Post by Mathias Shaw on Jan 28, 2009 14:12:57 GMT -5
Name:
The Lich King
Age:
29
Gender:
Male
Race:
Human
Faction:
The Undead Scourge
Position:
The Lich King
Magical Branch:
Necromancy
Shadow Magic
Appearance:
Arthas Menethil was a large man, with wide shoulders and a perfect build. He was nearly two meters tall, and the former prince's looks were said to put many a maid's heart atwitter. He had hair the color of gold, which he let taper down his back in long, flowing locks, and bright blue eyes that spoke of both innocence and experience. His skin was light, like more of the denizens of Lordaeron. Arthas was considered a prodigy by all who met him, being inducted into the Knights of the Silver Hand at 19, a famed enemy of those who would fight against Lordaeron. Despite his militant past, Arthas' body was all but unmarred by any form of scar, for it was said no enemy could touch him. This was true, until the Dreadlord Malganis inflicted a light scratch on the prince's left cheek, only hours before the prince drove the runeblade Frostmourne into the demon's heart.
That was then. Now Arthas is the vessel of the Lich King, a being created from the Soulless mind of Arthas and the Unending malice of Ner'zhul. His hair has turned a pale white, as has his skin and he has not once removed his daemonic plate armor in the six years since he first donned it at the peak of Icecrown glacier, the Frozen Throne. Within the Helm of Domination, his eyes blaze like fonts of blue fire, the chill of the grave itself, crackling with age-old hatreds and unquenchable desire.
The Plate of the Damned is enchanted demon mail, perhaps forged by the Mo'arg at the behest of Kil'jaeden as a vessel for Ner'zhul's soul after the mighty daemon ripped the shaman's body apart. The demonic plate mail is emblazoned with bones, the joints being overlaid with skulls. The armor is the color of black steel, and is massive in form. However, despite its size and the near-invulnerability it grants its wearer, the plate rests lightly. Upon his head is the Helm of Domination, a ridged plate-helm, the mere sight of which invokes repulsion in those who gaze upon it. The helm is not full-face, and the parts where normally skin would show is only shadow of the deepest blackness. Over the back of this, he wears a purple and black cloak, emblazoned with the symbol of Lordaeron. The being himself now radiates a palpable aura of fear for all things living, for there are few beings that have no fear of Death Incarnate.
Personality:
Arthas was a man of convictions, a stalwart defender of Lordaeron. He was a pious man, but had little sense of right and wrong, merely an opinion about what must be done, and a mighty will to get it done. He was prone to anger, and though he was not particularly creative, he approached all problems with the same unrelenting resolve. This would eventually be his downfall.
Ner'zhul was also an orc of a stalwart mind. Before the formation of the Horde, Ner'zhul was the closest thing the orcs had to a unified leader. He always thought about what was best for his people, and made a great many sacrifices for them. Through all this, however, Ner'zhul always felt he was never given the respect and power he deserved. His lust for power clouded his judgement, and in attempting to save his people as well as increase his own power, he threw the orcs into the clutches of Kil'jaeden.
When Ner'zhul crashed into Icecrown Glacier in the form of the Frozen Throne, he was no longer an orc. Having endured an eternity of torture under the ministrations of Kil'Jaeden, he had been turned into a vessel of hatred and vindication. An incredibly powerful will, an indelibly evil mind, and incomparable hatred melded into one.
Combined, they are the perfect being. The Lich King. A being with neither remorse, nor pity. A ruthless mind with no true ambition beyond the death of all things. A mind with a desire for revenge and a willpower beyond anything ever seen before. The unrelenting hatred of Eons combined with the unstoppable resolve of self-justification.
Through all of his life, Arthas had shown a sort a dry humor and wit. Since his becoming a Death Knight, Arthas' humor turned towards the grim. The Lich King retains this quality.
Weapons/Items:
Frostmourne - A runeblade of tremendous power, it is capable of stealings the souls of those it slays.
The Helm of Domination - A mighty artifact, it serves as the focus for much of the Lich King's necromantic powers, it allows the Lich King to control his undead legions.
The Plate of the Damned - A powerful suit of platemail that is nigh-unscratchable, forged out of the hardest metal on Azeroth, saronite.
