Conclusion

So here we are at the end of the semester. I enjoyed this class a lot. It was fun, I got to learn many things. But I am severely disappointed in the participation this class has shown. Here we have a blog for us to put down our thoughts, our feelings, our ideas. And yet, for some odd, strange reason, few people seem to even care about what others have written. And comments are an even greater rarity.

Would it kill people to check out some of these posts? I see many titles that catch my interest that have no views at all. Why is that? How is that? Are people just lazy? Do they think, "No one actually takes this blog seriously, they probably are only putting something down without effort." If they are thinking like this, they are quite blind. Big posts, and even posts with pictures take time and energy!

But bitching about it now won't help. It's the end of the semester. And now, this blog will be left on the web, probably forgotten. Or maybe not. Who knows? The future will come, and as I always say, "Time reveals all."

I cheated Death... AGAIN!

Throughout life, we have scary moments. We have good fortune and bad fortune. I seem to keep getting one end of the spectrum or the other. Allow me to elaborate.

When I was young, I heard about children having divorced parents, and thought I was happy my parents would never split. Queue misfortune; my father left my mom over a decade ago, and has changed for the worse ever since.

Over two years ago, my family had to leave Goffstown and move here. Not of our free will. My mom didn't have the money to afford a moving company, so, being the oldest, and strongest in my family, it fell to me. I moved everything we had. The refrigerator, the stove, the furniture, everything. I moved it, practically all by myself. Misfortune right there. But even then, there was some good luck as well. Because with all the heavy lifting I did, my body did not suffer an adverse affects. Lucky me. And I was moving stuff that should have been too heavy for me to move.

Back in Goffstown, there was a storm once, that caused the power to go out. My mom, and I with my siblings walked outside, she to see what happened, us to follow her. She saw that the cable had disconnected from the house via a tree. Meaning, the cable was on the ground, still connected to the power lines, meaning it was live. She told me to take my siblings in the house, and here's the thing; me and my siblings rarely listened to my mom back then. But that night, something told me to listen to her, and I herded my siblings back inside the house. I barely escaped death.

Even earlier, before I was even born, my mom was in a car accident. It broke her back, and she had three months still to go with me. She refused any surgery for her back because it risked my life, and I was born healthy and strong. Again, I slipped through Death's fingers.

But recently, I had another brush with death. Just last week, I believe. We moved again, during the fall, to another house. Granted, it is smaller, but it is a place for us to call home. But the man who owned it was a man who did things himself. He spliced wiring, installed certain things. The house is safe, as long as we avoid certain things. My near-death-experience was caused by his haphazard wiring of the house. I had found this lamp, and my mom wanted it in her room. The outlet, while it had a plate, was missing one of those slot things that you plug cords into. I thought it as merely a cover like the plate, not something necessary, as I soon discovered.

I proceeded to try and plug it in. And to my shock, no pun intended, blue and yellow sparks shout out of the outlet, long with the snapping and crackling of electricity. They were beautiful! But deadly. I could have died. As soon as it happened, I jumped back, dropping the cord. Upon looking at it later, I saw that the prongs had been charred and burnt. Again, Death nearly grabs me. And again, I narrowly avoid it.

Then I discovered that the cord I was using to start up the snow blower these past couple of weeks had a break in the rubber insulation. There was exposed wiring, and yet I had somehow avoided touching it, all those times I grabbed it. The break was near the end, too, and I never touched it!

Some would say I have been incredibly lucky. Others that it is mere coincidences. Still others would say that I might have made a deal with the devil to not die. But I tell you, it is none of those things. In fact, it is the exact opposite of the last one; God is simply looking out for me. I give credit where credit is due, and I would not be alive still today if it had not been for Him. In a way, I suppose, that's His way of saying that I have a very important job to do here on Earth. I just can't help but wonder what it might be...

Nicolus Ryder story update

I regret to say, I have not yet progressed much past Chapter 4. I will try to finish off the chapter I am writing, and if not, I will post the other chapter, set a little forward ahead in time. Hopefully, it won't come to that. To those who have read my stories, I am grateful you took the time to read what I wrote. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed thinking up the stories and writing them down.

The Lich Knight Chapter 4: Revenge

A freezing wind blows across Icecrown Citadel. A giant tower made of saronite, a type of metal that is a dusky like black in color and is incredibly strong, the menacing construct looms ominously over Northrend. The Scourge have limitless access to this material, and so that is what makes of the towering structure that is the Citadel. It casts a cold shadow across the land, and undead Scourge monsters swarm the outside, with the most powerful of the leaders residing inside the towering fortress. It looks to be a simple tower at first glance. Then one would notice the ice that seems to make up parts of it, and the sharp jutting of metal from the side in ways that can only be described as sinister.

