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say what you will about how he did it or what he did afterwards, but the culling of stratholme was objectively the right call. like, okay, say you DON'T take out the entire city of people actively turning into plague zombies- there's only one outcome there, and it's that the horde of zombies the size of an ENTIRE CITY overruns your what, couple hundred soldiers? and they escape and then your entire kingdom becomes infected with zombie plague and everyone is dead. arthas literally did the right thing, even though it was an ugly call and highly unpleasant for everyone involved. now we can talk about northrend and frostmourne if we want, but that's a completely different conversation
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He slammed the door behind him, hurriedly barring it and pressing his back against it as firmly as he could, ignoring the beads of sweat that stung his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. Even in the home, the smoke was thick - like a dark veil that had been draped over the whole of the city that forced him to crouch down at all times just to breath. Turning his attention to the room, the young Burrich took quick stock of things. The bay window beside the door let the red glow of the blazing cityscape illuminate the small apartment. It was a single room with a loft, a dinner table and two large sitting chairs near a filthy hearth - fairly standard conditions for a family in the harbor district. He could hear the approaching droning of the undead from even inside the home. As he rushed to close the linen drapes over the window he saw them round the corner down the road. Whatever they were, they were slow. And yet somehow they had managed to stay on his trail all through his frantic search for an open door in which he might find refuge.
He looked around once more, an added layer of dread taking root in his gut as he doubted that barricading himself in a home was really a good idea at all. He pushed the thought aside and hoped that they would pass over the home unaware so that he might continue his task. He came here for a reason after all. Nevertheless, he quickly went about the task of throwing every bit of furniture that he could move in front of the door and window until it was piled in a modest heap - a shabby barricade is better than none, he thought to himself as he stepped back to the far side the room, praying to the Light that they would not find him. The lifeless moaning crescendoed as the pack of undead neared the home.
A moment passed as they lingered outside the apartment, their decrepit forms casting shadows on the linens over the window like some demented shadow-puppet show. Burrich strained to slow his breathing, despite his heart racing in his chest. He had always been a brave boy, known for being the one who would go first in whatever act of adolescent idiocy he and his peers could concoct. But now, his hands shook as the sheer intensity of his fear continued to tear into what small remnants of hope he had. A hand went back, intending to brace itself against the counter at his back, but instead it caught the handle of a cast-iron pan with just enough force to knock it into the pot next to it. The clang of metal upon metal reverberated through the otherwise silent room. Suddenly there was a lull in the groaning outside and he wondered if perhaps they had been distracted by something else. That is, until..
BAM!
Something heavy slammed into the door, shaking both it and the stack of furniture behind it. Dread filled him as he heard the groaning pick back up and saw their shadows begin to press against the window. The young blonde was frozen in place until a second slam at the door sent him into a panicked search for an escape. Grabbing the very pan that had alerted the undead to his presence, he rushed to climb the wooden ladder to the loft. Just as he pulled himself to the top, the window broke with a loud crash and the mangled hands of the once-living clawed at the drapes until they were yanked from their rod. Not long after, the pile of chairs and the table were pushed aside by the mass of corpses that began to throw themselves through the window. In just a matter of moments, the lower level was filled with the horrific creatures.
Burrich looked down at them from his desperate perch, noting that there were far more in the group now than when he had first encountered them. All of this noise must have drawn others. To his horror, one of the undead reached up to grab hold of the ladder, attempting a terribly uncoordinated ascent. For a moment, it looked as if the creature would fail. But as the others pressed in, the monster clawed its way up higher and higher. Panicked, Burrich stood, pan in hand as he hacked a cough from the dense smoke that filled the upper half of the home. He would not last long up there, but the choice between dying from the smoke seemed favorable when compared to whatever these monsters might do to him. The creature finally reached the top of the ladder and threw its upper body onto the loft, trying to drag itself up the rest of the way. But before it could, Burrich lunged forward desperately swinging the pan at it's ghastly face, all but flattening what must have been an already weakened skull. The monster fell forward limply, half hanging off the platform for a moment until those below began to claw their way up over him. Before they could reach the top, Burrich kicked the first climber's body off the ledge, sending the others crashing into the mob below with it.