Strengths:
The Lich King is a mighty swordsman, his skill unmatched by any living mortal, as well as being perhaps the most powerful mage on Azeroth besides the Blue Aspect himself. His plate-mail is quite nigh-unbreakable, making him a nearly invulnerable. The Helm of Domination upon his head magnifies his magical powers hundred-fold. His cursed runeblade Frostmourne allows him to drain the souls of those he slays, gaining a small measure of their power. He has the power to revive hundreds of dead and to command them with pinpoint control.
Flaws:
Despite all of his powers, he does have a few weaknesses. The Lich King is extremely headstrong, a layover from both of his former personalities. He is also reckless, neither retreating nor seeking other options whether or not the path before him is difficult. His extreme self-confidence can sometimes lead to overconfidence, letting him severely underestimate his foes.
History:
Prince Arthas Menethil was born just four years before his father, Terenas, lead the Alliance to the Second War against the orcs. During this time, Varian Wrynn, the Crown Prince of Azeroth, was a guest in the Palace of Capital City. The two became fast friends. Arthas grew up in a city rife with war. His greatest aspiration was to become a Paladin in the footsteps of Uther and Turalyon. For much of his young life, he was trained in war by none other than Muradin Bronzebeard, Crown Prince of Ironforge. When he was inducted into the Paladins, he was personally tutored by Uther Lightbringer, the first among the Knights of the Silver Hand. For several years, Arthas and Uther fought side-by-side to protect Lordaeron from her enemies. Eventually the undead plague came to Lordaeron, and Arthas, determined to find the source, eventually stumbled upon Kel'Thuzad and his Cult of the Damned. Arthas destroyed the cult, eventually killing the rogue necromancer, but before his death Kel'Thuzad gave Arthas a cryptic threat. He would rise again, and Arthas would be the one to make it so. Nevertheless, Arthas drove his troops north, through Plague-stricken Lordaeron, to the village of Strathholme. Arguably, it is here where Arthas' fate was sealed. The entirity of the city had been infected by the Plague of Undeath, and would soon turn into mindless zombies under the thrall of the Lich King. Arthas was determined to stop this, and such he put the entire population of Strathholme to the sword, before pursuing Mal'ganis, the dreadlord responsible for the plague, to the frozen shores of Northerend. Here, Arthas torched his own ships so his men could not retreat, and forged into the continent, eventually finding the runeblade Frostmourne. With the sword, Arthas drove back the undead and slew Mal'Ganis, only to find that Frostmourne was under the control of the Lich King, who slowly took over Arthas, turning him into the first of the new Death knights.
Arthas returned to Lordaeron, determined to make it his own. To this effect, among a celebratory parade of his victorious return and slaying of the Dreadlord, he slew his own father with the runeblade and destroyed the city with an army of the undead. He then waged war on the Knights of the Silver Hand, nearly hunting them to extinction. During this time he met his mentor, Uther, in single combat, destroying the Paladin's body so utterly it could not be raised to fight again. From Uther's corpse he took the Urn of Terenas, containing the ashes of his father, which he promptly poured out so it could serve as a vessel for Kel'thuzad's remains. From here he launched a campaign against the elven realms of Silvermoon, to gain access to the font of magical energy known as the Sunwell. Though he faced staunch resistance from Sylvanas Windrunner, the leader of the Rangers, Arthas drove deep into the forests, eventually reaching the city, where he cornered and slew her, before raising her as a banshee to serve him. From here, he sacked the city, putting it to the torch. He then used the Sunwell to reanimate Kel'Thuzad as a lich, fulfilling the necromancer's prophecy. Afterwards, Arthas laid siege to the Mage City of Dalaran, destroying it so Kel'Thuzad could use the Book of Medivh to summon Archimonde. Though the Demon Lord was summoned, he forgot or deemed it unneccesary to destroy the Frozen Throne, allowing the Lich King to remain at large. Ner'zhul sent Arthas to Kalimdor, where he lured Illidan into taking the Skull of Gul'dan, where the demon hunter used it to slay Tichondrius, the leader of the Dreadlords.
Arthas returned to Lordaeron to find it under control of the remaining Dreadlords, who attempted to kill him using their remaining undead armies. Together with Kel'Thuzad and his loyal undead, Arthas escaped both the Dreadlord's predations and the betrayal of Sylvanas and her banshees. He retreated to Northerend, where the Lich King was calling for his return. Once there, he found Icecrown Glacier beset by the Illidari. Here, Arthas met and defeated Illidan and his Illidari at the foot of the Frozen Throne. There, he ascended to the throne, shattering the ice that encased Ner'zhul's spirit, before donning the Plate of the Damned and the Helm of Domination. All across Azeroth, every living being that still feared death heard the uttered words of Ner'zhul. "Now, we are ONE."