But the highest concentration of ice is at the top, where the Frozen Throne is. The top looks to be made out of only ice, four pillars of it rising up out of the center of the platform, where a big blue Rune glows eerily. The edge of the platform is circular and flat, the only exception being the the giant clump of ice at the top. The side facing the Rune is hewn into the shape of steps, at least fifty of them, leading up to a throne, also hewn out of the ice. From the back of the throne, the mound continues to rise up high into the sky. This is Icecrown Citadel, headquarters of the Scourge, center of Northrend, location of the Frozen Throne, and home to the Lich King, who now sits upon his throne, his saronite armor dull,  his eyes seeming to be nothing but cold, blue flames.

Frostmourne, his sword, rests with the tip to the ground, easily within reach. Blue Runes glow along the blade, one of its sides serrated. The hand guard looks like a skull, and is seeming to be made out of the same metal as the armor Arthas wears. His armor has the shape of skulls on his pauldrons, the knees of his leg guards, and the backs of his boots. The Crown of Domination sits upon his head, part helm, part crown, with wicked spikes sticking up from the top. It, too, is made of the dark saronite metal.

The big blue Rune begins to glow brighter, a shining blue light seeming to seep out of it and rise into a human form. A moment later the light fades away and the Rune goes back to just existing, giving off a faint amount of light. Now two figures stand on the platform, facing Arthas. One is wearing the blue colors of the Alliance, as well as golden armor that glows from the imbued Light within it. The other figure wears armor not unlike that which Arthas  wears, except heavier, lined with furs, and the helm has tusk like protrusions, with blue glowing eyes peer out from beneath it. The rectangular sword that is the Ashbringer is sheathed across the former’s back, while a dark sword with blue, green, red, and purple Runes running along the blade is sheathed across the darker one’s back. A blue aura surrounds the Runed weapon, the blade’s tip bearing two sharp points on either edge.

They both draw their weapons and approach the Throne. As they do, Arthas picks up Frostmourne and descends to meet them. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Nicolus?” the man in blue and gold asks.

The second one laughs softly, his voice betraying the echo, as if a second voice speaks with him, that is present with all Death Knights. “Nick, Tirion. I prefer Nick.” he says. “I’ve been ready since you freed me.”

“The Light freed you, Nick.” Tirion admonishes him. “Not I. I was, to be quite honest, trying to kill you.”

Nick nods and replies, “True, I’ll give you that. Whatever the case though, it’s a bit late to be asking such a question, is it not?”

This time it is Tirion who chuckles. “Yes, I suppose so.” They cease their talking as their enemy gets to the bottom of the ice steps, standing only paces from them both. Tirion raises his head defiantly and says, his voice firm and clear, “We will grant you a swift death, Arthas. Which is more than can be said for those you have so brutally tortured and slain.” The King laughs, his voice echoing just like Nick’s, but deeper.

“So, these are the great warriors sent to confront me? The High Paladin, Tirion Fordring, and my former Lich Knight, Nicolus Ryder?” he asks, his voice oozing condescension. “Shall I cast aside Frostmourne, and kneel before you for mercy, Fordring?” He laughs again, shaking his head. “As for those atrocities, you will learn of them first hand. Your anguished cries will ring throughout the land, as testament to my unbridled power, and when you beg and cry for mercy, I shall deny you!”

There is silence, then Tirion says with remorse, “So be it. Champion,” he shouts, “attack!” Tirion leaps forward as one of the Runes on Arthas’ sword blazes. The King raises a hand and blue energy shoots from his hand, smiting into the Paladin. He stops, frozen solid inside a block of ice.

“NO!” Nick shouts, and he is encased in a cloud of shadows. Arthas walks forward slowly, and suddenly, out of the dark cloud emerges Nick in his Worgen Form. What fur is visible is a soft brown, he has grown two feet taller, and his hands now have claws, with a tail poking out from behind him. He draws his sword and he and Arthas meet. Their fight is furious, their swords clashing and singing through the air as they battle. The Runes along their blades blaze and flash and dim as they unleash havoc upon each other. A monstrosity of what looks like multiple different body parts appears as an army of Ghouls, undead bodies, wraps around their hands and feet and missing a good portion of their stomach, appear as well and the army clashes with the monstrous minion.

A freezing wind surrounds the two combatants as they battle back and forth across the platform. “Val’kyr, come!” Arthas shouts as the minion falls under the onslaught. Suddenly a ghostly woman in opaque armor flies toward the two, her white wings beating her effortlessly through the skies, her blonde hair flying in the wind. She grabs Nick and begins to fly him toward the edge of the platform. At the same moment, the army of ghouls are on the Lich King, even as he hacks and cuts them to pieces. Nick snarls and stabs viciously into the Val’kyr. She shrieks and lets him go, allowing him to land just on the edge. He breathes heavily, and as she swoops in again, he decapitates her, and she vanishes in a burst of energy. His head is bowed, weary and tired now. He draws a red Rune onto his forearm and it blazes before fading away. He takes a deep breath and stands tall again to see the last of his army fall beneath Frostmourne. The Lich King turns to Nick and says, “Watch as the world collapses around you.” The edge of the platform shifts as it breaks off into floating chunks. Nick looks between them and Arthas, and then they drop, taking Nick with them.

