Thank you for reading. Hopefully you enjoy. If you REALLY like it, I have a P-a-t-r-e-o-n, under the same name, where you can read 5 chapters ahead.
I make no promises regarding an upload schedule for this. My main focus is still getting a chapter of A Winkle in Reality out every week. You've been warned.
This is another plot worm I've had kicking around in my head. It's another semi-SI, but a Gamer one this time. Because that's original. I've wanted to write one for a while, so fuck it. It'll properly be a wider multi-verse story as well, but that's for the future.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
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Darkness. All encompassing, all-consuming, darkness. No sound, no smell, no anything.
Just.
Darkness.
Quiet. Relaxing. It was almost like sleeping.
It was also really fucking boring.
Don't get me wrong, I liked sleeping as much as the next guy. Well, a little less than the average person, maybe. I had always been something of an adrenaline junkie.
But I liked sleeping. In moderation. Eternal peace just… wasn't my thing.
Not that I had much choice. Time was relative, yet it felt like a relatively long fucking time since I found myself here. I'm not sure what happened. One minute I was doing… something, I can't recall, and the next, I was in darkness. Perhaps I died and ended up in Purgatory, or something equally unappealing.
I couldn't remember much about what had happened before. Not my name, not my family, not my home. I was in the military; I remembered that much, having recently been promoted. But nothing personal, Nothing about my actual life, outside of work and hobbies.
That should probably bother me, but it was hard to focus when you were so…
Fucking…
BOOOOOOREEEEEED!
I would be screaming if sound worked in the nothingness. Since it didn't, I was just making noise in my head. Random nonsense, monologues, threats, pleas. Even songs, which came to me surprisingly easily.
Weird-ass amnesia. Better than complete memory loss, to be sure, yet still really weird.
'Darkness, imprisoning me, all that I see, absolute horror, I can not live, I can not die, trapped in myse-'
What is the most essential thing in life?
Interrupting my 1000th rendition of Metallica's 'One', bright white letters appeared in front of me. One second, there was nothing, and then they were there. Just floating, acting like they didn't almost give me a fucking heart attack.
Or the spiritual, disembodied version anyway.
Still, what is the most essential thing in life? That was a good question. Love? Maybe. Purpose? Purpose could mean many things, but having a clear goal in life was always beneficial. Some people chased after money, fame, sex, drugs: quick fixes or some kind of existential higher meaning. There was a lot of stuff to give flavor to life, and it changed depending on the person in question.
But at the end of the day, if you gave it your all, had fun along the way, and maybe even left the world a better place, could anyone really ask for more?
Mage?
Warrior?
Rouge?
What, like a class in a video game? I'd never been much of a gamer, but I was familiar. I was more of a sports person. Like I said, I'd been in the military. That made Warrior attractive, but magic was magic, and who the fuck would turn that down?
Spells and shit were fucking dope. Lighting people on fire and hurling lightning bolts around like a maniac.
Would you take a higher risk for a greater reward?
Or would you choose a safer option?
Somewhere in between?
Uhhh, I was starting to get a bad feeling about these questions. Or at least, the sense that they were a lot more meaningful than simply innocuous ponderings.
But to answer…
Fuck it, yeah, I'd take the risk. Life was all about risks. Sure, sometimes you had to weigh the options and not be impulsive.
Other times, though?
Other times, you had to say 'fuck it, we ball' and let the dice land where they may.
Answer acknowledged.
Mage Class chosen.
Hard Start chosen.
Rewards selected.
Good luck, Gamer.
Wait, Gamer? Hard Start!? What the fu-
—-
"-ck!?"
He slammed into existence without warning. He was in complete, senseless darkness, with only the weird words for company. Suddenly, instantly, with no shift or transition, he was bombarded with input. Colors, shapes, sounds, smells, all overwhelming, all fighting to make themselves known first. The sensation of the clothes on his skin was torture, the scent of wood, oil, dust, books, and flowers overpowering. Screams and vibrations threatened to make his head explode, while the very air and the inside of his mouth made him nauseous and suffocated him at the same time.
