Stirrings in Lordaeron

Tichondrius' unending, condescending remarks had long since grown tiresome, and Kel'thuzad's presence only served to nurture the seeds of doubt that had been planted within the Prince.

The ghost had appeared to him, and him alone. Not even Jaina, an ever-present guest within Arthas' grand coach, was aware of his existence.

What was the Master's agenda? His power was great and vast, what purpose did it serve for these demons to be towing them around as though they were in charge of every move... how long before the true intentions became clear?

These questions and more swam through Arthas' head and it was only the gentle urgings and whispers of both Master and his spectral, necromantic servant that kept him placated.

Soon... very soon... all will be revealed and your day shall come.

The Prince was no fool. After his return to Lordaeron he had been consumed with his own power and greed and lust, basking in his new legacy and inherent right to rule. He had fed upon the souls of his people, turning them into the obedient subjects that followed him now northward, and drank in the land's despair.

But his mind was clearer now, with just as much – if not more – of that magical, dark energy fueling him as before but also with a new keenness to his senses that allowed him to see the great treachery that surrounded him at every turn. He trusted the Master completely and even Kel'thuzad to a limited extent, but their mollifying remarks did little to dampen Arthas' increasing unrest.

Of course he would do nothing that could be construed as outwardly disobedient when it concerned the orders the demons had given him... but that didn't mean he couldn't also cultivate his own agenda.

Which was why he needed Jaina.

The army was marching north to Quel'thalas, a slow, arduous journey as they moved at a crawl and stopped frequently to amass more 'troops', pausing here and there to raise plague victims from infected villages and incorporate them into his macabre entourage.

Though the progress was slow, Arthas was pleased with the delays as it gave him the much-coveted alone time with Lady Proudmoore that he required.

The death knight's claim on Jaina's soul needed to be thorough and permanent. It wasn't a temporary thing like the brief possession Kel'thuzad had illustrated for him or a simple destruction of her psyche and will... it was much deeper. And the process was tedious, tiresome and complex.

Plus it certainly didn't help that the sorceress was a tad... reluctant.

With the aid of Frostmourne, the Master's touch, Arthas slithered his way into Jaina's brilliant mind, weaving and webbing a lurid design that could never be extracted. Like a disease he infected her will, subjecting it to that indescribable strength of the Lich King and his hungry hold on all things living, snaking its way inside until it became a part of her very being.

The first couple of nights she awoke shrieking horribly at whatever terrors likely were breeding inside her head, petrified beyond reason at what she was inevitably becoming. Her wails were nearly inhuman, broken and ghastly and Arthas was left to find more 'creative' uses for her crestfallen mouth.

He forced her lips apart with his shaft, shoving deep down her throat until she choked, sobbing pitifully until she finally conceded and pleasured him... burying her face further and further into the seat cushions as he ravished her from behind before she at last quieted... fucking her in the ass until her cries became screams of pain instead.

Then... she would weep, as though she had at last accepted what was being done to her and realizing she had no escape. The proud, noble woman whimpered like a child and Arthas cradled her in his arms, cooing unintelligible nothings like he was speaking to a beloved pet.

'Oh Jaina, it will all be over soon.'

'Dear, sweet Jaina, I can make the pain go away.'

'As my faithful servant our souls will be closer than you could ever imagine...'

At last the day came when Arthas was toiling over the magic of Frostmourne, sweat gleaning on his forehead as he concentrated his efforts on at last taking the sorceress fully... and something clicked. The woman who had been panting, whose eyes were lulled up in the back of her head with her back arched strangely suddenly straightened and gazed at the Prince attentively.

He was breathing heavily and lowered the blade to gaze back into those clear, blue eyes.

Yesss... I have you now...

Arthas couldn't be sure if the voice in his head was his own or someone else's, but all the same he felt the triumph, the very connection that now bound them together. Now he was the Master.

Sheathing his blade, the Prince reached down and tentatively removed Jaina's restraints. The woman was still naked but she sat motionless on the bench, blinking.

Stepping back slowly, Arthas took his seat, looking casual but keeping his hand resting firmly on Frostmourne's hilt beneath the heavy, black cloak. “Hello, Jaina.” He began with a watchful eye.