Arthas laughs softly, turning away. Then Nick comes flying up, his dark, black feathered wings shooting him into the sky, before he comes in swooping at him. “You’ll have to do better than that, Arthas!” he roars.

Arthas turns just in time to stop his blade and they battle fiercely before they break away to catch their breath. Arthas gasps out, “Come, then; Frostmourne hungers!” And they meet again, but this time something is different. Nick’s fur is now black, his eyes glow blood red, and he is faster and stronger, roaring and snarling as he whirls around his former master. His fury is unmatched as he begins to slowly drive Arthas back across the platform. Finally, Nick knocks the sword from the King’s grasp and tackles him down. He raises the sword as Arthas bellows, “ENOUGH!!!” Unholy tendrils of black and purple energy appear between the King’s grasping hand and Nicolus’ throat. He gasps as he is lifted into the air and tossed easily to the center of the platform. Arthas stands, holding out his other hand as similar tendrils grab Frostmourne and bring it to his hand. Nick gets up and as he does Arthas stabs his sword into Nick. He gasps, and Arthas pulls his weapon out and brings Nick down with one strike.

He laughs, looking down at the unmoving body. “Foolish Knight. You were meant to come fight me. I needed Azeroth’s best warrior to become my vassal. Turns out, after all this time, it was you.” He walks toward the frozen figure of Tirion, twirling his sword’s tip in the air. The block turns so the Paladin is facing him and the body. “Now, watch, Fordring, as I transform your champion into my own, personal weapon, to spread terror and destruction across Azeroth.” He turns back to Nick’s body and begins speaking a strange language, the words sounding vile and sinister, the Runes along his blade flickering as a ring of blue, green, red, and purple Runes appears around Nick’s body.

Then, from seemingly everywhere, Tirion’s voice whispers, “Light, grant me this final blessing, and release me from these bonds.” A bright light flashes from the ice and Arthas turns in time to see Tirion emerge from the chunks of ice.

“Impossible!” he shouts, and Tirion charges forward, swinging the Ashbringer. The King raises Frostmourne to parry, but as the two meet there is a golden spark from their blades and a crack forms on Frostmourne. Another clash, a spark, and the crack grows. One more blow and Frostmourne shatters. There is silence, then an explosion as spirits pour out of the broken blade, spirits of those the evil weapon had slain. One spirit walks toward them, a man garbed in regal robes, a crown, a short beard and mustache; King Menethil.

He says softly, “At last, my son, your rule has come to an end.” He looks towards Nick’s body and it is encased in Light. Then it fades as Nick rises to his feet. The captured spirits whirl around the platform, angry, vengeful, full of ire. Arthas is lifted into the air suddenly as the souls swirl around him like a whirlwind.

Nick reaches toward his sword and Unholy tendrils, like the Lich King, arc out, seize the handle, and bring it into his waiting palm. He takes one look at Arthas, suspended helpless in the air and says quietly, “Arthas, your reign has ended.” He stalks forward and in one swift motion stabs him. Arthas screams, and as suddenly as he was lifted, he is dropped to the ground as blood pools out beneath him, his helm falling from his head. Nick sheaths his sword and turns away as the spirit of King Menethil walks to the fallen King. He kneels down before him as the blue fire fades from Arthas’ eyes. His hair is long and blonde, and his true eye color is a silvery grey. He reaches out, grasping his deceased father. “Father ...” he gasps out. “Is it ... over?” Menethil lays a hand over his son’s.

“At long last.” he replies, his voice soothing. “No king rules forever, my son.” Arthas looks in the distance, a point far away as he says.

“I see ... only ... darkness ... before ... me.” And with that, his arm falls, limp, and the Lich King breathes his last.

Menethil passes his hand over his son’s eyes, closing them as he says, “Without their master, the restless Scourge will become an even greater threat.” He slowly rises to his feet. “Control must be maintained.” He turns to Tirion as he says gravely, “There must always be a Lich King.” His spirit flares brightly, and it, too, joins the whirlwind of souls as they depart, free at last.

Nick goes over and scoops up the Crown of Command, the Lich King’s terrible crown and helm both. He looks down at it, then turns to the High Paladin, who also gazes at the crown. “Such a heavy burden ...” he says, “It must be mine, for there is no other-”

“TIRION!” A voice echoes across the spire’s platform. Both men turn toward the sound, coming from the Frozen Throne. Upon it sits what used to be a man. He no longer has any hair, his skin is as gray as ashes, and cracks in his skin glow, burning, as if it were fire rather than blood that now pumped through his veins. His eyes are glowing orange orbs as he gazes down at them, the only armor he is wearing being a charred pair of leg guards. “You hold a grim destiny in your hands, brother. But it is not your own ...”

