All Good Things

The rage of war claims all men.  If you spend your days dancing upon the edge of a sword, you will inevitably fall upon it.

No story can go on forever, and, in truth, always begins another.  This is not THE end, but it is perhaps the end of the beginning.

There comes a time when every story must close; every life must begin, and every life must end.  Nothing can turn the inevitable tides of life and death.

They care not who dies, who lives, the threads of fate weave back and forth under the machinations of men both good and evil, who see not the pattern that they are making.

Just as no king can rule forever, so can no soldier fight forever.  Duty and responsibility would become repitition and damnation;  honor and love would become burden and pain.  These things, no man can endure, and not even the most evil of men should have to endure them.

The conclusion is inevitable.  As the threads are woven, so eventually must they unwind.  Madness and chaos is the only end, so long as we walk this path.

And so, comes the end of our story, a tragedy in two parts.

The hero does not always slay the beast.

One part is about a man.

One part is about a monster.

* * *

Part I: Sleepwalker

The sky over the Scarlet Enclave was already turning black with ash and smoke.  The fires burned only dimly- it seemed, mused the Dawnbreaker as he walked from street to street, that even the Light itself was abandoning this place.  So much the better.

The death knight's cloak swirled not an inch off the ground as he moved, each step measured and deliberate.  It was towards the Ebon Hold he strode, and in his shadow were twelve other death knights.  All were disguised in Acherus armor and weaponry, but the Dawnbreaker was familiar with each by simple presence.  They were his beloved apprentices, Tundra Stalkers, guardians of Northrend and the ruthless darkness that hunted the Light.

They were his children.

Where they walked, there was only death.  Where their boots tread, no plant flowered, and even the rocks and dirt withered away.  Where their hands touched, crops and hearts froze, and bodies turned brittle.  Where their blades struck, there was only blood to feed the advance of Death.

The steady thumping and clanking amidst the ranks of dying Scarlets was an oddly serene noise.  It had purpose.  It had meaning.  It had function.  The carnage had function, as well, but the Scarlets marred that function with their cries, with their pleas, and with their gasping, gurgling deaths.  The sign of life escaping them was a beautiful thing to behold; it meant another had been risen to an eternal purpose, rather than the individual worthlessness of a personal pursuit for contentment.

"There is no contentment," spoke one of the Tundra Stalkers, his voice an echo of Xynrael's thoughts.

"There is no peace," said another, relieving a wayward Crusader of his intestines and various unnecessary organs.

"There is no pleasure," this, as one of the black apostles smote down a crusader with a strangling bolt of unholy magic.

"There is no love," echoed a fourth.

"There is no kindness,"

"There is no passion,"

'There is no anger,"

"There is no hatred,"

"There is no lust,"

"There is no pain,"

"There is no suffering,"

"There is no life,"

As the chorus ended, the Dawnbreaker swept his bloodstained blade across the ground, and responded, "There is only Death."

The area around them was silent.  As the Tundra Stalkers had moved, so had they slaughtered.  As they had slaughtered, more servants of the Lich King had been raised in his service.  So far apart had they walked, though still each in his brother's shadow, that they had not been noticed.  They had not parted their lips, yet each had heard the other's voice.  One by one, they slipped away from the dying enclave, and stalked across the scourged battlefields toward Acherus, the Ebon Hold.

Last of them to arrive was the Dawnbreaker himself, who stood a small distance away.  He knew, already, what his business was; he was to observe until the time came, whenever that might be.  Until then, he and the Tundra Stalkers would wreak their havoc upon the battlefield, like true death knights should.

As each Tundra Stalker mounted a Frostbrood Vanquisher on one of Acherus' massive balconies, the Dawnbreaker chuckled.  Death was indeed coming on swift wings for the Scarlet Crusade, and he had to do nothing but sit back and revel in the carnage.

For his part, the Dawnbreaker did not mount one of the mighty beasts, but took to the field on foot, wearing the Acheran armor as if it were light cloth, and swinging the massive runeblade given to most of their knights like it was a toy sword in the hands of a giant.