“Your Majesty.” She responded formally with a slight dip of her head.

He smirked. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough.” She replied with a ghost of a smile.

“Touch yourself, Jaina.” The Prince commanded suddenly.

No sooner then the words had left his mouth, the woman had interpreted his meaning and was leaning back in her seat exercising her long-unused fingers. She spread her pussy lips apart with one hand while the other began to slowly massage around her clit. Her eyes drifted shut and a light groan escaped her lips. Arthas watched eagerly, following her movements as she dipped a long, elegant finger into the gathering pool and smeared the wetness around, gradually increasing her pace.

Before he became too distracted, he growled. “Enough,” and she stopped immediately, returning to looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

She obeyed easily enough, but he needed to ensure that her intellect was still in tact.

“Now, Jaina... explain to me the formula and principles behind a frostbolt.”

The woman visibly perked up, energetically and much too quickly beginning to explain the fundamentals that encompassed the school of frost magic's theories and practice. She prattled on for a good minute or so until Arthas rubbed his temple and quickly cut her off.

“Excellent. Now, I want you to do both together.”

Again reclining in her seat, Jaina's hands returned to between her legs, rubbing almost as enthusiastically as she continued her lecture on the proper coefficients necessary to maintain a stable frostbolt, pausing occasionally to emit a gasp or stumble over her words.

Arthas' prick hardened in his pants. This was just too delicious.

He stroked himself through his breeches for a moment before hastily rising. “Come. I have another task for you.”

She rose dutifully and they exited the carriage together, her movements still graceful despite her recent... adjustments.

They stepped out into Corin's Crossing, the army's latest stop to gather the fallen plague victims of the once busy trading route. Cultists scavenged the buildings as vile abominations walked the perimeter keeping all the crazed wildlife at bay. Jaina stood naked at the Prince's side, drawing the notice of many of the acolytes busy at work.

With a wicked grin, Arthas beckoned to a nearby male Cultist who was more than eager to scamper over to his Master's side, openly ogling Lady Proudmoore's feminine curves.

“Yes, my lord?” He asked promptly though his eyes remained glued to Jaina's breasts.

The death knight who stood head and shoulders taller over the robed young man, clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “I've taken notice of you and your fine work, Cultist. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Marven, my lord.” Giving a facade of a bow he replied, obviously still distracted.

“Wonderful Marven, I would like you to meet Lady Proudmoore. Jaina...” Arthas exclaimed, turning to give the sorceress a command. “Incinerate him.”

The man's eyes suddenly went wide, darting incredulously back and forth between the two. “My lord?” He blanched.

But Jaina's fingers had already begun to crackle with flickering, orange energy, the beginnings of a powerful fire spell aimed directly at the frantic acolyte.

He didn't have long to decide, but in that split-second the Cultist concluded that risking the pain and suffering of disobeying the Prince was better than getting charred on the spot and tried to run. But alas, Arthas' metal grasp held firmly onto the man's shoulder having anticipated the move, fingers digging painfully into the skin and preventing him from going anywhere.

“No! No!” The man whimpered, tugging futilely against his captor's arm, his eyes turning one last time to reflect the accumulating mass of fire that glowed from Jaina's fingertips as an enormous pillar of flame descended from the sky and reduced him to bits of bone and ash.

Other then the obvious bit of debris there was no trace of the human that had existed just a moment before, and Arthas swiftly inspected his gloves for damage and nonchalantly dusted them off. At least now he could be certain that none of the strong moral fibers that made up the old version of Jaina still remained, and he was immensely pleased.

The spectacle had garnered the attention of several other Cultists who looked on with some interest and more than a little fear. The Prince gestured for them to come over and they all regarded one another with trepidation before approaching.

Two women and a man gazed up into the bloodless face of their Master, white hair whipping about his head as the wind picked up speed.

“You three,” he began, the acolytes barely suppressing a start. “Scour the town and locate Miss Proudmoore some clothes. The nicest you can find.”

They all nodded and went scurrying away.

Arthas took Jaina by the arm and hauled her back into the carriage. “Come, Miss Proudmoore. You and I have much more to discuss.”