“Bolvar!” Tirion says, hurrying up the steps. “By all that is holy ...”

“The Dragon’s fire ... sealed my fate. The world of the living can no longer comfort me.” He raises his head slowly. “Place the crown upon my head, Tirion. For now on, I will be the jailor of the damned.”

But the Paladin, having reached the top steps, turns away. “I can not-”

“You and your champion have your destinies!” he interrupts him. “This last act of service ... is mine.” Tirion sighs heavily, then holds out his hand. Nick places the crown to him, and he slowly turns to Bolvar.

“You will not be forgotten, brother.” he says sadly.

“I must be forgotten, Tirion!” he scolds harshly. “If the world is to live free of the tyranny of fear, no one must know what happened here today.” The Paladin does not speak but nods slowly. With somber gravity, he slowly places the crown upon his head.

The citadel trembles and quakes. The head slowly raises, and then orange fire flares to life, right where the eyes would be. He sits back in the chair as ice begins to form around him, from his legs up. He says with finality, “Tell them only that the Lich King is dead, and that Bolvar Fordragon died with him.” With that, the ice encases him completely, as Tirion and Nicolus back away to the bottom of the stairs. As they reach it, a deep voice rings out; the voice of the Lich King, thundering through the air, as he gives his last command. “Now, go, leave this place, and never return!”

Nick and Tirion both run to the edge and jump off onto the skeletal gryphon waiting below, and fly off. They glance back at the Citadel as it recedes behind a cloud.

“What will you do now?” Tirion asks Nick as they fly along.

“I... I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “I wish to continue serving the Alliance, I can tell you that.”

“Then perhaps you should speak with King Varian? Surely he will have warmed up to you, what with all the times you have aided the Alliance.”

“Maybe... but I have a feeling the King of Stormwind and the Alliance is not one to forgive and forget easily.”

“Easily, no,” Tirion replies, “But at the very least, you have earned his trust.” Nick doesn’t reply, instead just looking out at the snowy landscape as he heads to Dalaran.

The death of one of our own. And no one cares...

The world has become corrupted.

This may not sound like news to you, but even I didn't even realize the extent to which we had declined. The generation I am a part of is inconsiderate, and thoughtless, thinking only about themselves. For every rule, there are exceptions that prove it. I am one of them, although I confess to selfishness every now and again. But not to the extent I see others.

Yesterday, an announcement was made, that a student in this High School that I attend, died of cancer, God rest her soul. The announcer asked for a moment of silence in remembrance of this student. I would have been silent. I would have taken time out of my Advisory to honor the memory she left people with. But I couldn't, because I did not hear the announcement. You know why? Because everyone in my Advisory was talking talking talking, yapping away for no other reason except they were bored. The shame I feel for being a part of such a group of students is beyond words.

Today, we were supposed to wear pink, in support of the fight to find a cure for cancer. Granted, I saw many people wearing pink, or at least wearing a pink ribbon. But I have seen far more wearing normal clothes, not even a splotch of red that could be considered close to pink. Even I, a man who would not wear pink if I could help it, asked my sister to wear her pink hat, in support of this cause. People do crazy things for spirit week, and yet only a percent of BHS's students would go out of their way to honor a spirit no longer with us? Whoever she was, I was I knew her name, died young, way too young. She could have had a bright future ahead of her. But now, she does not, and her family must find a way to live on without an important member of their family.

It goes beyond that however! In Chemistry, we are taught to obey rules and observe guidelines. When we were doing a lab where we set metals on fire, I saw more than one student playing with their fire. ave they no respect for the dangerous forces they are dealing with? Have they no respect for rules? Do they care so little about their safety?

In this world we are growing up in, it is becoming painfully clear that it is more important for us to make ourselves happy, instead of others. That what we feel and think is what matters, not other people. That we should make ourselves happy, before we think about others. This is selfishness in its purest form, and it is disgusting, revolting! Were it that I could speak to everyone and make them aware of this! But alas, I can only really express my humiliation of this with you fellow classmates. Perhaps you can print this out, tape it up on the walls, or write the URL in a bathroom stall. I see written trash in there all the time. How about we send out a negative message to be constructive instead of 'fuck this school' and drawings of penises all over the walls. How about we actually work together to spread the message to rethink our values and whats important, and try to save ourselves from a future where people will stab one another in the back if in benefits themselves. Because if we continue down this road, that is what will be waiting for us at the end of it.

The Lich Knight Chapter 3: Memories

The rain pours down on Gilneas, a small city surrounded by a circular wall. There were four districts that made up the great city. The Military District, Merchant Square, Greymane Court, and Cathedral Quarter. The Military District was where the Gilneans kept their weapons, and trained their soldiers, as well as where their prison and barracks were built. The Merchant Square was made of houses and vendor stalls, where commerce and trade happened. The Cathedral Quarter was set up right in front of the massive cathedral located directly in the center of the city. It had plenty of comfortable grass for a person to enjoy a pleasant afternoon on. The Greymane Court was a sort of commons, where fellow Gilneans could gather and chat or meet new people. It was named after their dearly loved and honored King, Genn Greymane.