* * *

The Death Knights, along with column of Scourge, were moving towards their greatest battle.  The ghostly hooves of their chargers and the trudging of the Vrykul left nothing to the imagination- death was on the march, and it came for the last bastion of the Light in the east: Light's Hope Chapel.  A place were mountains of heroes were buried.  A place were the Argent Dawn and its kindred organizations made council.

A place that, like New Avalon, would burn to the ground.

Near the center of the column rode the Dawnbreaker and his Tundra Stalkers, no longer adorned in typical Acheran dress, but wearing their typical armor.  Dawnbreaker himself held the tremendous vampiric runemace, Skyshatter, in his right hand, and in his mind felt the weapon's lust for blood and souls.  As they passed closer to the Chapel, he sensed them pass through something, like the faintest breeze washing its way through a forest.

In the back of his mind, he felt uneasy, but quickly silenced the feeling, lest it spread.

The twelve at his flanks tightened their grips on their weapons, eyes fixing upon an encampment as the column began to fan out.

The encampment surrounded Light's Hope, and the chapel itself was protected by a few hundred members of the Argent Dawn.

The Scourge column, as it fanned out, formed an army of ten thousand.

Highlord Mograine spoke.  The order came.  The Scourge fell upon Light's Hope like a landslide, and through the Argents waded thirteen Death Knights, aiming to get themselves surrounded and leave a trail of bodies on their path out.

The resistance they encountered was surprising, but hardly worrisome.  They did not now aim to make any kills; they were intending to divide the Argents, lure the living towards themselves, and then slaughter all who came.

The twelve and their master broke into the Crusaders' ranks, their undead flesh surging with the power granted by the aura radiating through the Light from Highlord Mograine.  The Argents soon fell upon them, blades and hammers swinging wildly.  The Dawnbreaker's death knights resisted the oncoming press, but very quickly found their streingth fading away as the Scourge forces began to fall.  Among their joined minds, it was the Paladin the Dawnbreaker had first raised to come upon the conclusion.

"They fight upon consecrated ground.  The Light  permeates this place."

Amidst the clashing of blades, there was no pause to achieve consensus.  Once stated, the others gave their acknowledgement, and Dawnbreaker replied, "The Shadow of Death will overcome.  Hold your ground."

"We hold; there is consensus."  The report was instantaneous, and at the exact same moment it came, three Argents fell.  The defenders of the Chapel were beginning to falter, but in the distance, Darion Mograine's faltering calls could be heard.

The battle began to break as the tenacious Scourge and the Light-infused Argents wore eachother down.  Around him, the Dawnbreaker saw other death knights beginning to falter, until finally, Tirion Fordring appeared, and Darion Mograine collapsed before him, the great death knight's runeblade resisting his control.  The call for surrender was almost immediate.

" Traitor!"  Echoed five voices simultaneously, causing the Dawnbreaker to raise his left hand for silence.  The torrent of thoughts came to easily to mind as he plucked at the threads binding him to his death knights, and all were in chaos, giving only a uniting cry for consensus.

Dawnbreaker gave them their consensus as he felt a dark power coming closer, and knelt to the ground to observe what had to be coming.

"Silence," he commanded.  "There are undercurrents here."

The entire conversation came within the space of a moment as consensus was reached, and just as it came, so did the Lich King.  His mocking voice rang out across the battlefield, causing Mograine to charge in a fit of rage.  The Highlord was swatted aside like a rag doll, and sent sprawling to the ground some distance away.  There was more commotion, and the Argents rushed forward.

They never stood a chance.  The power of Frostmourne overwhelmed them, swarmed around them, consumed them.  By the wayside they fell, until the unthinkable happened.

Highlord Mograine rose, and, with the last of his might, threw the Ashbringer across the field to Tirion Fordring.  The head of the Silver Hand raised the corrupted blade, purifying Light radiating outwards as its new master gripped its hilt.

The Dawnbreaker took hold of his mace and rose to strike, then fell back, clawing at his helmet in an attempt to draw it off.  The Lich King stepped backwards, grunting slightly as Highlord Fordring's blow connected.  As the King withdrew, the Dawnbreaker felt a haze fall over his mind, like that caused by waking from a long sleep filled with nightmares.