He couldn't handle it. It was too much, too fast, too soon. It had to stop, he had to make it stop, had to return to the darkness; glorious, peaceful, silent, darkness. He had to go back, whatever it took: It was too much, he was going to die, he had to die, he wanted to die-
-It stopped.
A vast, air-deprived gasp left him as all at once, his senses adapted. He could still smell things, but it was a comfortable, faint scent. He could still hear, yet it was distant mumblings from outside, wherever he was. The air was clean and tasteless, cleaner than any air he'd ever breathed. The only thing left was an acidic taste in his mouth.
He was okay. Everything was okay.
He found himself on his knees, sweat running from his forehead onto the stone floor beneath him, with light splashing sounds. A puddle of vomit rippled with each drop, explaining the foul taste.
He threw up during whatever the fuck that was. Embarrassing, yet a cheap price to pay.
That sucked. Never again, if he could help it. Which he probably couldn't, but it was the thought that counted.
Careful to avoid the pile of sick, he pushed himself onto his feet and took in his surroundings.
Wide cobblestone bricks formed every surface of a sizeable room, roughly the size of a small one-bedroom apartment. Having gotten used to military quarters, it was a noticeable upgrade. There were no windows, but a fireplace lit up the room, helped by a couple of torches on the opposite side. A vast, sinfully soft-looking bed dominated the top wall, and he had to stop himself from jumping face-first into it by focusing on the other sitting area.
Framed by the torches, there was a large, messy desk. Books were stacked high on the workspace, half a dozen lying open beside each other, and even overlapping in some cases. Black splotches decorated the little of the dark wood that was visible under the tomes and numerous sheets of yellow material that took up whatever space the books left open, a neat scrawl crawling over them, and more of those black stains dripped across.
It took some time, as well as spotting the fucking quill sticking out of an ink pot, for him to realise that he was looking at parchment. Actual, real-life animal hides that hadn't been used for writing for hundreds of years.
Even the titles of the volumes threw him. "The Arcane for Amateurs"? "The Telekinetic Textbook"? "An In-Depth Treaty And Analysis Of The Intricate Discipline And History Of Pyromancy From Beginning To Now"? The notes seemed to be related and told him nothing other than whoever wrote them had clearly prioritised their writing classes.
They were great notes. Nonsense, but very concise and easy to read.
Where the fuck was he!? Ink, quills, parchment, and magic books? Did he time-travel? Or did someone take role-playing super seriously?
There weren't a lot of other clues. The only other furniture in the room was an over-crammed bookshelf on the opposite side of the desk, a large chest at the foot of the bed, a mirror, and a large blue banner on the left wall featuring a crest.
To be fair, that banner did look familiar, but he couldn't for the life of him remember why.
A golden, stylized symbol that resembled an L, albeit with a curled top resembling a spikey C, was set atop a shield with golden trim, with a sword stabbed vertically through it. That in turn had two swords crisscrossing behind the shield, while a large hammer poked out from the top and below. Finally, the entire design was overlaid on a blue circle, with more gold serving as a border.
Other than a door behind him, that was it.
Talk about spartan. Even the army allowed more.
But without anything further to investigate, he… was kinda lost. He could leave the room, but without any idea of where he was, that seemed a little premature.
The only other clue he had was the words of whatever pulled him from the Darkness.
What did it call him? Gamer, as a title? Wasn't that like an anime trope or some shit? That was even further from his wheelhouse than video games, but he'd dabbled. He thought there was some shit about the main character dying, and then getting dropped in another world, or something, and life was like a video game?
Maybe? Or was that a movie?
Was his life a video game? Did he have like a character sheet and shit? Menu? Status?
Status:
Gamer: Daerion Blackmoore, Half-Elf, 15.
Level: 5
Class: Mage
HP - 115/120 (END x10) (STR per 30 minutes)
MP - 337.5/337.5 (INT x15) (WIS per 20 minutes)
SP - 170/180 (END x15) (DEX per 45 seconds)
STR - 8
END - 12
DEX - 10
INT - 15 (50%) = 22.5
WIS - 14 (50%) = 21
CHA - 8 (50%, -25%) = 9
LCK - 5
Points - 0
Gold - 10
Ooooooh. Ooohhhhh. Oh.