RP Sample:
Boots crunch on the permafrost, a rhythmic, meaningful pounding that neither slows, nor speeds, nor stops. Beyond that, it is silent. The wind holds back, as if in fear of the lone figure striding across the frozen plain. Still, the figure's cloak flutters as it marches, and a concious observer might notice that the cloth appears to claw at the ground, attempting to drag itself away from its bearer. Darkness shrouds the armor-clad figure as it marches, as though the permanent haze of pale sunlight shies away from the being's touch. As far as the eye can see, the frost stretches from horizon to horizon. A world of cold, of pain, of death. Nothing lives in the Dragonblight, the very northern tip of Azeroth, a place where even dragons come only to die. It is a desolace unending, a place devoid of hope, of warmth, and of change. The world might burn, but the Dragonblight would endure, the frozen heart of Northerend.
If the land itself were alive, it might laugh at the lone figure, marching into its icy domain, where it would find nothing but a lonely, lingering death. Or it might rear up and retreat before him, so unnatural his touch, the earth itself running in fear of that which is is anathema to life. No being entered the Dragonblight willingly unless it wished for death, and yet, this being did not falter at the bleak sight before it.
The figure halted, the sudden silence deafening. With a rustle of armor, it drew its sword, a glorious, bright steed blade, two crosspieces, the first adorned with a skull, the second with serrated blades jutting from it. Runes crackled across the blade, catching the pale light unnaturally. Indeed, if one looked closely, you could discern screaming faces along the blade, rent by eternal tortures the mind cannot fathom. The figure raised the sword once, and the sword began to darken the air around it, filling it as though with foul, putrid smoke. Then came the voices, echoing as if from afar.
"Vengeance cannot be a part of what we do. Never allow your passions to turn to bloodlust. How then are you better than your enemies?." A man's voice, deep and booming. A voice comfortable with giving commands.
"What's happened to you, boy? Is vengeance all that important to you?"Another man's voice, very deep, with an accent unmistakably dwarven.
"Greetings, Prince Arthas. How fares your noble father?"A frail voice, weak with age, but still fortified by magic, and by willpower.
Other voices, swirling together in a chorus of horror, torture, and disappointment.
"Don't do this, Arthas!"
"I can't believe we ever called you brother!"
"You've broken his heart, boy. He would have given his life for you in a second and this is how you repay him?
"I dearly hope there's a special place in hell waiting for you."
The sword plunges into the ice, slicing through the rock-hard permafrost with shocking ease. A single, ominous black wave pulses from the figure. Another invisible grin.
Suddenly, horrifyingly, a single skeletal hand breaks through the ice, followed by a shoulder. As if this was a signal, other hands breach the surface. Decaying flesh and rent rags cling to the figures, as though hoping against hope to drag them back into their icy graves. The voices continue.
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Please, Prince Arthas! Don't hurt us!"
"The blood of your father, of your people, is on your hands!"
A skeletal army now stands among the pocked and cracked ice, emaciated, fleshless figures, some gripping rusted blades and wearing dessicated armor. Other are women, children, their fingers sharpened to rending claws. Without a spoken word, the undead begin to march. The voices die down, a mere backdrop in the mind of the lone fleshed figure on the plain, still standing motionless, sword impaling the ice. Suddenly, a single voice rings out, clear and commanding.
"Give my regards to hell, you son of a bitch!" A woman's voice this, noble and intelligent, instilled with an unquenchable fury.
"Sylvanas....." rasped the figure's voice. The voice came from no earthly throat, rather it came from the very air surrounding the figure. The Ranger bitch had vexxed it in life, and continued to do so in death. Perhaps it should never have raised her. But no, the vengeance had been too sweet, and even now, she suffered the double torture of being everything she despised and knowing she had failed everything she had loved. It brought a smile to the being's face, though it could not be seen behind the mask of shadow. Sweet vengeance indeed. But the bitch was growing tiresome once again. It was time to visit her once again. It was time. Time for a reckoning long overdue. The Scourge would march again. And Azeroth would be ground beneath its own dead.