Nicolus crouches on top of Light’s Dawn Cathedral, overlooking the ruins of the once beautiful city he had called home. He grimaces as tears slowly run down his face. I would never have guessed it would happen. Who would have? he thinks. And it happened so fast, too ...

King Greymane was an amazing man, who had ruled justly and fairly throughout his kingdom. He was kind, smart, wise, and a fierce believer in loyalty. All Gilneans loved him, with no exception. He had had a son named Liam, a prince that was loved and adored just as much, if not more so, than his father.

Nick closes his eyes in grief. It all happened on a night so like this. It is raining heavily, dark clouds obscuring the sky. The memories suddenly swell up and slam into him like a maelstrom, and through his mind, he is hurled into the past.

*     *     *

Nicolus Ryder walks through the rain, his hooded cloak his only protection against the relentless torrent of rain. He reaches a building with a sign over the entrance in the shape of a cross. He opens it and quickly steps inside with an appreciative sigh as he shuts the door. He hangs his cloak on the pegs near the door, and walking through the waiting room, heads into the back room, where he gets a candle and strikes up a flame.

He holds the candle as he goes to the others on the walls, lighting them too. There were four in the waiting room in the front, and a set of six in a chandelier in the back room, where he kept the tools of his trade. He was a doctor, a medicine man, a scholar, and a teacher. In the back was a chalkboard up against the wall. There was a desk with a chair near it, where a pile of papers and a pile of books rested. Inside the desk drawers were his medical tools; scalpals, scissors, tweazers, needles of different sorts. There was a cabinet where he kept the actual medicines he made out of local herbs and the like. And in the center of all this was a table long enough for a full grown man to be able to lay comfortably on. He sits himself at his desk and opens one of the books as he begins reading.

The candle is burning low when suddenly he hears a loud BANG. He shoots to his feet. That was a gunshot I heard, he thinks. He quickly picks up his bag he keeps by the door, containing powerful types of medicine and other emergency triage equipment, throws on his cloak, and hurries out into the storm.

He runs through the rain, heading in the direction he had heard the gunshot. He reaches a house with the basement door open, light pouring out of it. He hurries down inside, and stops short as he sees a heap of fur lying on the ground with a very humanoid shape. No, oh no no no, he thinks. He approaches slowly and on closer inspection, his suspicion is confirmed; it is a Worgen. However, it is wearing human clothes, oddly enough. Then he remembers how Worgen could somehow transform ordinary people into one of them. “Well, maybe if I can study you, I can find a way to cure you,”he thinks aloud. He nods, and grabbing the huge monster under the arms, begins dragging it back to his office.

He bursts through the door, dragging the now-soaking wet mass of fur inside, hauling it to the back where he heaves it onto the central table. He doubles over as he catches his breath. Then he goes to the door,  shuts and bolts it, and walks back to the back room. He sets the Worgen on its back, and looks it over.

It is larger than any human, and it wears the clothes of a man known as Crowley. “Poor fellow,” Nick mutters. He finds the bullet wound and he goes to his desk, opening drawers and withdrawing the tools he will need. Using his skills in medicine, he takes the bullet out and sews up the wound with deft experienced fingers. He goes to his cupboard, and grabs a medicine bag. He returns and sprinkles a leafy-green powder on the wound. The Worgen suddenly growls, squirming a little. He puts the bag back and returns to the desk, taking out a syringe. He walks back to the Worgen and is about to stick it in when its eyes fly open.

With a snarl it leaps to its feet. Nick shouts, nearly dropping the needle to the ground. He runs to the cupboard, and loads a yellow vial into the syringe. He turns and barely raises an arm in time as the Worgen leaps at him. Its teeth sink into his arm and he cries out in pain. He brings the other hand, holding the shot, down on the back of its neck and delivers the sedative. The creature’s eyes go wide, then they flutter closed and it collapses.

Nick gets up, holding his wounded arm tenderly. “Argh,” he mutters. “That sure stings a lot. Wretched mongrels...” He quickly heads to the desk and pulling open another drawer withdraws a towel, which he presses to the wound. He grabs a strand of cloth from the same drawer and ties it tight over the towel. He then heads to the closet and throws it open where a large cage is. He grabs the Worgen and hauls it into the cage, shutting and locking it firmly. He grimaces in pain, and heads over to the cupboard again, grabbing a set of vials from it. He heads over to the table and after a couple minutes has the wound disinfected, properly wrapped up, and the bleeding already slowing down.

Suddenly a knock sounds at the door, startling him. He walks over, pulling his sleeve down lower to hide the bandages. He opens it to see a man with a neatly trimmed white beard standing there with a pair of spectacles and a top hat.