Shit. His life really was a video game. He sat down on the bed, which was indeed stupendously soft, as he processed that. His bed, presumably. Because he had also body-snatched some poor kid.
It… was an unexpected development, but not necessarily a bad one. He didn't remember enough of his previous life to feel grief over losing it, which was likely the reason those memories had been taken in the first place. But beyond that…
It was exciting.
He had always been a risk-taker, flying by the seat of his pants. Forethought and planning had never been his strong suit, and he honestly preferred to figure shit out as he went. He wasn't dumb, by any means, and he was fully capable of strategy and guile.
It was more natural for him to have a simple direction and deal with the details as they came. Carefully considering every move before doing something led to lost opportunities and regrets. Too many people lost everything or died of old age before even getting that thing in the first place.
Not him.
Dick first into the unknown had always been his motto, and it always would be. If it worked, great, and if not, then it was what it was. Death was the only sure thing in the universe, or multiverse, or whatever.
Better to go out with confidence and a bang.
Not a prevalent attitude in the military, yet he managed to make it work. A superior once told him, 'There's a thin line between a brave hero and a dead idiot', and he straddled that line like a fucking cowboy.
So yeah, video game world worked. There was magic and shit. The body stealing wasn't great, but there was nothing to do about it.
He took another look at the top of the screen, still floating before him.
"Daerion, huh? Daerion Blackmoore. Kinda edgy. Not terrible, though. I'll try to make you proud, kid. Do some dope shit with this body. 15, though? I would've put it closer to 18."
While he didn't have a measuring tape at that moment, based on the distance to the ground, he was sure he had cleared 6 feet. His frame was thin, yet broad-shouldered enough that Daerion would've thought himself an adult. A look in the mirror told him that his facial structure, which was more aristocratic and better looking than he was used to, was all angular and striking, and also resembled that of a fully grown man more than a child.
The ears were pretty strange, admittedly. The tip extended nearly double that of a standard human, tapering to a point.
It was an odd thought, no longer being fully human, but there wasn't anything to do about it. Besides, it wasn't that big of a deal.
He wasn't sure what he thought of the boy band-esque blonde hair that flopped into his eye, however. The bright, neon blue eyes were quite striking, if slightly eerie, with the way they almost seemed to glow.
He leaned in closer.
Scratch that, they WERE glowing. Very softly and easily waved off as a trick of the light, but definitely glowing.
That was cool
Overall, nothing to complain about, really. He looked fucking good, in fact, if leaning way further towards pretty boy than he was completely happy with. He didn't feel stronger than his old body, yet not noticeably weaker either, despite a loss in muscle mass. A little, maybe, but a smidge under-trained soldier was nothing to sneeze at.
"Might need a haircut, however," he noted as a lock of blonde hair dangled into view. He had gotten used to buzz cuts.
Daerion's eyes made their way down the list as he considered his Stats.
"Why are my INT and WIS so fucking high? And what's with the modifiers? Do I have more shit? Like perks or skills?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, the page in front of him disappeared and was replaced with a new one.
Perks:
Gamer's Mind:
A Gamer holds many secrets best left untouched.
Immunity to mind-altering and invasive abilities.
(?):
?
? to ?. ?. ?. ?. ?. ?. ?. ?. ?. ?. ?. ?.
Mage:
Energy is all around you. It shifts and flows, and the very fabric of existence flows with it. Since your birth, you have been blessed with a nigh-unmatched affinity for all things mystical.
Grants the ability to learn all forms of energy manipulation.
Half-Breed:
With the potential of Humans and the inborn advantage of Elves, some would claim that the result is greater than the sum of its parts. Unfortunately, most vehemently disagree.
50% INT and WIS. 50% SP capacity. 50% SP regeneration. 50% MP capacity. 50% MP regeneration. -20% REP.
Noble:
Descending from a long line of rulers, authority and greatness are in your blood. You are simply born better than the average.
