nothing existed in their hearts except hatred for Ner'zhul and Arthas; and all the other servants of the Lich King. Progress across the Plaguelands was slow, and rations were short, even though they did not need much to hold themselves together. Tensions were high amongst the newly formed Forsaken, but Sylvannas was always there to keep fights from occurring. She was everywhere at once when she had the time, but now she was in her shoddy tent, discussing vital plans of action with her lieutenant, Varimathras. All that was in their tent was a lantern, a table, and a map of Lordaeron and the Plaguelands. Sylvannas and Varimathras were laying out their ideas like a card game: one person first, then the other, then the other, then the other, and so on until one of the players was victorious.
"As of now, we are leading the Forsaken along the direct center of the Plaguelands. I had assumed this to be the safest path, but now I realize that no path is safe."
"Yes, milady. The Scourge's agents are everywhere; they are unavoidable in this area. I suggest that we begin to head in southerly direction."
"Oh? And why is this? I had thought that we were to establish our capital on the northern coast of the Tirisfal Glades."
"I had thought that this was appropriate action as well; when you had first mentioned it. But now I remember something of great importance to our success."
"Varimathras, you cannot tarry with such matters. You are aware that we are constantly being followed by the Scourge, and that we must not waste any time in these cursed Plaguelands. Why have you not told me of this before?"
"Please, milady. I have not even begun to outline the important matter. Patience is something that you must learn if you are to be-"
"Do not tell me what I must and mustn't learn! You seem to forget, Varimathras, that I am your superior."
"I beg your pardon, milady. Now, if I may continue with my idea?"
"You may, as long as it is just the concise information."
"Very well. You, of course, recall that Arthas was once king of the Humans?"
"Yes, I do. I could never forget Arthas and all his vile acts of hatred."
"And all kings must have castles from which to rule, correct?"
"Yes, I know all this. Get to the point, Varimathras, or you shall no longer be my lieutenant."
"I was just about to, milady. Arthas' castle is now abandoned. Only a few of the Undead and perhaps some mutants reside there now."
"So you are suggesting that we make the ruins of Arthas' castle our new capital city?"
"Exactly. However, instead of constructing our capital on the old ruins, we might construct it below them?"
"That's brilliant! Arthas had begun to expand his castle downward, so we shall have a gleaming start. Very good work, Varimathras."
"Thank you, milady. Shall we set out south-east at dawn?"
"Yes. We must begin the long walk to the ruins of Lordaeron immediately."
"Very well. I shall give the orders to our captains as soon as possible."
As dawn approached the Forsaken caravan, Sylvannas and Varimathras had a new hope for their nation. But, not only was this hope not to last; it was a hope forged within the hearts of eternally demented beings.
As the midday sun arose upon the Eastern Plaguelands, the caravan of the Forsaken was about to cross the Thondroril River. Ever since the earliest lights of the dawn, Sylvannas and her followers had not seen a single agent of the Scourge. Neither Sylvannas nor Varimathras could fathom the reason as to why they had not seen a single Abomination or Banshee since the preceding day; let alone fought the Undead. The banshee ranger had summoned her lieutenant to her, inside her tent.
“Greetings, milady. You wish to speak to me?”
“Enter, Varimathras. Do you know why we have not seen any Undead that are not our allies as of late?”
“No, milady. All of the Forsaken are greatly troubled; they are becoming apprehensive and a fight might occur at any given moment.”
“I realize that they are starting to doubt my abilities as a leader. If we do not see any Scourge units by the time we are across the Thondroril River, I fear that we may have to sacrifice one of our own to please the Forsaken.”
“Surely you do not suggest slaughtering our own?”
“Varimathras, you are not one to question my judgment. Although you are my second-in-command, I will not tolerate the slightest tone of disobedience from you. You remember that I graciously spared your life. Do not make me rethink that decision.”
“Yes, milady.”
With this threat, Varimathras exited his commander’s tent. He gazed out upon the rising sun, and the deathly aura which the Plaguelands emitted. Somehow, he knew that something was not right with the caravan’s recent ease of travel. This was too deathly a place for there to be peace amongst the enemies of the Lich King. He set out to patrol the various Forsaken regiments, and perhaps to see if there was a group large enough to extract some of the hiding Scourge and bring them to the caravan.
Several hours had passed since Varimathras had set out to find any potential scouting candidates. The caravan had been called to a halt by Sylvannas, and it lay waiting just in front of the narrow bridge that runs the width of the Thondroril River. This had set off so great a feeling of unease amongst the Forsaken that they refused to become the victims of Varimathras’ plan; even when faced with the penalty of unending torture. Sylvannas’ lieutenant approached yet another small group of the Forsaken, this time hoping to obtain some loyal cannon fodder for the Scourge. This group consisted mostly of Banshees, but there was one Necromancer among them. He seemed to be their leader, so when Varimathras came to them, the Necromancer was the first to speak.