The Lich King
Age:
29
Gender:
Male
Race:
Human
Faction:
The Undead Scourge
Position:
The Lich King
Magical Branch:
Necromancy
Shadow Magic
Appearance:
Arthas Menethil was a large man, with wide shoulders and a perfect build. He was nearly two meters tall, and the former prince's looks were said to put many a maid's heart atwitter. He had hair the color of gold, which he let taper down his back in long, flowing locks, and bright blue eyes that spoke of both innocence and experience. His skin was light, like more of the denizens of Lordaeron. Arthas was considered a prodigy by all who met him, being inducted into the Knights of the Silver Hand at 19, a famed enemy of those who would fight against Lordaeron. Despite his militant past, Arthas' body was all but unmarred by any form of scar, for it was said no enemy could touch him. This was true, until the Dreadlord Malganis inflicted a light scratch on the prince's left cheek, only hours before the prince drove the runeblade Frostmourne into the demon's heart.
That was then. Now Arthas is the vessel of the Lich King, a being created from the Soulless mind of Arthas and the Unending malice of Ner'zhul. His hair has turned a pale white, as has his skin and he has not once removed his daemonic plate armor in the six years since he first donned it at the peak of Icecrown glacier, the Frozen Throne. Within the Helm of Domination, his eyes blaze like fonts of blue fire, the chill of the grave itself, crackling with age-old hatreds and unquenchable desire.
The Plate of the Damned is enchanted demon mail, perhaps forged by the Mo'arg at the behest of Kil'jaeden as a vessel for Ner'zhul's soul after the mighty daemon ripped the shaman's body apart. The demonic plate mail is emblazoned with bones, the joints being overlaid with skulls. The armor is the color of black steel, and is massive in form. However, despite its size and the near-invulnerability it grants its wearer, the plate rests lightly. Upon his head is the Helm of Domination, a ridged plate-helm, the mere sight of which invokes repulsion in those who gaze upon it. The helm is not full-face, and the parts where normally skin would show is only shadow of the deepest blackness. Over the back of this, he wears a purple and black cloak, emblazoned with the symbol of Lordaeron. The being himself now radiates a palpable aura of fear for all things living, for there are few beings that have no fear of Death Incarnate.
Personality:
Arthas was a man of convictions, a stalwart defender of Lordaeron. He was a pious man, but had little sense of right and wrong, merely an opinion about what must be done, and a mighty will to get it done. He was prone to anger, and though he was not particularly creative, he approached all problems with the same unrelenting resolve. This would eventually be his downfall.
Ner'zhul was also an orc of a stalwart mind. Before the formation of the Horde, Ner'zhul was the closest thing the orcs had to a unified leader. He always thought about what was best for his people, and made a great many sacrifices for them. Through all this, however, Ner'zhul always felt he was never given the respect and power he deserved. His lust for power clouded his judgement, and in attempting to save his people as well as increase his own power, he threw the orcs into the clutches of Kil'jaeden.
When Ner'zhul crashed into Icecrown Glacier in the form of the Frozen Throne, he was no longer an orc. Having endured an eternity of torture under the ministrations of Kil'Jaeden, he had been turned into a vessel of hatred and vindication. An incredibly powerful will, an indelibly evil mind, and incomparable hatred melded into one.
Combined, they are the perfect being. The Lich King. A being with neither remorse, nor pity. A ruthless mind with no true ambition beyond the death of all things. A mind with a desire for revenge and a willpower beyond anything ever seen before. The unrelenting hatred of Eons combined with the unstoppable resolve of self-justification.
Through all of his life, Arthas had shown a sort a dry humor and wit. Since his becoming a Death Knight, Arthas' humor turned towards the grim. The Lich King retains this quality.
Weapons/Items:
Frostmourne - A runeblade of tremendous power, it is capable of stealings the souls of those it slays.
The Helm of Domination - A mighty artifact, it serves as the focus for much of the Lich King's necromantic powers, it allows the Lich King to control his undead legions.
The Plate of the Damned - A powerful suit of platemail that is nigh-unscratchable, forged out of the hardest metal on Azeroth, saronite.