Suddenly, the Lich King was gone.  Darion Mograine stood afield, pronouncing his capitulation and that of the Death Knights of Acherus, and their intention to cooperate with Highlord Fordring's call for justice.

Suddenly trapped within his own mind, the Dawnbreaker reeled.  Amid the clamor of the dying and the cries for mercy of his victims, he heard a garbled voice demanding orders.

The Lich King had deserted them.  The Scourge had deserted them.  They had been left under a traitor's command.  And yet, the Dawnbreaker heard his Stalkers clamoring for order amid the chaos.  The Lich King's voice was gone, as was the voice of the lich who had commanded the Tundra Stalkers as they moved across Azeroth.

The Dawnbreaker finally succeeded in removing his helmet, which suddenly felt too close around his skull.  To the northeast, he saw the citadel of Acherus.

He could feel the Tundra Stalkers' voices fading.  Too much dissent.  They could not come to a conclusion by themselves.  Some urged to assault both the Highlords, others to return to Acherus and fight.  Still some determined to stay where they were.

As the voices quieted, leaving him alone to the misery brought by the wailing of the deceased, the Dawnbreaker found himself surrounded by guilt.  Without thinking, he took hold of Skyshatter, and willed the souls stored within the great weapon into submission.  The noise stopped, and the death knight restored his helmet.

With the runed focusing crystal atop his helmet restored to his head, the voices returned.

"SILENCE."  Demanded he, jerking his head in the direction of Acherus.  "We have been abandoned.  We have been betrayed.  We return to the Ebon Hold."

The first command was obeyed instantly as the familiar voice of their master silenced his apprentices.  However, silence was all that came immediately; he could feel the gears turning deeper in their minds.  What did this mean?  Abandoned?

Slowly, one by one, the familiarity and safety of obedience overtook each one of the Tundra Stalkers.  Then, like a child playing the piano, came the halting chords of their voices.

"There is consensus."

* * *

The records of Ebon Blade show that the Dawnbreaker and his soldiers did indeed return to the Ebon Hold, and aided in the destruction of the Scourge remnants located in the citadel..  Detailed reports indicate that not only did they fight in Acherus, but immediately afterwards disappeared into the Plaguelands for six weeks.  They were tracked by Forsaken scouts as moving through the forests of Lordaeron, culling or turning a legion of Scourge forces.  This, of course, made only a slight dent in the presence of the Undead there.

Their leader disappeared after the six-week period elapsed, and the Tundra Stalkers dispersed.  As time went on, they resurfaced in twos and threes, not fighting for the Ebon Blade, the Horde, or the Alliance, or even for the Scourge, but instead following the last instinct left to each of them.

As they passed through Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms, each of the Dawnbreaker's apprentices began slaughtering all in his path, and raising their victims as undead servants.

It was during this time that the Dawnbreaker re-appeared.  Individually, he sought out and subjugated his apprentices.  What became of them and their servants is unknown, though his recorded orders from Acherus indicate that all of the Tundra Stalkers were killed.

The final report indicates that the Dawnbreaker had taken a post as an Ebon Blade Peacekeeper, with vague orders to take up a posting in Silvermoon City as a liaison to Knight-Lord Sunrender.

* * *

Part II: New Dawn


As he slumped back against the edge of the bed, watching her walk out, a look of absolute terror froze upon his face.  The Sign on her back was the last thing his waking eyes perceived, his body giving way to violent spasms, then freezing in the conscious death of paralysis.

11:11 P.M.

The sound of roaring cheers deafened all other sounds as the gates of the Orgrimmar Arena flew upwards.  Above the din came howls more powerful than Northrend's strongest gale, the wind of their voices carrying down the crowd's name for the Death Knight whom they had paid so little to produce a service he might otherwise gladly have rendered for free.

"FROST-BANE, FROST-BANE, FROST-BANE!" They roared, each syllable chanted with pumping fists and pounding boots.  High on a well-appointed platform above the dusty arena say some regional lord or another; his status was irrelevant.  He came to witness blood and carnage, like the others, and he would get it, regardless of whether or not his prodigious backside was seated upon a cushion.