When the Cultists returned some time later it took many moments of them exchanging wary glances with one another before hesitantly knocking on the Prince's vehicle door, thrusting the garments into his waiting arms and practically fleeing back into the destroyed town.

The sorceress dressed quickly, looking much like her former self in the simple gray dress covered with a blue cloak, listening attentively as the death knight gave her instructions. He escorted her back outside with one heavy hand on her shoulder, leading her a bit away from the rest of the army.

“You know what to do?” He asked firmly.

“Yes.” She responded confidently.

“Return to Dalaran, tell Antonidas that you've been following me for several days, watching my progress.”

“Yes.”

“Do not tell him of your time with me at all. Give him the details of my plans that I've provided you with.”

“Yes.”

“Tell him you spoke with the prophet; the very same that he and I have held an audience with and dismissed his warnings. Inform him that you believe he is right and that you will be taking as many people you can gather across the ocean to the west. He must agree, though I have a feeling it won't take much persuasion on your part.”

“Yes.”

“You are still Jaina Proudmoore, daughter of Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, sorceress of Dalaran. Improvise when you need to but you know which pieces of information to exclude. Don't fail me.” Arthas added, almost as an afterthought. The idea nearly hadn't crossed his mind; he was supremely confident with his new pawn.

“I won't fail you, Master.” She replied obediently and with a short bow.

The Prince smirked, releasing her from his grasp. “Then go now. I will be watching your progress.”

Jaina nodded, stepping back and waving her arms in the necessary pattern of teleportation, glowing runes appearing beneath her feet and a gust of wind that pushed back the hood of her cape and sent the golden tendrils waving about her head like a halo.

With a pop, she was gone and Arthas turned to resume his duties only to find the hovering specter that had shadowed him for more than a week watching him with a ghostly grin.

“Unexpected and clever, my lord.” The necromancer stated with a curious tilt of his head.

Arthas shrugged dismissively but Kel'thuzad's smile remained. “You do not squander your power. The Master chose very well, indeed.”

“Mind yourself, ghost.” He said smoothly before stalking away.

-

Quel'thalas approached.

The army had grown to a grotesque size; like a swarm they roved across the land accumulating more corpses to the amassing conglomeration of death, leaving a destructive blight in their wake.

Kel'thuzad appeared to be growing antsy, worried about the hidden magics of the elves and their enchanted forests and expressing as much to the wayward Prince.

Arthas merely laughed it off, sitting astride his skeletal steed near the head of the army as the monstrous war machines tore the land asunder all around him, mowing down trees with their gaping jaws. All the enchantments in Azeroth wouldn't matter once the sheer numbers of his subjects was set loose against the quel'dorei.

Of course, it was easy for him to laugh. It wasn't his 'rebirth' that was at stake.

“You sound worried, ghost. Could it be that the Master's most obedient servant doesn't have faith in my abilities?”

Kel'thuzad for once had nothing to say.

As of yet, Arthas hadn't seen any trace of elven scouts, though despite this he concluded that they likely already knew the Scourge was on the way. Thinking of their notorious quickness and stealth his lips curved upward. They'd surely have quite the report to give once catching a glimpse of his army.

“Halt!” A musical voice cried as they closed in on the first of the high elven gates guarding Quel'thalas.

The Prince glanced up to see the perfect figure of elven beauty scowling down at him. Lithe and leather-clad with a bow in hand, gleaming blond hair and angular features that were twisted with hatred and disgust.

Elves had always perturbed him. So haughty and arrogant, convinced of their own superiority and self-assured that everything granted to them was theirs by right. How he would enjoy tearing down their precious gates, laying siege to their impregnable quel'dorei city and leaving them with nothing but shattered remnants of the majesty they once possessed.

And now here greeted him the epitome of all of those delightful qualities combined into one derisive package. Things were getting more exciting by the moment.

“Greetings, quel'dorei!” His voice rang out clear and he held out his arm in a sweeping, mocking gesture of welcome.

“I am Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner of Silvermoon and you are not permitted in these lands!”

“That's quite a mouthful!” He called back with a sneer. “Well since you insist on being so formal, I am Prince Arthas Menethil of Lordaeron, first and only son of King Terenas Menethil II. Why is it that you deny royalty entrance into your grand city of Silvermoon?”