Strengths:
The Lich King is a mighty swordsman, his skill unmatched by any living mortal, as well as being perhaps the most powerful mage on Azeroth besides the Blue Aspect himself. His plate-mail is quite nigh-unbreakable, making him a nearly invulnerable. The Helm of Domination upon his head magnifies his magical powers hundred-fold. His cursed runeblade Frostmourne allows him to drain the souls of those he slays, gaining a small measure of their power. He has the power to revive hundreds of dead and to command them with pinpoint control.
Flaws:
Despite all of his powers, he does have a few weaknesses. The Lich King is extremely headstrong, a layover from both of his former personalities. He is also reckless, neither retreating nor seeking other options whether or not the path before him is difficult. His extreme self-confidence can sometimes lead to overconfidence, letting him severely underestimate his foes.
History:
Prince Arthas Menethil was born just four years before his father, Terenas, lead the Alliance to the Second War against the orcs. During this time, Varian Wrynn, the Crown Prince of Azeroth, was a guest in the Palace of Capital City. The two became fast friends. Arthas grew up in a city rife with war. His greatest aspiration was to become a Paladin in the footsteps of Uther and Turalyon. For much of his young life, he was trained in war by none other than Muradin Bronzebeard, Crown Prince of Ironforge. When he was inducted into the Paladins, he was personally tutored by Uther Lightbringer, the first among the Knights of the Silver Hand. For several years, Arthas and Uther fought side-by-side to protect Lordaeron from her enemies. Eventually the undead plague came to Lordaeron, and Arthas, determined to find the source, eventually stumbled upon Kel'Thuzad and his Cult of the Damned. Arthas destroyed the cult, eventually killing the rogue necromancer, but before his death Kel'Thuzad gave Arthas a cryptic threat. He would rise again, and Arthas would be the one to make it so. Nevertheless, Arthas drove his troops north, through Plague-stricken Lordaeron, to the village of Strathholme. Arguably, it is here where Arthas' fate was sealed. The entirity of the city had been infected by the Plague of Undeath, and would soon turn into mindless zombies under the thrall of the Lich King. Arthas was determined to stop this, and such he put the entire population of Strathholme to the sword, before pursuing Mal'ganis, the dreadlord responsible for the plague, to the frozen shores of Northerend. Here, Arthas torched his own ships so his men could not retreat, and forged into the continent, eventually finding the runeblade Frostmourne. With the sword, Arthas drove back the undead and slew Mal'Ganis, only to find that Frostmourne was under the control of the Lich King, who slowly took over Arthas, turning him into the first of the new Death knights.
Arthas returned to Lordaeron, determined to make it his own. To this effect, among a celebratory parade of his victorious return and slaying of the Dreadlord, he slew his own father with the runeblade and destroyed the city with an army of the undead. He then waged war on the Knights of the Silver Hand, nearly hunting them to extinction. During this time he met his mentor, Uther, in single combat, destroying the Paladin's body so utterly it could not be raised to fight again. From Uther's corpse he took the Urn of Terenas, containing the ashes of his father, which he promptly poured out so it could serve as a vessel for Kel'thuzad's remains. From here he launched a campaign against the elven realms of Silvermoon, to gain access to the font of magical energy known as the Sunwell. Though he faced staunch resistance from Sylvanas Windrunner, the leader of the Rangers, Arthas drove deep into the forests, eventually reaching the city, where he cornered and slew her, before raising her as a banshee to serve him. From here, he sacked the city, putting it to the torch. He then used the Sunwell to reanimate Kel'Thuzad as a lich, fulfilling the necromancer's prophecy. Afterwards, Arthas laid siege to the Mage City of Dalaran, destroying it so Kel'Thuzad could use the Book of Medivh to summon Archimonde. Though the Demon Lord was summoned, he forgot or deemed it unneccesary to destroy the Frozen Throne, allowing the Lich King to remain at large. Ner'zhul sent Arthas to Kalimdor, where he lured Illidan into taking the Skull of Gul'dan, where the demon hunter used it to slay Tichondrius, the leader of the Dreadlords.
Arthas returned to Lordaeron to find it under control of the remaining Dreadlords, who attempted to kill him using their remaining undead armies. Together with Kel'Thuzad and his loyal undead, Arthas escaped both the Dreadlord's predations and the betrayal of Sylvanas and her banshees. He retreated to Northerend, where the Lich King was calling for his return. Once there, he found Icecrown Glacier beset by the Illidari. Here, Arthas met and defeated Illidan and his Illidari at the foot of the Frozen Throne. There, he ascended to the throne, shattering the ice that encased Ner'zhul's spirit, before donning the Plate of the Damned and the Helm of Domination. All across Azeroth, every living being that still feared death heard the uttered words of Ner'zhul. "Now, we are ONE."
