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Old 09-16-2004, 10:39 PM   #1
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The sounds of battle rang in Arthas' ears, boiling his blood, sharpening his soul. Lunging forward, he rampaged through the enemy, cutting them down in swathes with his sword. Arthas swung, Frostmourne cleaved. Arthas parried, Frostmourne blocked. There could be no better arrangement, be it in life or death. They were as one, the warrior and his weapon, the pinnacle of martial perfection. Noticing a dull orange tinge in the reflection of his face in his blade, the death lord looked upwards. Flames filled the sky, weaving and dancing as if to some battle-song infused with bardic magic. The streaks of fire swirled and twirled towards the earth, impacting with burning blasts. Guts, both undead and human, were strewn everywhere. As the first wave of burning magic dissipated, the next began to rain down on the clashing armies. The undead king sought his target, and he sought it well. Ignoring the surrounding melee, Arthas' icy, calculating cobalt eyes scoured the battlefield, looking for the tell-tale signs of a channeling mage. There! Guarded by over twenty footmen, this archmage was no fool. Arthas knew that if the magical flames weren't extinguished, his forces would be beaten back, and he would not, he could not, allow that. If this command post fell, the human scum might be able to retake other parts of Lordaeron, no matter how pitiful their forces were. If the offending archmage was not silenced, Arthas would be.

Arthas waded through the fray, avoiding a pack of paladin hounds, simply slashing through the majority of other ground troops that attempted to block his passage. Upon reaching his intended destination, the death knight released a burst of negative energy upon the unsuspecting footmen. As they slowly fell to the ground, Arthas revelled in the pain and suffering he had inflicted, and his entire body felt strengthened by the taking of their lives in the most agonizing way possible. That was when the archmage noticed him. Arthas looked him up and down, and their eyes locked. The old man's body was haggard and tired, beaten down by so many fights and marches, but in his face Arthas saw strength in great quantities. Where the undead commander's eyes were cold, blue, and filled with seething, writhing evil, the archmage's were shining beacons of hope, dazzling in their intensity. The old man nodded at Arthas, and his horse reared up. Sensing an impending climax, Arthas raised Frostmourne.

The two foes charged...


This is a quick story (well I wouldn't really call it that, but it was pretty cool to read) I wrote. Crits are welcome.
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