“Mr. Nicolus Ryder, I’m glad you’re here. Your house’s district has already been overrun.”

“Nick, please, but who are you?”

“Lord Godfrey, and by King Greymane’s request, he wishes for you to join him and the others at the Cathedral. The Worgen have overrun our city.”

Nick’s face pales. “Oh, I had no idea the situation was so dire!”

“There are many wounded that could benefit from your experienced hands, Dr. Ryder,” Godfrey adds. “Many will die without your help.”

“I’ll come immediately!” he says and quickly hurries inside. He assembles the bag, packing extra supplies, and he quickly grabs his fencing foil from the back. On his way to the door, he pauses by the cage, then opens it.

He hurries back to see Godfrey still waiting for him. He glances at the weapon in Nick’s hand. “You know how to use that?”

Without a word, Nick brings it up, deftly plucking Godfrey’s hat off his head with the tip. He flicks it upward and the hat lands back on Godfrey’s head. Nick smirks, but Godfrey doesn’t so much as smile.

“I’m glad you can do parlor tricks, Nicolus, but now’s not the time for them.” Without another word he turns and starts walking. Nick shrugs and follows him.

The rain has only gotten heavier since he had dragged the Worgen inside. They hop on the horse Godfrey had come on, and they speed through the storm. Lightning flashes, and as Nick looks off into the gloom, he sees a multitude of yellow eyes watching him.

“What of the other sections of the city?” he asks over the pounding of rain, the horse’s hooves, and his own heart.

“All fallen by now,” Godfrey shouts back to him. “The mongrels are relentless in their assault. We had enough ammunition to wipe out Gilneas five times over and we used it all on them. They just keep coming!” Just then, a chilling howl pierces the air. The two men look back, and Godfrey urges the horse on faster.

They arrive at the Cathedral, the entire courtyard surrounded by Worgens. At the steps leading inside the massive structure are great canons, firing into the masses. They come to a stop, dismount, and run inside.

The inside of the Cathedral is spacious. All around men and women lie, wounded, fewer others remain upright with guns pointed at the entrance. Nick quickly assesses the situation and moves to the first group of victims and begins healing them.

He has just finished patching another up when suddenly one of the ones still standing doubles over and drops to his hands and knees. He pants and heaves, then black fur begins sprouting from his skin, his figure grows bigger, and his mouth begins to elongate. Oh no, please no, he thinks. Then the man rears up and howls. Everyone turns to him at the same time, just as Worgen pour in from every entrance. Nick quickly grabs his sword, only to find it falling from his grasp. A terrible pain appears in his chest and he groans as he doubles over onto his hands and knees. He gasps for breath, feeling like his lungs can’t expand enough. An itch appears all over his body, and he watches in fascination as fur begins to sprout from himself as well. By the Light, please, no! He feels his bones elongating, his muscles swelling beneath his skin. Then a presence of some sort, a dark shadow falls across his thoughts. He can no longer control himself. His primal side is there instead. He stands up slowly and howls as the other Worgen with him do. Then Nick is forced to watch in silent, helpless horror as he begins slaughtering his friends.

*     *     *

It has been many months. He is the alpha of the Worgen pack. His knowledge of how the body works seems to be at the disposal of Nick’s primal side. He has gotten used to knowing without doing. He experiences everything his body goes through, he just can’t control it. He comes to a stop, as does the rest of his pack. The smell of the dead wafts to him. He barks to the rest of the pack, “Circle around. Flee. I will hold them off.” He is their best hunter and fighter. He crouches down, and waits.

They emerge like some horrible fog out of the woods. Corpses, dead bodies everywhere. He bears his teeth, and with a snarl, launches himself into their midst. He rips them apart, crippling and mauling the monstrous creatures. He downs an abomination, when suddenly he is lifted and thrown into a tree. He looks to see a normal looking elf in black armor marching toward him, a big sword with glowing figures along the blade drawn, with dark tendrils linking from his outstretched hand to Nick’s neck, and its eyes are glowing a soft blue.

“My, my, what a feisty monster!” he says contemptuously.

Nick bares his teeth, and howls loudly as the man approaches, his distance making the high decibels really hurt his pointed ears. He covers them, dropping Nick to the ground,who immediately pounces the elf. They roll and tumble, trying to get the better of one another. The elf gets clawed and bitten many times over, while Nick gets bumped and bruised. Finally, Nick ends on top of the elf, snarling, his claws going for the throat, when suddenly he is yanked through the air, landing at the feet of another man in identical dark armor. He looks down at Nick in a way that would suggest he was looking at a pile of droppings.

“Really Koltira, is it so difficult to kill a common Worgen?” the man asks with disdain.

“You weren’t the one fighting it,” the one called Koltira gasps as he gets to his feet. “He is a vicious fighter. I’d like to see you take him on, Orbaz.”