Backing away from the ledge, Burrich felt a sudden lightheadedness from the lack of breathable air. He desperately felt along the walls, seeking some form of escape or ventilation. Suddenly, on the far side of the loft, his hand smacked against the slightly cooler, smooth surface of glass. A window. Finally, something had gone his way today. Without a moment's hesitation he slammed the pan through the glass, shattering it. It was barely large enough for him to fit through, but he didn't pause to consider how incredibly unfortunate his death would be if he were to get stuck in it. Desperately, he pushed his head through, then a shoulder and arm, then the other. Bits of broken glass that yet clung to the window frame cut into his sides and arms as he shoved himself through, though he hardly noticed thanks to the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Finally, he pressed through past his hips and would have been in the clear were it not for the sudden feeling of hands grasping at his left ankle. He would have screamed if the smoke wasn't choking him. His hands, now bloody, groped for a hold on the shingles of the roof until, finally, he managed to curl his finger tips around a lip. He pulled and pulled with every ounce of his remaining strength. Through sheer force of will, he somehow managed to best the undead in the brief match of strength by shaking his foot free of its boot.
The momentum of the sudden release sent him rolling off the edge of the roof, dropping fifteen feet straight down, and landing with a thud on the cobblestone of the rear alley, the wind soundly knocked out of his lungs. A moment later, he gasped as he found the air breathable once again. He forced himself to stand, pushing himself up with shaking arms and bracing against the wall. He could hear them crashing around mindlessly on the other side, likely wondering where their prey had gone - if they were even capable of wondering at all. He drew in a breath, noting the blood that oozed from the fresh cuts for the first time. His eyes closed, only for a brief moment as he breathlessly muttered the small prayer he had muttered all his life, "Light, guide me and keep me. Shield me from the darkness and make clear the path before me. Light, guide me and keep me. Shield me from the darkness and make clear the path before me..." Again and again, he repeated the mantra, his body shaking as he utterly failed to regain some form of composure. He didn't know why he was praying. The Light had never really shown itself to him before. But desperation can drive one to hope in the most unlikely of things. Surely, if ever there was a time for the Light to intervene, it would be this one - to save a young man, trapped in a city filled with the unholiest of monsters on a hopeless mission to find his family. But no help came.
The desperate meditation continued until he was finally interrupted by the sound of the living dead at the end of the alley. It was then that he realized that his purpose in coming here was doomed from the very start. If his parents were still here, they were dead - or worse. He had no choice but to go back and hope the men on the other side of the gate were still there. Without another moment's pause, he took off at a sprint in the opposite direction. Fortunately, he knew this section of the city like the back of his hand. Now that he had a clear destination in mind, he had a much easier time ducking through back alleys and shortcuts until he arrived back at the harbor and made his way for the small gate to the private dock.
The docks were now clear of undead, thanks to the lengthy chase he had led them on through the district. He made a beeline for the gate in the distance and slammed into it with his shoulder. "Open the gate! Let me out! They're coming! LET ME OUT!" He pounded and pounded, but no one opened the gate. He turned around, spotting the now terrifyingly large horde of undead that was flooding into the harbor and charging straight at him. He looked to the water, gaging the distance and whether or not he could make it before they closed off the escape. He had little choice left so he bolted for it only to hear the sudden creak of the gate being hastily opened behind him not even three steps into his mad dash for the water. Attempting to slide to a stop, he tripped on an uneven cobblestone and fell, slamming his head against the stone. Vision blurred and the world seemed to turn upside down as he caught a glimpse of torches waving about and people shouting over the growing drone of the charging Scourge.
“What followed were a series of tragic events, leading to the death of every Kirin Tor mage that came into contact with Atiesh. You see, it was an artifact with sentience. A sentience granted to it by Sargeras...”