Xynrael the Frostbane had made himself a crowd favorite.  He had given himself no fighting name, and answered as readily to the one the crowd at his first match had set upon him, when he impaled a master of elemental magics with a spear made from the master's own bolts of ice.

The Death Knight this time wielded only a net as his weapon, and for armor wore only a leather harness, rugged breeches of the same material, and a single metal shoulderpad upon his left arm.  The warrior whom he was facing, however, presented quite a different image.

An Orc with heavy, spiked platemail, designed with edges so jagged the armor itself might be used as a weapon, opposed the Frostbane.  Strapped to his back, the Orc wielded a heavy axe with two viciously curved blades.  The weapon was clearly designed to defeat the opponents of its wielder with sheer reach and size alone, this fact reinforced by the massive reach the Orc proved as he took the weapon in both hands and offered a roar so vicious it nearly overpowered the sounds of the chanting crowd.

While the crowd itself had bet largely on the Frostbane, there had been enough money placed on the Orc to grant even odds.  This, the death knight deduced simply by the odds; two to one against him, and yet he had not been defeated.  Then again, the Orc had also yet to be bested.

Frostbane needed only look over the Orc's equipment to realize he had made the right choice.  The horn sounded above the crowd, eliciting a fresh wave of bloodthirsty screams as the two charged.  The Orc approached at a breakneck pace, but Frostbane barely a sprint.

Despite lasting might longer, the fight itself was over less than fifteen seconds in.

The Orc swung horizontally at Xynrael's waist, and the death knight, noting the Orc's early posture, stepped into the air.  The calculation had been flawless, the execution nearly so.  Surprised, the greenskin had faltered slightly, making Frostbane misstep as he lifted his left leg to plant that boot upon the Orc's shoulder, bringing the other up to strike his opponent in the face.

The death knight went down on the other side of the Orc, rolling, but leaving his net behind.  Suddenly, there was dead silence, save the vicious thrashing of the Orc as the spikes and bars of his armor became more and more entangled in the net.

What followed was a great spectacle, even for the Orgrimmar arena.  Frostbane, secure in his opponent's inability to escape the heavy weights after having entangled both himself and his armor, lifted his boot and struck the Orc several times square in the forehead.  When the latter's thrashing descended into properly delirious squirms, the death knight slipped both his hands into the Orc's mouth, and began to tug outwards.

The crowd roared.  The Frostbane would later hear of the displeasure of the patron in the elevated seat, who had bet a great deal on the greenskin, and see the etchings of said displeasure on the noble's face.  For now, however, he focused solely on the task at hand.

For an agonizing two minutes, amidst the gnashing and twisting of the greenskin, the Frostbane yanked.  Suddenly, with a sickening crack and a rip of flesh and muscle, the Orc's jaw came loose.  He proceeded to drive the former Felblood's own great tusks into its temple, then threw his defeated opponent's jaw into the stands.

He was still unsure, as he left, whether or not the fight had been a deathmatch.

11:26 P.M.

Zujibaba, the caretaker of the gladiators who dwelled in the Pits below the arena, shook his head at Xynrael the Frostbane as the blue-eyed Sin'dorei appeared in the arena's entranceway.  Behind the death knight came a makeshift stretcher, on which the naked body of a female Orc lay, all but one shoulderplate stripped off, her body broken, cut, and bruised.  Upon her face, Zuji noted a look that suggested the death knight had made good on his promise.

The Orc woman had strutted about the Pits, where violence was forbidden amongst their number, and bragged that no man could touch her or harm her, here or on the field.

It was then that Zuji had witnessed the Frostbane corner the woman, who stared at him defiantly.  He had spoken to her pride, of her arrogance, about her lack of self-respect, and complete absence of sense of proportion.  Then, before all the gladiators there, he had promised to rape her, and destroy her pride.  Not by spreading her thighs there, against her will (and he had noted quite accurately that that would have only validated the weakness she claimed the men of the Pits possessed), but by laying her bare in the arena, which was all that truly mattered.

