ARTHAS RISE OF THE LICH KING PDF

adminComment(0)

World of WarCraft: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King “He is still here,” the orc said, stabbing a finger in the boy's direction. “He will not last,” the man said. As if to. Arthas Rise Of the Lich King. Home · Arthas Rise Of the Lich King Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (World of Warcraft). Read more. World of Warcraft: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (World of Warcraft (Pocket Star)) Click button below to download or read this book.


Arthas Rise Of The Lich King Pdf

Author:LEWIS GELERTER
Language:English, Indonesian, German
Country:Belize
Genre:Technology
Pages:724
Published (Last):14.03.2016
ISBN:845-3-15189-976-7
ePub File Size:17.80 MB
PDF File Size:12.41 MB
Distribution:Free* [*Registration needed]
Downloads:33332
Uploaded by: IDALIA

[PDF] Download World of Warcraft: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King Download and Read online For download this book click Button below. World Of Warcraft: Arthas: Rise Of The Lich King (World Of Warcraft (Pocket Star)) by Christie Golden. Read and Download Online Unlimited eBooks, PDF Book. keep coming kaywretinjourbo.gq you need a world of warcraft arthas rise of the lich king, you can download them in pdf format from our kaywretinjourbo.gq file format that can be.

Arthas felt his whole body break out in a sweat, and he knew his cheeks were pink. He tried to recover. Can ye direct me? This infernal place has too many turns. He watched the dwarf go. No other words were exchanged. Arthas had never been more embarrassed in his life. Tears of shame burned in his eyes, and he blinked them back hard. Without even bothering to put away the wooden sword, he fled the room. Ten minutes later, he was free, riding out of the stables and heading east into the hills of Tirisfal Glades.

He had two horses with him: a gentle, elderly dapple- gray gelding called Trueheart upon which he was mounted and, on a training lead, the two- year- old colt Invincible. Arthas had known then that this would be his steed, his friend, the great horse with a great heart who would be as much a part of him as—no, more than—his armor or weapons.

Horses from good stock such as this one could live twenty years or more if cared for well; this was the mount who would bear Arthas elegantly in ceremony and faithfully on daily rides.

He was not a warhorse. Such were a breed apart, used only for specific purposes at specific times. But Invincible would, and indeed already had, become part of his life. Too long. Arthas glanced back over his shoulder at the horse, growing impatient with the plodding canter that seemed the most that Trueheart could summon. His ears were pricked forward, and his nostrils flared as he scented the smells of the glade. His eyes were bright and he seemed to be saying, Come on, Arthas….

Just a little canter, and then back to the stables as if nothing had happened. He slowed Trueheart to a walk and tied the reins to a low- slung tree branch. Invincible whickered as Arthas walked up to him.

The prince grinned at the velvety softness of the muzzle brushing his palm as he fed the horse a piece of apple. Invincible was used to having a saddle; it was part of the slow and patient breaking process, to get the horse accustomed to having something on its back.

Invincible reared, neighing furiously. Arthas wrapped his hands in the wiry mane and clung like a burr with every inch of his long legs. The horse hopped and bucked, but Arthas held on. And then Invincible was galloping. Or rather, he was flying. They would— Before he even realized what had happened, Arthas was hurtling through the air to land hard on the grassy earth.

Slowly he got to his feet. His body ached, but nothing was broken. But Invincible was a rapidly disappearing dot in the distance. Arthas swore violently, kicking a hillock and balling his fists.

He was in for it now. Sir Uther the Lightbringer was waiting for him upon his return. Arthas sighed. I could cripple him. It was just the one time. He was angry, embarrassed, and hurting, and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and some briarthorn tea to ease the pain. His right knee was starting to swell.

Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (World of Warcraft)

It was a good smell, he thought. An honest one. He felt vaguely bad about that; the Light was important to both his father and Uther, and he knew that they badly wanted him to be as devout as they were. It was just…there. An hour later, scrubbed and changed into an outfit that was simple yet elegant, Arthas hurried to the small family chapel in the royal wing.

It was not a large room, but it was beautiful. It was a miniature version of the traditional chapel style that could be seen in every human town, perhaps a trifle more lavish with regard to the details. The chalice that was shared was finely wrought of gold and inlaid with gems; the table upon which it lay, an antique. Even the benches had comfortable padding, while the common folk had to make do with flat wooden ones.

He realized as he entered quietly that he was the last—and winced as he recalled that several important personages were visiting his father. In addition to the regular attendees—his family, Uther, and Muradin—King Trollbane was present, though he looked even less happy than Arthas to be here. A girl, slender and straight with long blond hair, her back turned to him. Arthas peered at her, curious, and bumped into one of the benches.

He might as well have dropped a plate. Her gown was perfectly arranged, her hair pulled back in a golden coif from which no unruly tendril escaped. Calia, fourteen and looking as gawky and coltish as Invincible had been at his birth, shot him a scowl.

Evidently, word of his misdeeds had gotten out—or else she was just angry with him at being late. Terenas nodded at him, then returned his eyes to the bishop giving the service. Arthas cringed inwardly at the quiet disapproval in that gaze. Trollbane paid him no mind, and Muradin, too, did not turn. Arthas slouched down onto one of the benches against the back wall.