“Kin-slayer!” She snarled back. “You dare call yourself the King's son when it was you who took his life and has turned his kingdom into filth? Your plague-ridden army is denied entrance into our lands to prevent your contamination from spreading any further. We will not hesitate to defend our gates should you persist to press hopelessly forward!”

An evil smirk crept onto Arthas' pallid lips. “Ah, so my reputation has preceded me. Tell me, Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner of Silvermoon...” he exaggerated her title with a condescending flair. “If you have been aware of my coming for hours, nay days! Why is it that you have chosen to retreat to your gate rather than taking a strike at me beforehand? Are you so very confident that your gate will hold? So certain that you are being righteous and believing that true victory can only be won honorably? I think you may find your arrogance to be your undoing.”

A muscle above Sylvanas' mouth twitched violently. Trembling with rage she cried out, “No, it shall be yours!” And she took aim with her bow.

Unseen from their positions along the top of the gate, a sea of arrows from the elven rangers suddenly came cascading over and down onto Arthas and his undead ranks.

With a grin still gracing his handsome face, the Prince casually drew his sword as the missiles descended, flicking his wrist to deflect the arrows as they drew close and threatened to impale him directly between his icy, blue eyes. Several Cultists fell where they stood with arrows protruding out of their chests and necks. Many of the undead were struck also, but most seemed unaffected by the piercing weapons that were meant to fatally strike at vital organs.

All was quiet for an instant during which Arthas' gaze rose to meet the incredulous expression on Sylvanas' face. She observed in horror as the freshly cut down acolytes stirred on the ground and slowly rose again in all of their glorious states of dismemberment. She gaped at the blue-tinged runeblade held in the Prince's hand as he had parried away projectiles as though swatting at flies.

Swallowing hard, and with a renewed fury, Sylvanas restrung her bow and the simultaneous calls for attack came.

Very quickly the tide of battle turned in Arthas' favor, and the Ranger General could only watch helplessly as the fallen high elven warriors were promptly raised and sent back against her, their hollow faces and gangling limbs lurching unnaturally forward like a poorly-wielded marionette.

The undead horde pressed forward tirelessly, clawing up the elven gates with ease. More than a dozen of Arthas' minions fell for each quel'dorei that was overrun but it didn't seem to matter. Rangers were plucked from their perches by hovering gargoyles that flew high and carelessly discarded them amongst the scrambling mass of rotted corpses.

Scourge war machines pressed forward into the gates as pieces of unusable meat splattered against the doors with a sickening squish. Guarded by his veil of invisibility, Kel'thuzad used his powers to weaken the magical defenses of the elf gate until it began to creak.

Bile rose in Sylvanas' throat when she heard that sound. The gates were giving way and she had already lost many rangers without so much as making a dent in the Scourge army. With a strangled cry she called for a retreat, her gut wrenching as she thought of the lives that had already been lost.

As she turned to flee she swore she could hear the cackling laughter of the death knight on the other side, taunting.

“That's right! Run little elf! You're only delaying your own doom!”

With a satisfied smirk, Arthas gently fingered Frostmourne as the gates came splintering open, daydreaming of the havoc he would wreck, the pitiful elves screaming for mercy, flocking to their wondrous Sunwell like it was some sort of god. And a fair-haired elf with her pompous face bending knee...

He pondered over this as the army continued forward, that is until they came to the bridge.

Or rather where the bridge was supposed to be. The elf bitch had blown it up.

She gloated from the other side of the river. “You shall never pass through the second gate! You will never know its secret!”

Arthas growled irritably and gestured behind him. “I had thought, dear Ranger-General, that no one had ever breached ANY of Quel'thalas' beloved gates. How peculiar! And now you can see the trail I have left behind through your precious forest, corrupting the earth and defiling your own people. You dare speak so boldly to me after what you've witnessed?”

He could tell that he had struck a nerve the way her lower lip quivered momentarily. Her countenance hardened though before she spat back in Thalassian, “Band'or shorel'aran!” She spun and disappeared into the woods.

The Prince sniffed, quite annoyed with the delays. “That woman's insufferable loyalty grows tiresome.”