He had gone three rounds with her.  In the first, he had broken her weapon, then danced around her like a madman performing a ballet.  In the second, he had ripped off her armor by its leather straps, but not laid a single scratch upon her flesh.

In the third, he had discarded his weapon, and beat her to within an inch of her life.

All this, Zuji gathered from the talking of the gladiators who had seen the match.  Many stared at the woman with a look of near-sympathy; others, however, stared instead at the Frostbane and noted that not a single furrow had appeared on his flesh.

The death knight retreated to the dark corner that housed his hammock, and laid down, closing his eyes.  The other gladiators left him to his own devices; he had not been bothered since his first fight, made no attempts to interact with anyone save the one encounter with the woman, and left his corner only to fight.

Zuji approached silently, and without looking up, the Frostbane asked, "What can I do for you?"  in a surprisingly cordial tone.

The troll came to rest upon his voodoo-skull-adorned staff, and stared down at the death knight.  "De question be, mon, what can Zuji do fah you?"

This caused the death knight to raise his brows, and offer up the faintest, most bitter precursors of a smile.  "That is a question I haven't heard in awhile," replied he, in a voice that suggested his words felt unfamiliar on his own tongue.

Zujibaba allowed his eyes to drift half closed as he watched the death knight, the troll slowly leaning right and left like a metronome, using his staff to balance.  "Hm-hm-hmmm... Mmmm... Zuji meny tings, mon.  Be seein' twelve omans.  Dey be cold an' dahk.  Be seein' a army ah dalls be-hine dem.  Meneh strings, and tinkin' you be havin' sometin' tah do wit it.  Dey tell me deh be meny peopal disappearin' to da west ah' 'ere, mon."

The death knight seemed thoroughly nonplussed by the information, keeping one arm over his face and remaining almost perfectly still as he replied.  "Let the others deal with it," said he.  "I have no cause to want to save any of this."

"Zuji be sensin' hate witin' ya, mon.  Deh be no hate wit'out love, an' sometin' tah lose."

In a flash, the Frostbane was on his feet, staring the troll in the eyes.  "What do you know of my hatred?"  He demanded.

"Ah know dat its' name be Kavei."  Zuji replied, ceasing his rocking back-and-forth.

11:49 P.M.

The blizzard was so thick that it seemed like it should have been consuming half of Northrend.  Not only did Xynrael Frostbane's boots struggle against the snow, but his arms and legs rebelled against the torrent of slush swirling around him.  Behind him, the death knight felt a hunched back press up against his own, and heard a slightly agitated mumbling.

The whirling ice that surrounded Zujibaba and Xynrael parted and dispersed, forming an eye as the storm persisted against the troll's entreaties to the elements.

Xynrael's eyes fell shut, and amidst the blizzard, he reached out with his consciousness, feeling for the last of his apprentices.  He and Zujibaba had struck down three upon the cliffside where they now did battle, saronite spikes resting in their chests.  The fourth and final of this group of the Tundra Stalkers was hiding in the blizzard, moving with the flurries around them.

There.

He lashed outwards as Zujibaba parted the snow, revealing the target.  Xynrael lunged, following through with his initial forward swing, which had missed by inches.  He collided with his target, sending them both rolling down a slope in the opposite direction from the cliffs.  Amidst the chaos, saronite and spikes of ice flashed, three blows connected, and at the bottom, Xynrael arose.  The death knight's armor was pierced in two places by bolts of ice, but his former apprentice's bore only one scar.  It needed only one.

Skyshatter had struck solidly, and the spike in the mace's pommel had connected with the Tundra Stalker's chest.

Presently, Zujibaba came sliding down the slope, holding his staff pointed at the fallen of the pair of death knights.

"Ya done gud, mon," remarked the shaman, lowering his weapon after poking the apparently dead human death knight once or twice.  "Now, we be takin' dem to da tomb.  Ya must quickleh be off."

"Off?"  Questioned Xynrael, turning to lift off his helmet and eye the shaman.  "And where is it your spirits believe there is trouble now, Zuji?  My Tundra Stalkers are no more."