“Perhaps I will spare him just to show you,” Orbaz mused aloud. Nick struggles to get back to his feet, only to have a metal boot smash him across the face, knocking him to the ground.

Stay down, Nick despairingly thinks, but he starts to get back up.

“Hmph,you’re right, this is a stubborn one.” Orbaz appraised. Koltira comes over and a sharp blow to the head sends Nick to the ground once more. “Wait a second! Don’t kill it...I wonder ...” Nick rolls over, just in time for the  sword to impale him through the heart. He doesn’t die, oddly enough. Through his teeth, Nick snarls at Orbaz, who grins down at him like he just found a cache of gold, or something along those lines. “I say we make it a Death Knight!”

“Orbaz, I knew you were insane, but that is almost a statement worthy of a second death.”

“Listen Koltira; if this is how vicious this mongrel is now, and how stubborn, imagine what a powerful Death Knight he will be!”

Koltira crosses his arms, pondering this, while Nick lies impaled by Orbaz’s sword. “Alright, fine; resurrect him. But don’t come crying to me when he rips your throat out.”

Suddenly, a chill fills Nick. He gasps and whimpers, feeling the cold down to his very soul. Suddenly this dark something goes into his brain, and he feels the Worgen suppressed for the moment. He quickly reaches out and seizes control of his body once again. He starts getting smaller, the fur falling off of him, his claws shrinking back into his fingers, his snout shortening. Finally, he sat up, in control of himself. He looks at his chest, where a large, ugly scar is. He looks up at the shocked faces of Koltira and Orbaz.

“Orbaz, you have made one of those transformed Worgen into a Death Knight; good going.” Koltira pats the other on his shoulder and walks off.

“Hello there,” Orbaz says as he crouches down in front of Nick. The urge to kill him is sudden and powerful, the desire to lunge forward and rip his throat out with his bare hands. Coupled with the beating Nick just received, he doesn’t resist all that much. Nick roars as he hurls himself at the Death Knight. A blow to his jaw so fast he doesn’t even see it sends Nick back to the ground with a grunt of pain. “Well, at least I know that wasn’t a waste. Usually it takes awhile for the desire to kill to set in. You must have a thirst for blood that is almost as great as mine.” He grins evilly.  “Welcome to the Scourge!”

***

Nick wakes up from the memory, shaking his head. When I became a Worgen ... How I became a Death Knight... He sighs and starts walking through Gilneas. He lets his mind wander as he looks around the desolate, abandoned city. Next thing he knows, he’s at the Gilnean cemetery. He searches about, and finally finds the grave of Liam Greymane. Oh Liam, you deserved a better death than what was given to you. He places a hand on the grave, and again, he finds himself in the past once more.

***

He walks into Stormwind Keep, his dark armor covered in rotted fruits and the like. The people of Stormwind had done everything in their power to make him feel unwelcomed. But he hadn’t come this far only to be made an outcast, and he was not one to give up easily. The guards in the corridor all draw their weapons as he walks in, eyeing him as if he were a filthy, dangerous animal. Nick stoically refuses to make eye contact though. He reaches the throne room, a huge circular room, in the back of which was the throne, where King Varian Wrynn sat with his son, Anduin. To the left, a great archway where sunlight shone through, and to the right, another that lead into a different room.

He slowly approaches the throne, where not only King Wrynn and Anduin look down at him, but King Genn Greymane as well. Well, so far so good. Now if they’ll just refrain from killing me yet, maybe I can actually walk out with my head. He stops at the foot of the stairs to the throne and looks up at King Wrynn. Then, with deliberate slowness, he draws his sword, the Runes glowing mutely, and lays it on the floor at his feet, before kneeling before it and the Kings.

“You have a lot of nerve coming into my Keep, Knight. The only reason you are not dead yet is idle curiosity.” King Wrynn slowly gets up from his throne and walks down the steps until he is standing over Nick. “Remove your helm, Death Knight-”

“Lich Knight, your highness,” Nick corrects him. There is a sharp intake of breath all around the room, but Nick ignores it. Then, very slowly, he reaches up and removes his helm, setting it by his sword. Then he looks up, his short brown hair and glowing blue eyes finally meeting Varian’s blue ones.

“Nicolus!” Genn Greymane says, a kind of confused happiness on his face.

“Please, Genn, let me handle this,” Varian says. Then, turning to Nick, “Speak quickly, Knight, for it may be the last words you ever say.” Nick silently takes off a glove and traces a blue Rune onto the back of his hand. A blue flame flares above his palm, and then the flame disappears, along with the Rune, and leaving behind a crisp letter with a golden seal. He offers it to Varian. The King takes the letter and opens it, scanning it quickly. He then glances at Nick. 