50% CHA.
Traitor's son/grandson:
One or more of your parents/grandparents stabbed their allies in the back. That sort of stigma is hard to erase.
-25% CHA. -20% REP.
However, before he had time to read any of it, another one popped up, shifting the first to the side a little.
Spells:
Fire Affinity- level 4/100:
Reduces Cost of Fire Spells by 2%. Increases the effectiveness of Fire Spells by 2%.
Fireball - level 5/100
Launch a small ball of Fire. Range: Long. Damage: INT Fire. Cost: 24.5 MP.
Fireburst - level 2/100
Launch a burst of Fire. Range: Short. Damage: INT20 Fire. Cost. 59 MP.
Arcane Affinity- level 3/100:
Reduces Cost of Arcane Spells by 1.5%. Increases the effectiveness of Arcane Spells by 1.5%.
Arcane Push - level 3/100
Launch a forceful blast of Arcane. Range: Medium. Damage: INT Arcane. Cost: 40.
Telekinesis - level 6/100
Remotely control objects. Range: Long. Damage: N/A. Cost: 10 MP per lb per second.
Actions:
Running - level 6/100:
Reduces the Cost of Running by 3%. Cost: 19.5 SP per 1 minutes.
Spear - level 8/100:
Increases the damage of Spear by 4%.
Sword - level 6/100:
Increases the damage of Sword by 3%.
Hand-to-Hand - level 2/100:
Increases the Damage of Hand-to-Hand by 1%.
Riding - level 10/100:
Increases the speed of Riding by 5%. 5% faster REP gain with Animals.
Armor - level 2/100:
Decreases movement speed by 24%. Decreases damage taken by 1%
"What the fuck is all this shit!? I thought I was gonna learn magic, not take a fucking exam!?"
Daerion kept grumbling under his breath as he looked over the lists. Once he had calmed down, it even seemed reasonable enough. However, he had a couple of questions.
"Sword and spear aren't actions. Or armor."
No response.
"And I don't have anywhere near enough Mana for any kind of sustained fighting. I'll have to keep Spells in my back pocket for a bit," he mused, "and pick up a melee weapon. Be some kind of Battle Mage. Get a magic sword or spear."
At least he didn't start completely defenseless. His Spells looked simple, but there was enough variety to have options.
The Perks…
"Traitor, huh. Never betrayed anything in my fucking life. Also, nepotism is absolutely real. Extra Stats for being a noble? That's fucked up."
At least Mage would take care of his Mana issues over time. And the mystery Perk had a LOT of question marks, which was promising.
Just had to unlock it somehow.
Half-Breed was, overall, probably a plus. The REP loss sucked, insofar as it stood for Reputation as he thought, especially when combined with Traitor's son/grandson gave him -40%. The extra SP and MP were a very nice starting bonus, though.
Also, who gave a fuck if people didn't like him? They would either change their mind or they wouldn't.
He pondered everything for a little bit longer, then sliced his hand through the air, dismissing the windows. He would have looked like an idiot if it didn't work, yet luck was on his side, it seemed, he thought as he got back on his feet.
"Alright, enough pussyfooting. Hopefully, I have some time before shit goes down, even with that Hard Start thing. Time to figure out where I am. Something about this shit is ringing a bell, but I can't fucking grasp it."
The hallway behind the door was made of more of the same stone that formed his room. Unlit torches lined the walls in between more of the same banners he had already seen, alternating with a large blue, two-headed bird on a field of white.
It was also empty. Shrugging, Daerion took the path to the right as there were some rumblings in the distance that way.
It sounded like a fucking parade.
As he walked, he realised that he had been wrong about something earlier.
Daerion had thought the air was tasteless, but that wasn't quite true. There was a weight to it, a sensation he'd never felt before. It tingled as it passed his lips, left his tongue a little numb on the way past, and felt like tamed lightning as it traveled down his throat. Energy filled the boy with each deep breath, like the moisture in the atmosphere was Red Bull rather than water. A constant caffeine hit, spreading from his lungs through the rest of his body like oxygen, dissipating with the exhale, before starting the cycle anew.