“What brings you to our section of the caravan, Dreadlord?” His voice was unaccented and dull. Not even the normally hateful word ‘Dreadlord’ carried the slightest tone of distaste. Varimathras was both offended and taken off-guard by this. After all, he was the most powerful entity in the ranks of the Forsaken; apart from Lady Sylvannas, of course.
“You have no right to address me as ‘Dreadlord,’ Necromancer. I am Varimathras: the lieutenant of the Forsaken. The only thing that filth like you may address me as is ‘Lord Varimathras.’”
“But you are no lord. You are merely the slave-dog of Sylvannas. I am more powerful than you when it comes to pure, un-deceitful combat.”
Varimathras was simply enraged at this impudent Necromancer’s defiant attitude. Why, he even had the cheek to utter the name of the Dark Lady!
“Fool! You dare challenge one of the Nathrezim? You will not-”
But Sylvannas had stricken Varimathras to the ground before he could finish. She was furious at the Dreadlord; otherwise she would not have sprinted the several miles from her tent the instant she heard him speak the word.
“Nathrezim!? You dare utter that vile word once more anywhere in my caravan and you will not be my lieutenant any longer! The damned word brings back such terrible hatred and anger to me. Varimathras, you had best watch yourself very carefully from now on. You are not performing adequately enough to remain in your current rank.”
The Necromancer, though visibly expressionless, was elated. So elated, in fact, that the depressed soul let out a faint snicker. As seemingly harmless as this was, it was to be his undoing. Nothing ever escaped Sylvannas’ watchful senses; nothing. She did not bother to face the wretch as she spoke.
“Who are you to snicker at me? You are nothing but a small, insignificant worm to my power!”
The Necromancer remained as expressionless as before as he spoke once again.
“You must enjoy making yourself appear to be stronger than you truly are. You are nothing but an incompetent wretch, whose life has been lost to the relentless power of the Lich King.”
Word cannot begin to describe the feelings that Sylvannas was experiencing. She drew her bow, with an arrow already strung to it, and fired directly at the Necromancer. As quick as she was, the Necromancer somehow dodged her arrow; but he did not seem to move.
“Your arrows cannot hurt me. Nothing you can do is able to stop me.”
“And who are you to think that you are able to best me in battle? I am the Dark Lady Sylvannas, ruler of the Forsaken!”
“I am the thing that bears the hand of the entity which you know is more powerful than you.”
Only the Lord know why Sylvannas did not attempt another physical assault on the vile offender.
“You cannot name a thing which I would admit is more powerful than me, Necromancer.”
“I can, and I shall. That thing that you fear, and hate, the most is Arthas, the Lich King!”
Genuine fear struck through what would be Sylvannas’ heart as the Necromancer said ‘Arthas.’ She staggered back just one step. If Varimathras had been conscience at that moment, he would have intervened.
“You are not a normal Necromancer! Reveal your true self, and I might allow you to live.”
The Necromancer rose from his throne; and a triumphant look almost crossed his blackened face as he said the words:
“I am the lieutenant of the Lich King. I am Kel’Thuzad, the necromancer! I am the bringer of death and undeath! I am the iron hand of the Lich King!”
As Kel’Thuzad said these words, he shed the normal garb of the necromancer to reveal even more deathly garments. His eyes glowed with the endless power of the Lich King, and his robes flowed with the waves of power that coursed through him. At the same moment, Varimathras rose from the ground. His speech was slightly off its rocker, and the words did not seem to fit with their inflections.
“Kel’Thuzad! It is not your place to be here. Why are you not out in the human villages, corrupting them?”
“I am here, Dreadlord, to corrupt the Forsaken from the inside. There have been no attacks on your caravan because I have ordered the Scourge to stay away from it.”
This time, it was Sylvannas’ turn to speak out against Kel’Thuzad.
“That may be, but you shall not survive this encounter, or bring any of my Forsaken with you when you die! Varimathras, go and alert the entire caravan that Kel’Thuzad is here!”
“Yes, milady.”
Varimathras left the banshee ranger with the speed of light. Kel’Thuzad seemed amused at this.
“Even your lieutenant runs from me! I shall not tarry here any longer; I did not come here to kill you, Sylvannas. I merely came here because it was the will of the Lich King. He enjoys your pitiful efforts to establish a capital; and you have almost become like a play to him. A play in which the Lich King delights; and I must see to it that this performance has an ending which suits him. I will not take any of your lame units; the Lich King wishes for you to have all the assistance that can be at your disposal when you reach the ruins of Lordaeron.”
