#warcraft3

Tyrande from Warcraft 3 Reforged

Daily Writing Challenge Prompt: Bitter / Companion Day 8 2020 In the midst of the Scourge Invasions

Twelve and a half years. It had been twelve and a half years since Aidan Dawningblade lifted his blade and made the trek to Lordaeron, joining Prince Arthas in his training as a Paladin of the Silver Hand. It went well, originally. It was no surprise the man was so beloved by his people, even if their lives were but a blink for the Elves.  So he had thought, anyway... Halfway to Aidan Dawningblade’s second year in Lordaeron, Arthas Menethil began investigating a Cult. At the time, they had thought this was just some paltry uprising. A few cultists, nothing more. It wasn’t until they got to Andorhal that they realized it was the beginning of something much larger. That this entire scheme was being engineered by a Nathrezim in Stratholme. Naturally, the army set off in that direction once they’d purged as much of Andorhal as they could.  “I serve the dreadlord Mal'Ganis. He commands the Scourge that will cleanse this land and establish a paradise of eternal darkness! “ Those grim words rung through his mind for days, though, by the time they’d arrived in Hearthglen, his attention was swiftly drawn elsewhere. “The plague was never meant to simply kill my people. It was meant to turn them... into the undead! Defend yourselves!” Shortly after they’d cut down several dozen of the former villagers, Hearthglen was swiftly besieged by the Undead Scourge. There would be no rest for them, it seemed. What felt like hours drew by as they fought for their lives, before Uther the Lightbringer arrived with a legion of Knights at his back. Fortunate timing, the Undead Scourge’s numbers were just beginning to overrun Heathglen’s defenses... “This entire city must be purged. “ “Then I must consider this an act of treason.” “Father, forgive me for what I must do.“ It was with horror that Aidan watched the Culling of Stratholme, but Arthas was right... These people had all been infected. What was one city, for the safety of the world?

The winds of Northrend held a bitter chill to them, their only companion the howling winds. The combination seemed to claw and tear at Aidan’s armor, seeking access to the warmth of his flesh. Yet, it was almost a relief after the blaze of Stratholme.  “What had we done?” “This is a Light-forsaken land, isn't it? You can barely even see the sun! This howling wind cuts to the bone and you're not even shaking. Milord, are you alright?” “Captain, are all my forces accounted for?” “Nearly. There are only a few ships that-- “ “Very well. Our first priority is to set up a base camp with proper defenses. There's no telling what's waiting for us out there in the shadows.”

It was after a week of that Light forsaken trek that the army ran into Muradin Bronzebeard and his Dwarves, who mentioned a legendary blade. Frostmourne The very name sent chills down Aidan’s spine.  It was this desire for vengeance, this thirst for the death of Mal’ganis, that led Arthas to burn the ships, betray the mercenaries who fought for him, and set off to find Frostmourne. “No one goes home until our job here is done!”

Arthas Menethil, Muradin Bronzebeard, a regiment of men and Aidan Dawningblade fought their way to Frostmourne. Aidan watched Arthas claim that cursed blade, despite Muradin’s warnings. “Hold, lad. There's an inscription on the dais. It's a warning. It says, "Whomsoever takes up this blade shall wield power eternal. Just as the blade rends flesh, so must power scar the spirit." Oh, I should've known. The blade is cursed! Let's get the hell out of here!” “I would gladly bear any curse to save my homeland.”

It was that day, that he’d realized the mistake we’d all made. We followed a man hell bent on vengeance, to the point that he would betray his own people. That memory, was a bitter companion to bear-