Even against his skin, there was a solidness to it. Not enough to impede his movements, yet it probably should. It was almost as if it had noticed him when they made contact and moved away on its own.
Like it was alive. Kinda. Maybe? He didn't know how magic air worked, but it was fucking odd.
He turned a corner with his attention on the unfamiliar sensation, only to run face-first into someone smaller than him. The size discrepancy allowed him to merely take a step back, while his victim was sent to the floor with a loud 'OOOPHH!'.
He blinked and looked down.
"Shit, I'm sorry, that's my bad. You okay?" He said as he reached down a hand to help the person he had knocked down.
Bright blue eyes locked with his own, the vibrant orbs half hidden by shiny golden hair that had gotten a little messy in the fall, a crooked tiara holding the rest back. Her face was beautiful. High cheekbones, a button nose, pale peach-colored skin, and a slightly pointed chin made her a gorgeous blend of upper-class and girl-next-door.
She placed her small, soft hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Her dress was a majestic blue with golden highlights, the same crest decorating her left breast as Daerion had seen on the banners on the way. However, it looked better on what seemed to be a very well-curved figure.
He quickly looked back at her eyes before she saw him checking her out. He was far from shy, but there were bigger things to worry about, and not pissing off the first person he met in a completely new world was way more important than getting laid. He had to look relatively high since the woman was standing at 5'10-ish.
Thankfully, she didn't seem to have noticed herself being observe-
New Skill Unlocked!
Observe:
Gives insight into a target. Cost: 1 SP.
Another fucking textbox popped up, yet he barely noticed. He was much more concerned with the other floating text that appeared directly over the woman's head.
[Princess Calia Menethil, Level 15.]
HP - 100%
Menethil? Wait, hold the fuck up, he knew that nam-
-Daerion gasped as what felt like an ice pick was driven into his temple-
-A man with a big, black beard leaned down over him with an inscrutable expression. Peeking over his shoulder was a red-haired, glowingly blue-eyed woman, with enormous ears, beaming down at Daerion with a smile-
-a large green-skinned creature sparred with an armored man, swords clanging together. A hand was placed on Daerion's shoulder. He looked up at the same man he had seen before.
His father.
"You see that, Daerion?" the man asked, pointing down at the green skin, "That is the future. The future of our house. The strength of an orc, raised to think like a man." The hand tightened. "Thrall is the key to our ascend."-
-"Father!?" A 10-year-old Daerion exclaimed as the guards grabbed him by the arms. Lord Aedelas Blackmoore stared back uncaringly before shifting his gaze to the captain.
"Who am I to reject such an honor? House Blackmoore graciously accepts Prince Arthas' request. I am certain Daerion will do very well in the Capital."-
-"Little Lord Knife-ear."-
-"Half-breed."-
-"Mongrel."-
-"It is with a heavy heart that we inform you that the escaped orcs have destroyed Durnholde Keep." The King at least had the decency to look like he meant the words. None of the other gathered nobles bothered. Some even seemed pleased by the news, gleefully watching his face for a reaction. "Your father, Lord Aedelas Blackmoore, was killed in the attack. You have our deepest condolences."
He refused to give them any.
Not even the Prince could muster the will not to appear as if he wanted to be anywhere else. Beyond a single glance, Prince Arthas had not spared him any attention, despite it being his fault that Daerion was in the Capital in the first place.
The King continued. "While the keep is rubble and your lands are… in rough shape, after the Horde's passing, they are still your lands and can be rebuilt in time. There have been… rumors," King Terenas glanced at the gathered nobility, "regarding your father's true intentions towards the orcs in his captivity. However, you have spent 3 years here in the Capital, and we find no reason to hold such allegations against you. Therefore, by the power vested in us as the King of Lordaeron, the crown recognises you as Lord Daerion Blackmoore!"
-"Lord Rubble."
-"Traitor."
-"Shame you didn't die with your father."-
-before the feeling passed as quickly as it came. He braced himself against the wall as his vision swam while the new memories settled into place. A gentle touch to his arm brought him back to his companion, who watched him with a worried frown.