It didn't make too much of a difference, however. There were more than enough 'willing' participants in his ranks that wouldn't mind at all to be used in the construction of a makeshift bridge. Enough of the things piled atop one another so that the remainder of the meat wagons and troops could amble across with ease.

They continued on unhindered, Arthas glancing down at the elf that strode next to him curiously.

“Do you have everything you need?”

The elf brushed back a long strand of his flowing, black hair – a strange gesture considering he had an enormous gash across his abdomen that should have been causing him an immense amount of pain.

“Yes, I suppose.” He replied gaily. “Though I do so enjoy being in a virile body again, especially one that is so easy to control.”

Arthas snorted, unsheathed Frostmourne and stabbed the quel'dorei through the heart. As the elf fell, the mist of Kel'thuzad's still unsubstantial form rematerialized next to the Prince with a minor scowl.

“You could have let me kept him a little longer,” the necromancer nearly pouted.

The death knight shrugged and with a flick of his finger had the elf's body rise and join the rest of his undead masses.

With the secret of the key to the second gate revealed through the apparition's domination, Arthas quickly ravaged the forest collecting the three necessary parts that would give them access into the guarded elven lands.

Sylvanas' scouts invisibly tracked the Scourge's progress and reported back to her with grim expressions. The Ranger-General almost refused to believe it. “We will hold at the second gate for now,” she ordered the remainder of her archers.

Fear began to coil in her stomach as Arthas and his undead came into view yet again.

'There's no stopping them... they'll tear through anything that's in their way.'

She tilted her chin up defiantly all the same; she had to remain strong.

The Prince held his hands out with a smug look, shouting up to the apex of the second gate. “Ranger-General! These can't possibly be the magnificent elf gates that I've heard so much about! Why, they hardly gave me any trouble at all. Are you quite certain you aren't hiding any more impenetrable doors back there, hmm?”

Sylvanas shook with outrage. “Scoundrel! Devil! Have you nothing better to do that cause destruction on a land that has been untouched for centuries? Must you mar everything with your loathsome presence?!”

“Devil?” Arthas clutched at his chest. “You wound me so, Ranger-General. No, I am but a man. One man...” He carefully withdrew Frostmourne. “...that does not enjoy being crossed. You've only made this worse for yourself and every elven woman and child inside those gates. Their suffering shall be tenfold what I had originally planned due to your constant attempts to foil my arrival. As I stated earlier, retreat now if you must, but know that I will catch you. And when I do...” He bared his teeth with a wolfish half-smile.

“You cannot stop the inevitable.”

She tried with all her being to resist the words as he spoke them, tried to not let them affect her.

'He's a murderous bastard. Nothing I've done could enhance his cruelty. He'd have been just as merciless had I merely let him pass...'

But the worst part was, she couldn't deny that it did seem inevitable. Already she was admitting that his malice would affect the quel'dorei of Silvermoon despite her best attempts.

Gathering her voice she restrung her bow again, refusing to give up. “Bash'a no falor talah!” Her rangers followed and let loose the wave of missiles.

“Suit yourself.” He rumbled to himself, the clink of metal sounding in his ears as an arrowhead ricocheted off Frostmourne's blade.

Again the undead swarmed the doors with the war machines urging the gates open with the aid of the moonstone key that muted it's magic wardings. And again Sylvanas retreated, helping wounded elves along as they ran to Fairbreeze Village. She sent a runner to Silvermoon to alert them of the impending force before solemnly informing her archers that they were to make their last stand at the spire.

The set of Arthas' jaw was harsh as they at last tore through the remaining obstacle. Silently seething, he sent out the mental command to his forces and verbally informed the Cultists of when they finally subdued the remaining band of rangers, that Sylvanas was to remain untouched.

He wanted her for himself.

-

A/N: Woo, a longer chapter. I apologize if the Quel'thalas sequence was too long but it's one of my favorite campaigns and I think the banter between Arthas and Sylvanas makes it all that much sweeter when he finally catches her >:) Thanks again for reviews also! I love getting them (as most author's do) and am not afraid to beg shamelessly for readers to drop me a line or two if you enjoyed reading or have something to add/suggest/criticize etc. So yes, this is me shamelessly begging. Pleeeeeaaaaaasee?