RP Sample:
Boots crunch on the permafrost, a rhythmic, meaningful pounding that neither slows, nor speeds, nor stops. Beyond that, it is silent. The wind holds back, as if in fear of the lone figure striding across the frozen plain. Still, the figure's cloak flutters as it marches, and a concious observer might notice that the cloth appears to claw at the ground, attempting to drag itself away from its bearer. Darkness shrouds the armor-clad figure as it marches, as though the permanent haze of pale sunlight shies away from the being's touch. As far as the eye can see, the frost stretches from horizon to horizon. A world of cold, of pain, of death. Nothing lives in the Dragonblight, the very northern tip of Azeroth, a place where even dragons come only to die. It is a desolace unending, a place devoid of hope, of warmth, and of change. The world might burn, but the Dragonblight would endure, the frozen heart of Northerend.
If the land itself were alive, it might laugh at the lone figure, marching into its icy domain, where it would find nothing but a lonely, lingering death. Or it might rear up and retreat before him, so unnatural his touch, the earth itself running in fear of that which is is anathema to life. No being entered the Dragonblight willingly unless it wished for death, and yet, this being did not falter at the bleak sight before it.
The figure halted, the sudden silence deafening. With a rustle of armor, it drew its sword, a glorious, bright steed blade, two crosspieces, the first adorned with a skull, the second with serrated blades jutting from it. Runes crackled across the blade, catching the pale light unnaturally. Indeed, if one looked closely, you could discern screaming faces along the blade, rent by eternal tortures the mind cannot fathom. The figure raised the sword once, and the sword began to darken the air around it, filling it as though with foul, putrid smoke. Then came the voices, echoing as if from afar.
"Vengeance cannot be a part of what we do. Never allow your passions to turn to bloodlust. How then are you better than your enemies?." A man's voice, deep and booming. A voice comfortable with giving commands.
"What's happened to you, boy? Is vengeance all that important to you?"Another man's voice, very deep, with an accent unmistakably dwarven.
"Greetings, Prince Arthas. How fares your noble father?"A frail voice, weak with age, but still fortified by magic, and by willpower.
Other voices, swirling together in a chorus of horror, torture, and disappointment.
"Don't do this, Arthas!"
"I can't believe we ever called you brother!"
"You've broken his heart, boy. He would have given his life for you in a second and this is how you repay him?
"I dearly hope there's a special place in hell waiting for you."
The sword plunges into the ice, slicing through the rock-hard permafrost with shocking ease. A single, ominous black wave pulses from the figure. Another invisible grin.
Suddenly, horrifyingly, a single skeletal hand breaks through the ice, followed by a shoulder. As if this was a signal, other hands breach the surface. Decaying flesh and rent rags cling to the figures, as though hoping against hope to drag them back into their icy graves. The voices continue.
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Please, Prince Arthas! Don't hurt us!"
"The blood of your father, of your people, is on your hands!"
A skeletal army now stands among the pocked and cracked ice, emaciated, fleshless figures, some gripping rusted blades and wearing dessicated armor. Other are women, children, their fingers sharpened to rending claws. Without a spoken word, the undead begin to march. The voices die down, a mere backdrop in the mind of the lone fleshed figure on the plain, still standing motionless, sword impaling the ice. Suddenly, a single voice rings out, clear and commanding.
"Give my regards to hell, you son of a bitch!" A woman's voice this, noble and intelligent, instilled with an unquenchable fury.
"Sylvanas....." rasped the figure's voice. The voice came from no earthly throat, rather it came from the very air surrounding the figure. The Ranger bitch had vexxed it in life, and continued to do so in death. Perhaps it should never have raised her. But no, the vengeance had been too sweet, and even now, she suffered the double torture of being everything she despised and knowing she had failed everything she had loved. It brought a smile to the being's face, though it could not be seen behind the mask of shadow. Sweet vengeance indeed. But the bitch was growing tiresome once again. It was time to visit her once again. It was time. Time for a reckoning long overdue. The Scourge would march again. And Azeroth would be ground beneath its own dead.