With this statement, Kel’Thuzad and his banshees teleported out of the encampment; leaving Sylvannas with a confused look on her face. Just as he left, Varimathras returned with all of the captains of the various regiments of the Forsaken.
“Milady, I have returned with the most capable troops our caravan can provide… Where is Kel’Thuzad?”
Sylvannas was so entranced by Kel’Thuzad’s mysterious behavior that she was not at all angry. She seemed to be in another world; she spoke as if she were far away, and she moved as if she were slightly drunk.
“Varimathras... Kel’Thuzad left…he said that we were a play for the Lich King…ooohhh…he said…we need…”
This was all that she could say before she fainted. Varimathras immediately sent back the captains and helped Sylvannas back to her tent. Sylvannas’ lieutenant took over the caravan, and ordered them to move across the Thondroril River as quickly as possible. He even ordered a double-fast march for the remainder of the day.
While the Forsaken caravan was marching on stolidly, the Scourge in the Western Plaguelands were taking up arms against them…
It was night-time, the next day, when the Forsaken caravan had finally finished crossing the Thondroril River. Sylvannas was still unconscious, so Varimathras remained head of the caravan. No news of the Dark Lady’s condition was ever publicly released; the Forsaken regiments remained unaware of their leader’s health. Varimathras had ordered the caravan to halt once they crossed over the bridge; this was partly to check on Sylvannas, but mostly so that he could assess the current standings of their position and rations. He sent his captains to gather the required information; and while they were doing so, Varimathras thought it might be best to take a stroll to the head of the caravan and see what lies ahead. Normally, Varimathras stayed near Sylvannas, who normally stayed near her commander’s tent. Thus, he did not know of the conditions that the Forsaken were under. As he was striding along slowly, he noticed several things about the way his mistress’ people were living. Although they had more than enough rations to support their frames, they were constantly in pain and anguish. They seemed barely able to walk, let alone fight vast hordes of the Scourge. At first, Varimathras dismissed this as normal behavior for undead beings (remember that he is not one of the Undead), but as he walked towards the front of the caravan, his gait slowed; his sure-footedness faltered slightly. He realized, however slowly, that the very air around the caravan was filled with hatred and torture. Just as this feeling came over him, a lowly Acolyte came up to him. The forever-damned Acolyte had the most horrid features that one could hope to find on a simple Human: his face was marred and covered with terrible gashes; his robes were torn and ripped in the most vile places; his gait was jerky and painfully slow; and his eyes burned with torture. He talked exorbitantly slowly as he begged to his lieutenant.
“Please, Lord Varimathras… Please, hear me… I am eternally pained… My sole wish on this cruel planet…is…”
Here, he started to stutter; as if he were dying. The gashes on his face appeared to open, and blood poured out of them. The blood trickled over the poor Acolyte’s face as he tried to utter his dying wish.
“My final wish…is…is…to be granted…the greatest gift you can give me:…uh…”
Presently, the Acolyte collapsed; dead. The blood from his face had encompassed his body and stained his robes. He lay there, lifeless as the cold, unforgiving ground below him. A few Ghouls were attracted to the scent of blood, and they came over; hoping for a meal of flesh. Varimathras saw them devour the Acolyte’s form, and all that was left when the Ghouls returned to their tents were the blood-stained robes. Varimathras was deeply shaken by this; but he loved death and pain. He could not fathom why he, of all beings, was affected by a lowly Acolyte’s death and consumption. He was a great and powerful Dreadlord; one of the most feared creatures in the world. Even so, he was so moved by this that he took the deceased Acolyte’s robes and stored them somewhere on his person. He continued his walk to the head of the Forsaken caravan, but he was still shaken by the recent event.