The Princess. Princess Calia Menethil, daughter of Terenas Menethil, King of Lordaeron, and sister to Arthas Menethil.
The same Arthas that would go on to become the Lich King.
In the game World of Warcraft.
Son of a fucking whore, he was in Warcraft. A lunatic, demonically invaded, eldritch horror-infested shithole of a death world.
Fuck.
"Lord Blackmoore, are you alright?"
Daerion gave her a smile that was almost completely sincere. Other than a slight headache, he was okay, probably because the memories were fragmented and more of a highlight reel than a comprehensive account of 15 years of day-to-day activities.
"Yeah, I'm good, Princess. Sorry about that. I skipped breakfast," he reassured with a grin, jokingly patting his stomach. The frown faded, and she returned his smile with a gentle one of her own.
"Normally, I would say that you should take better care of yourself, My Lord, yet I suppose I cannot blame you in this case. After all," She leaned in a bit, her smile becoming a little crooked, and a glint entered her eyes, "I did the same myself, and more besides. I am certain my handmaidens are searching for me as we speak. Get me all dolled up for the occasion."
They chuckled for a second. The memories of the original Daerion didn't feature Calia much, but what little there was portrayed her as a lovely woman with a somewhat hidden rebellious streak. While he hadn't seen her as a mother figure per se, he had taken great comfort in having someone in the Capital who didn't look down on him or insult him constantly. There had even been times when she defended him against the worst of his peers.
He had been in an excellent mood for weeks after hearing that she had married a common foot soldier.
Anything that annoyed the asshole nobles was something worthy of celebration, which the new Daerion could get behind.
Fuck 'em. They were dicks, and he had zero patience for that type of self-righteous douchebags.
One part of her statements did stick out, though.
"The occasion, Your Grace?"
The frown reappeared, twisting her features into something darker.
"You were not informed?" When he shook his head, she let out a light growl and clenched her hands into fists. It was adorable. "I'll look into that later. Don't worry, I will find them."
She took a deep breath, and as she continued, her speech returned to the formal tone from the more common vernacular she had slipped into. "But yes, the occasion. It's a joyous day. My-"
The Princess was interrupted as the noise, which had grown louder the closer he had gotten, exploded into a cacophony. If before it had been a festival, now it sounded like someone was handing out bags of free money and hookers. Bells echoed throughout the hallway, reverberating off the walls. Calia's eyes widened, and a huge grin banished the last vestiges of annoyance as she grabbed his hand and started pulling him down the corridor towards the insanity.
"It's time! Come on, hurry!"
Normally, he would have protested being dragged around like a piece of luggage, yet a bad feeling was starting to set in, beyond the existential dread of being in the Warcraft universe. His new memories were adding up to a timeline that was a major fucking problem.
They rounded another corner, and ahead of them, the torches were replaced by natural light pouring in from a large balcony that opened up to the source of the noise. Daerion willingly went with the princess as they stepped out onto the outcropping. The brightness of sunlight, mixed with the ramped-up racket of suddenly being in the middle of the bedlam, caused his senses to be overwhelmed for a second before he could blink it away and take in the sight.
And what a sight it was.
The balcony they found themselves on was attached to a grand, humongous palace. Spires stretched high into the sky, flanking a large dome that served as the main building. It was magnificent, a match for anything his old world had ever built, greater, maybe.
He barely registered it.
Rose petals filled the air in the tens of thousands, red leaves drifting on the wind as far as the eye could see. People, men, women, and children alike, hung out the wooden windows of their stone houses to contribute to the floral storm. They lined the sides of the broad, cobblestone main street, screaming and clapping. Kids were lifted onto the shoulders of their armor-clad fathers as their colorfully dressed mothers wept in joy, spectators streaming out of side streets to try and push their way to see. Soldiers, shielded in heavy steel plates and clasping large spears, tried to hold back the masses to the edges, but even they spent more time staring down the path towards whatever had driven them into such a frenzy.