“Were this letter from anyone else, I would’ve discarded it and beheaded you at once. But it has the seal of the Light on the envelope, and Tirion has a very peculiar way he signs his name.” He slowly ascends back to his throne, gesturing to the guards, who, albeit grudgingly, put away their swords. As Varian sits, he continues to regard Nick, who remains kneeling. “Tirion wrote that you have somehow been cleansed of the Lich King’s influences, and that a sect of the Death Knights of the Scourge have broken away, calling themselves ‘Knights of the Ebon Blade.’ He says you are to be trusted.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “I trust Tirion’s judgement. I don’t trust you, but him. And he says that you should receive a full pardon, and set to aiding the Alliance in anyway you can.” Again, a pause. Then, “Nicolus Ryder, as King of the Alliance, I hereby grant you full pardon of your crimes during your servitude to the Scourge. Aid the Alliance as you can.” He then says quietly, “Do not make me regret what I have done.”

“I will not, your majesty,” Nick says.

Genn Greymane asks, “Vairian, would you mind if I spoke to Nicolus here for a moment?”

“Go ahead,” he replies, not taking his eyes off Nick. King Greymane stands and walks down as Nicolus puts back on his helm and sheathes his sword across his back again.

“Come with me Ryder, we have much to talk about.” The two exit through the arch that has sunlight pouring in. They enter a courtyard outside, a raised area a garden of sorts in the center. They walk around its perimeter. Nick glances at the King, who seems perfectly at ease.

“King Greymane-”

“Please, call me Genn.”

Nick blinks, then says, “Nick. Call me Nick.”

Genn nods. “Alright.”

Nick starts again, “Genn, when I turned ... well, what happened to Gilneas?” He moves in front of Genn, stopping him. “Why are you here?”

Genn sighs heavily. “Oh Nick ... after the battle at Light’s Dawn, the Worgen completely over ran Gilneas. We left and Aranas was able to make a potion to restore the minds of our people turned Worgen.” He pauses and leads them into the garden itself. “The Forsaken became a problem then. They attacked us mercilessly, trying to seize Gilneas from us. We fought hard back, along with our then Worgen allies ... but it wasn’t until the Druids came to help as that we were able to make a play for Gilneas city.

“We fought tooth, nail, and claw, and we were able to push them out ... but then I found Sylvanas ... and I attacked her.” He looks at Nick. “I’m one too, you know. A Worgen. Have been for quite a few years now. But finally she knocked me down, and time froze for us. I saw her knock an arrow, saw her draw back on her bow, but then ...” Nick watches as Genn’s eyes fill with tears. “Then ... my son ... my pride and joy, Liam ... he jumped in front of her ... he saved my life, at the cost of his.” Tears start to trickle down Genn’s kind face.

“I’m sorry, Genn,” Nick says softly.

“It’s alright. He is in a better place now.” Genn looks skyward. “He is buried at the Gilnean cemetery now ... buried with his ancestors. We had to leave Gilneas, as the Forsaken filled the area with their fel-born Plague.” He balls his fists in anger. “They forced us out of our home ... but the Night Elves were kind enough to take us in. The Gilneans live there now.” He looks at Nick. “Perhaps, we will be able to return someday ... but until then, all we can do is help do our part to eliminate mutual enemies so we can focus on the Horde.” He turns to Nick.

“I heard that you were one of the best doctors and scholars we had in Gilneas. I hope you can be as helpful now as you were then.”

“Your highness, if anything, I can be more helpful.” Nick replies.

“Good!” Genn places a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, Nick. May your blade stay sharp.”

“And your mind,” Nick replies, placing his hand on Genn’s shoulder in turn. They shake hands, and Nick whistles, summoning his Scourge Gryphon. He mounts it, waves to Genn, and takes off into the skies.

***

He emerges back in the present. He looks down at the grave of Liam, the rain still pouring as heavily as before. Suddenly, there is a zoooooommm behind him, along with a flash of azure light. He whirls around, drawing his blade and stopping just shy and decapitating a blonde woman in white and light violet robes.

“Good evening,” she says in a soft voice. She is in her mid twenties by the looks of it, but her eyes say she has lived many lifetimes. “I’m Lady Jaina Proudmoore. King Wrynn said I could find you here.”

“He was right,” Nick replies. “Is there a reason you came here to find me?”

“Word is that you were a member of the Scourge once, and that you now hunger for vengeance.” She says softly. “I have come to give you that opportunity.” Nick tilts his head at her. “We recently have cornered the Lich King and the Scourge in Northrend. If you are willing to help, you could help us crush the Scourge once and for all.” She smiles hopefully at him. “Will you join us?”

Nick looks around the cemetery. There is nothing left for me here, he thinks. And this is my chance to redeem myself in the eyes of all who know me. I can end the Lich King’s reign of terror. Finally, he says, “Tell me what to do.”

           She smiles in relief and holds out a staff of light purple metal, with a purple-green focusing crystal on the top. Nick places his hand on the staff, and everything disappears in a blinding flash of azure light.