Varimathras reached the front of the caravan a few hours before the dawn. From the vantage point upon the hill upon which he was standing, he could see out for several miles. He could see what were once farms, that were teeming with the Scourge. He could see all of the bleak, infected trees and animals. He could also see the dark mist that pervaded the atmosphere of the Western Plaguelands. But worse than all of these was what he saw in front of the caravan’s path; blocking their progress. They were but five miles along the path, but there they were; waiting, and watching for the next sign from the Forsaken caravan. What Varimathras saw at that moment forced him to flee back to Sylvannas’ tent; it even scared him into using his wings, so as to quicken his progress. What Varimathras had witnessed on that hill was to make him do something that he never would have done otherwise. Never would he have done what he was about to do under any other circumstance…
Varimathras, who was white with fear, dashed into Sylvannas Windrunner’s tent. The Dark Lady was on her bed; still unconscious. Even though Varimathras knew that what he was about to do would have dire consequences, he seized Sylvannas and brought her limp form outside. He ordered two nearby Ghouls to fetch him an altar, and they did the best they could to find one. While they were gone, Varimathras drew a bloodied knife from deep within his armor. This knife was more like a dagger than anything else, but it had not been used for centuries. This knife was Varimathras’ prized possession, and it was as such for good reasons. The blood on the knife was not fresh, but it smelled as though it were no more than a day old. It did not trickle down the knife, as it was dry; but it had the color of fresh blood, as well as its smell. This knife also glowed, if you could call it glowing. But this glow was not green or black or red, or any specific color. It was always changing: it might be red one day, and black the next. Although the glow varied in color, its spectrum was limited to the colors between red and black. Varimathras had no control over its glow; but when it glowed black, Varimathras seemed to gain a cheerfulness, but a deathly cheerfulness as only a Dreadlord can achieve. When Varimathras drew his knife, it glowed a very dark red. The powerful Dreadlord seemed indifferent at this, but while he was waiting for the Ghouls to return with an altar, he did nothing but stare at his knife, as it if was vexing him into insanity.
Eventually, the Ghouls returned with what resembled an altar. Varimathras returned from his strange vexation, and dismissed the Ghouls. The altar that they had brought him was nothing more than a long block of stone on top of a smaller one. The stone was grey all over; not even the slightest sign of life or action appeared upon the stone’s faces. The Dark Lady’s lieutenant laid her down upon the cold stone, and brandished his knife, as if ready to kill. No one was around Sylvannas’ tent to see the actions of Varimathras. No one was ever near the Dark Lady’s tent; no one was there, because very few of the Forsaken truly cared for Sylvannas Windrunner…
Varimathras had his knife held high as he prepared to do a dreadful task. No one was around except himself, and the unconscious form of Sylvannas Windrunner. A great wind came about, and almost ripped the nearby trees from their roots. This wind appeared to be tinted red in Varimathras’ eyes, which followed the course of this sudden gale unerringly. The winds came from the east, then swept to the north; then they headed to the west; and then the south; and then the east again. The gale was creating circles around Varimathras as he stood above the Dark Lady. There were no clouds in the sky, but to Varimathras, it was a pouring rain. The clouds gathered from all directions and converged upon the Dreadlord, and the rain which they brought was cold and unforgiving. The gale picked up speed, and the ground where Varimathras stood erupted in flames. The flames spread out in an uneven circle, and tore all life from the dirt which it swept. Lightning and thunder struck the skies, and Varimathras beheld the violent lightning strike the ground near Sylvannas and himself. The earth itself shook, and became horribly deformed; especially near Varimathras. The glow of his knife erupted into black flame, and turned into a dark and evil bonfire. Corpses appeared on the ground; spurting fresh blood for the gale to carry. The rain of the storm-clouds became vile blood upon Varimathras’ armor and face. The trees were torn up from the dying earth; and they too, turned into blood. All of the wounds and gashes that were ever inflicted upon Varimathras burst open; his body seemed to explode with blood. All the dirt became pure red with fresh, glistening blood; it seemed as though Hell had left a permanent mark upon the land. But it was Varimathras who was going to leave a bloody mark upon the land; as he readied his knife, he seemed to become insane with a strange lust; a lust which only Dreadlords can obtain. As he reveled in all the blood surrounding him, no one else could see what was happening around Varimathras…
Varimathras took his dread-knife, and with one lightning-fast slice, cut open one of the Dark Lady’s major arteries. Of course, no blood flowed through these vessels; the damned magic of the Lich King is what courses through the veins of the Undead. Normally, this magical liquid is a pitch-black; however, Sylvannas’ “blood” was tinted dark blue. This blood of Undeath seeped along the Dark Lady’s garments and into a small urn, which Varimathras was holding. As the Undead-blood entered the urn, it did not collect there; it had burnt an hole through the bottom! Varimathras watched in horror as this blood devoured the stony ground beneath his feet. He quickly made a patch to seal Sylvannas’ wound, and himself rushed to the most skilled Necromancers of the Forsaken. He entered the defiled tent of the Necromancers and summoned their leader immediately. As the leader approached, Varimathras drew his knife, now glowing a pale red, and sliced the air in two. A rift opened where he had sliced the air; it shimmered red, and bestowed upon its surroundings an unholy aura. The Necromancer and Varimathras dashed into the rift, and appeared next to the Dark Lady. This most skilled of Necromancers upheld a finger, and a potion instantly appeared in his hand. He reopened Sylvannas’ wound, and poured the contents of the potion into it. Soon, the Undead-blood returned to its regular, black color; and Sylvannas Windrunner entered consciousness.
