Whispers Of Treason
The armored man circles the room looking this brash young knight over from every possible angle. The young man’s chest has stopped heaving from the earlier fight but hatred still burns in his eyes. He motions for the man to follow him and in silence they walk down the long, dark hall and into a room lit by several sconces stationed around the perimeter. He pours a flagon full of a thick honey-like drink and hands it to the man while directing him to a chair.
“My name is Lord Thorval” he said as he continued his uneasy pacing. “Who you are… or were, is of no importance. What is important is who you can be if you chose to do so.”
Veron looked up at the man, surprised that he was being given a choice. He lifted the flagon to his throat and felt the warm, sticky substance enter his throat, removing the dry parched feeling and allowing the gift of speech once more. It was a gift he would save for a later time.
“You have been chosen by your new master for greatness.” continued Thorval. “He wishes you to become an instrument for him, an unmovable and terrible instrument through which he will extract his revenge on all of Azeroth.”
“I have no master.” replied Veron. “I am a free man and bow to none who have not earned that respect.”
Thorval paused in his pacing, surprised that the mead had worked so quickly in freeing the man’s vocal chords and then at his defiance even in death. A smile played across his cruel, thin lips as he sat in a chair opposite Veron.
“Perhaps the man you were had no master.” said the Knight. “But here you have many masters. I am but the first you will find. However, if you feel so strongly about your position then all you have to do is walk out the door behind me and you’re free to go.”
Veron’s eyes darted between the door and the armored man in front of him. The implication was clear even though it had not been said. Veron would have to go through the Knight to get past the door and the new found strength in his arms told him to try. In a flash he was on his feet, his strong hands gripping the Knight’s chestpiece, lifting him and pushing him back. Thorval’s laugh echoed throughout the room as his eyes shone brightly with the power of frost within him. Veron was suddenly aware that his hands were frozen in place and the numbing frost was quickly rising up his arms. At the same time his head swam with delusionary fever that quickly took him over. Seconds later he collapsed on the floor, unconscious and sweating as frost and blood plague took him over.
Thorval opened the door and summoned two guards to carry the young man back to his cell. Now that he had a taste of what real power was, and that it could be his to wield, perhaps the next talk would go better. It better as it would be Veron’s last chance before he would be sent to the Pit of Sorrow if he refused again.
As Veron is carried towards his cell Thorval leaves and walks in the opposite direction, the echo of his heavy boots filling the long hall with sound. In the chamber ahead of him stand two of his fellow Knights, Lady Alistra and Amal’thazad.
“This one is strong.” he says as he shuts the door quietly behind him. “He will serve us well if I can get through to him.”
“You took care in what you spoke of yes?” asked the lich Amal’thazad. “He knows nothing to bring to Arthas?”
Thorval glared at the being for a moment, angry that he would have such little faith in him to be quiet about their planning. He thought better than to say anything and allowed his eyes to answer the idiotic question. In the flickering light of the flames Amal’thazad shrank back a bit.
“Perhaps I should take him over Thorval.” said Alistra. “He might respond to his own kind better.”
The Lady Alistra must have been an extremely beautiful elf in her life as even in death she still carried a striking image. The general consensus was that Arthas was so taken by her beauty that he raised her within seconds of her death. The true story was not that far from speculation. Even though she was the High Elf charged with the safety of the Sunwell he found her beauty overwhelming and wanted her to live. In his haste to accomplish Arthas’ goal an errant Knight killed her before Arthas could issue orders. Arthas quickly renewed her body preserving much of her beauty but her heart had turned to evil. Her first act as a risen corpse was to kill the Knight who attacked her by ripping his head from his body with her bare hands. Arthas sent her to Acherus to be one of his valued instructors so she could feed her hatred by channeling it into the new Knights she would train.
“Perhaps you would be good for him to see when next he wakes” conceded Thorval. “For now let us return to our stations so that no suspicions arise. I will send for you before he comes to the Pit my Lady.”
As the trio made their way back to the halls where the young Knights learned the various disciplines a shadowy figure moved silently along the walls. Thankfully the thick doors in the keep were not so thick as to keep prying ears from gathering information. Information Arthas would pay well to hear. The figure would continue to keep within earshot of the group and when enough had been gleaned he would carry it back to Arthas and a glorious reward.
As the figure trod silently past his cell, Veron lay huddled on the cot, covers pulled tight to his chin while his body heaved mercilessly under the onslaught of the two diseases that ravaged him. His teeth chattered so hard that a couple of them fell out and skittered across the floor like some twisted set of dice that for him would always roll out as snake-eyes. In some still lucid part of his brain he would do what he needed to do to gain the power that had put him down so easily. Once that power was his he would kill Thorval and then any man who dared call himself his master.