It was like a painting of a medieval celebration brought to life, the kind of thing his old world had imagined Roman emperors would be greeted with after a victory. Colors peeked through the red everywhere, banners, dresses, and flowers covering nearly everything. The buildings were grand and solid, and he absently noted that they were erected in a way that made them easily defended. The main street was sunken below the buildings, with long bridges arching over and crisscrossing, currently filled with well-wishers.
It was a fortress as much as a work of art. However, that may have been to be expected from a world like Warcraft.
It had war in the fucking name. Practicality was properly high on the list of priorities, even in the Capital.
"Look, there he is!" Calia screamed from his side, barely heard through the pandemonium, as she pointed down at the far end of the street.
Daerion turned down the way she indicated and contemplated jumping over the rail to just get his second death over with. The fall would probably be a lot nicer than the alternative.
Marching down the way, metal-covered boots clanking against the stone, strode three men, two a step behind and flanking the center third. Long, brown cloaks covered most of them from view, with the occasional flash of steel visible as the garments shifted with their movements. The guards carried long, two-pronged spears in their hands, hoods up and obscuring their faces. They walked with confidence, backs straight, and even a moron could see their skill with just a glance.
Yet Daerion could not tear his eyes away from the central figure, towering over his companions.
Large pauldrons sat on the tall man's shoulders, clasping the cloak closed, distorted skulls screaming from the rough, dark gray alloy. Glimpses of his boots peered out with every step, dark, matted fur lining more skulls. The center of the breastplate was displayed, coarse and unadorned, as the light hit it and seemed to seep into the metal.
As the man came to a stop and caught one of the rose petals in his hand, the hilt of a large sword emerged from the robe. Nearly black, the entire handle was metal, the crossbar the same. The blade was crafted from an alloy the likes of which Daerion had never seen. Rather than reflect light like steel, the armor seemed to swallow it, absorb it, ruin it, and deny it from the world.
And right beneath the quillons, curled horns wrapping around it, sat another skull. Rather than human like the others, the top half he could see appeared to be that of a goat, or a demonic cousin of it. The eyes seemed to glow with a pale whitish-blue light that caused a pressure to form behind Daerion's forehead.
'Observe'
[? Arthas Menethil, Level ?]
HP - ?
The figure looked up like he felt the Observe and Daerion could have sworn his heart stopped. Snow-white strands of hair hung from the cowl, the strong jawline and cleft chin like a warped mirror of familiarity, the skin pale and clammy, like that of a corpse.
But the eyes.
The eyes appeared to stare directly at him, their hue similar to that of the sword as they left an almost mist-like trail in their wake. They seemed to peer beyond Daerion's skin, beyond his flesh, and gazed directly into the very core of his being. A chill overtook him as the warmth vanished from his body like a snuffed-out candle. His body felt heavy and slow as the pale orbs sucked all life and energy from him, tainting his happiest memories and grasping at his soul. His heart thundered in his chest, yet he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't look away as the whole world collapsed into those two terribly bright spots-
-The figure lowered his head and continued on his way towards the large gate that led into the palace Calia and he occupied.
Air exploded from his lungs as Calia screamed and cheered, hands slamming together enthusiastically, utterly oblivious to his distress. He desperately tried to steady his breathing as he read the newest screen that hovered in front of him.
Quest Added!
Long live the King.
Crown Prince Arthas Menethil has returned triumphantly from his Northrend campaign to thunderous applause. Finally, the threat of The Scourge has been defeated. The young prince goes now to reunite with his father, in the throne room he is soon to inherit…
Objective: Escape Lordaeron City!
Bonus objective: Kill (0/25) Undead!
Rewards: 3 levels! 2 END! 2 INT! 5 LCK! 1.000 REP with Lordaeron! 50 Gold!
Bonus Rewards: 1 levels! 1 STR! 250 REP with Lordaeron! 10 Gold!
Fuck.
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And that's that. Let me know if it's even worth writing more of.
See you on this story when I see you, I guess.
Thank you for reading. Hopefully you enjoyed. If you REALLY liked it, I have a P-a-t-r-e-o-n, under the same name, where you can read 5 chapters ahead.