"Ya know bettah den dat, mon.  Someone immortahl be havin' a looong destiny, 'less he be dyin' soon."  The shaman spared a tusky grin.  "We be sendin' ya back to da city.  Da signs be showin' dere be sometin' awaitin' ya dere.  Da Ebon Blade be callin' fah ya soon, too."

Xynrael sighed, then nodded gamely, glancing about at the rapidly-appearing landscape.  The blizzard was fading; a good sign.  "Very well.  What am I looking for?"

Zujibaba produced a small sketch from amidst his fetishes and trinkets.  He handed it to Xynrael, his grin fading slightly.  "Ya be lookin' fah her."

12:01 A.M.

 He had been laid down on a pink bed with far too many flowery decorations.  His head swam with the anguished cries of the dead, and when he dared look with his waking eyes, the room itself was a ghastly display of bodies.  Tentacles writhed from flesh long sucked dry of its blood, and faceless beasts danced madly in the swimming lights.

He perceived with these eyes two faces, at the same time familiar and twisted into horrid visages.  There was Allasticus, with the left half of his face sheared off, yet somehow still speaking through the nonsensical mass of flesh that had replaced it.  There was also Jaen Peaceroot, who had one arm and two fingers replaced with tentacles, and wore the pallor of the San'layn.

Rather than continue to witness this, the death knight blocked out his vision, welcoming in to the blackness a whole new host of horrors.  Before his sight, children danced in circles at whirling speeds, arms joined.

"Puppets born anee-eew
Eeeeyes a-glowing bluu-uueee,
Run quick or else they just might
Make you a puppet tooo-oo."

The death knight found himself drawn along in their absurd swirling, and saw not the faces of children, but broke, desiccated heads of young men and women, half-shattered jaws with split tongues producing the tune.  Their high, childish voices rose towards the ceiling of whatever strange hell had taken hold of him, and disappeared.

The whirling stopped abruptly, and Xynrael experienced the sensation of falling.  He fell for an age, jerking to a halt occasionally as invisible hands seized at his limbs, his armor, and his hair.  During the entire trip downwards, he felt a sense of guilt pressing upon his chest, then slowly closing in around him, like claustrophobia made manifest.  It crushed at his lungs and clawed at the edges of his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.

He allowed himself to see with his waking eyes, and for the briefest of moments, seized upon some part of himself not hunted after by the gods of the slain; a part that suffered neither guilt nor remorse, nor any other emotion.

With that cold, unfeeling thing, he dug his way from the dark mist, and emerged into his own consciousness as if he were crawling from a cave.

6:02 A.M.

He arose in the bed of one of the guardsmen who had found him,  and looked about the room.  The colors, previously bright and vibrant, were now dull an uninteresting.  The room itself felt too warm, the sheets too soft.

However, at the far end of the room, near the door, there was something that felt familiar.  Flesh.  Surging with blood, and with the throbbing beat of life hiding beneath the breast.

And the face of a beast.

The death knight leaped from the bed and lunged.

The moment of confusion that followed resulted in the death knight removing himself from Jaen Peaceroot as the poison's more immediate effects began to fade.  He took hold of his runemace, but resigned himself to being locked in the guardsman's room until he could be properly evaluated.

Resigned, at least, for the time being.

The death knight rose, staring at the fairly attractive, but somewhat time-worn face that greeted him in the mirror.  After a moment, he removed his shirt, and ran his fingers over his flesh, feeling the odd sensation of a beating heart in his chest.

The sensation did not last long; the unnecessary illusion began to fade.  His hair became limp and so light a black it almost looked gray.  His skin took on an unnatural pallor, stretching back over his face and form.  Soft, thin lips became cracked and lined, drawing upwards into a sneer.  The scars on his upper body deepened, and the lichfire in his eyes turned from a flicker to a blaze.

The sunlight began to peek over the ruins of Silvermoon.  He could feel its warmth pervading the place, despite the lack of windows.  As the transformation completed, the Dawnbreaker eyed himself in the mirror, reflecting on how ironically appropriate the timing of all this was.

He gave an approving nod, followed immediately by a pleased laugh.

"Good morning, sunshine."  He said, turning and tearing open a portal to the Ebon Hold.