Ulvegr | Isblod | 1st February, 2021

Ukrainian Pagan Black Metal

              THIS WAS IT. the official close. the coup de grace. the finale chaotique. Koltira stayed close to his own battalion; those few surviving Death Knights who had chosen to side with the Horde. Sin'dorei, Tauren, Orcs, the occasional Forsaken. those who had been cheated out of life an given a second-- NO -- third chance in death. 

              the grip he had on his runeblade promised death, coated in the gorey, pustule-covered flesh of an ABOMINATION. had it been only a year ago, the sound of rattling chains within the CITADEL would've been a sign of home. of a city built to house the great military that had successfully taken over Northrend, and soon, the entire world. down the Argent Dawn would go, the deaths of the Scarlet Crusade nothing more than a soothing bedtime tale. but that was no longer possible. no. Tirion had granted them their sanity. their ability. and now... what were they to do? the defilers of azeroth, those chosen and taken from their very homelands, risen like DOGS to do arthas' dirty work. but what good were they to the living? nothing. not now. not ever. 

              not unless this could be the end to the Lich King's tyrade.

              hoards of skeletal foes, some small, some as tall as the citadel's ceiling itself, besieged his squadron. but Koltira broke through-- piles of severed both fell to mingle with the icy floor, the sound of his plate boots crashing away with each heavy-footed leap. he went on ahead, as he was so known to do ( oh, let's not forget that little escapade in New Hearthglen! ).  but the world was not right. the air had become still, and no enemies beset him in the mirror-like room of ice and fallen steel.

            with one hand he lifted his runeblade, and turned so that the glow of his Lichfire eyes could be seen over bulky, black spauldrers. for a moment, he wished he could be alive. to feel the cold bite of ICE sting his hollowed cheeks. but all that could befriend him was the echoed tone of his own voice, left rotten and sharp from years left unused. real, or illusion. it didn’t matter. he’d face it HEAD-ON all the same!