The bishop began to speak and lifted his hands, limned with a soft, white radiance. Arthas wished the girl would turn a little so he could catch a glimpse of her face.

Who was she? Obviously the daughter of a noble or someone else of high rank, else she would not be invited to attend private family services. He thought about who she might be, more interested in discovering her identity than in the words of the service. The bishop turned to the queen and the princess. Arthas leaned against the back room of the wall. The mystery girl was a mystery no longer.

Jaina Proudmoore, a year younger than he, daughter to Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, naval war hero and ruler of Kul Tiras. We ask that she become a representative of the Light, and that in the role of a mage, she will serve her people well and truly. She was on her way to Dalaran, the beautiful city of magi not too far from Capital City.

This, he thought, could be fun. At the end of the service, Arthas, already located near the door, stepped out first. Muradin and Trollbane were the first out, both looking slightly relieved that the service was over. Terenas, Uther, Lianne, Calia, and Jaina followed. But the resemblance stopped there.

Calia was delicately boned, with a face right out of old paintings, pale skinned and soft. Jaina, however, had bright eyes and a lively smile, and she moved like someone who was well accustomed to riding and hiking.

She obviously spent a great deal of time out of doors, as her face was tanned with a smattering of sprinkles across her nose. This, Arthas decided, was a girl who would not mind getting a snowball in the face, or going for a swim on a hot day. Someone, unlike his sister, he could play with.

Arthas turned to see the ambassador peering up at him. All he wanted to do was talk to this new friend—he was already sure they would get along famously—and Muradin probably wanted to scold him again for the embarrassing display earlier in the armory.

At least the dwarf was discreet enough to walk a few paces away. You saw what happened when I tried.

The dwarves were renowned for their fighting prowess, among many things. Part of Arthas wondered if Muradin would also teach him how to hold his ale, another thing dwarves were known for, but he decided not to ask that. Muradin nodded and stuck out a large, calloused hand.

Arthas shook it. Grinning, he glanced up at his father, who was deep in conversation with Uther. They turned as one to regard him, both pairs of eyes narrowing in speculation, and inwardly Arthas sighed. He knew that look. Arthas would rise before dawn, grab a quick breakfast of bread and cheese, and go on an early ride with Muradin. The ride would end in a hike, and it was the twelve- year- old youth who always ended up shaking and winded.

Back home, bath, lessons in history, mathematics, and calligraphy. A midday meal, then it was all afternoon in the chapel with Uther, praying, meditating, and discussing the nature of paladins and the rigorous disciplines they must observe. It pleased Terenas to think of his son as being so responsible, Jaina smiled brightly at the prospect, and it got Arthas exactly what he wanted.

Everyone was happy. And so it was that in early summer, when the flowers were blooming, the woods were full of game, and the sun danced above them in a sky of bright blue, Prince Arthas Menethil was accompanying a brightly smiling, blond, young lady on a journey to the wondrous city of magi. He was in no hurry. But still, the servants hung back and let the two young nobles become acquainted. They rode for a while, then stopped for a picnic lunch. On the morrow, we can push on the rest of the way to Dalaran.

We should arrive there by nightfall. We can camp overnight in the Hillsbrad area. That will get Lady Jaina to Dalaran by mid- morning tomorrow. While the servants set up camp, Arthas and Jaina went exploring. They scrambled up a hill that gave them an unparalleled view. To the east, they could almost make out Dalaran itself, and more clearly, the internment camp to its south. Since the end of the Second War, the orcs had been rounded up and placed into these camps. It was more merciful than simply slaughtering them on sight, Terenas had explained to Arthas.

Most of the time when humans stumbled upon them, or hunted them, they fought only halfheartedly and went into internment peacefully.

There were several camps just like this one. They had a rustic meal of roasted rabbit on a spit and retired shortly after dark. Once he was assured that everyone was asleep, Arthas threw a tunic over his breeches and quickly tugged on his boots.

As an afterthought, he took one of his daggers and fastened it to his belt, then crept over to Jaina. He squatted back as she sat up, putting a finger to his lips. She spoke in a whisper. Is something wrong? She rose, made a halfhearted attempt to comb her fingers through her blond hair, and nodded. The climb was more challenging at night, but the moonlight was quite bright and their feet did not slip. Jaina gulped. My older brother.

I missed a chance to get a good look at Doomhammer when he was in the Undercity. Other than patrols, someone is always stationed in those two watchtowers. Now, let this fellow here complete his circuit, and we should have ample time to get close to that wall right there and take a good look.

Both had fair hair, and it would be far too easy for the guards to spot.

Jaina looked nervous but excited, and obeyed. Fortunately both she and Arthas wore cloaks of a dark shade. Arthas held her back for a moment until the guard in the tower was looking in the other direction, then motioned to her. They ran forward, making sure their hoods were securely in place, and a few steps later they were pressing against the wall of the camp. They were made of wood, little more than logs fastened together, sharpened at the top and embedded deep into the ground.

It was hard to see at first, but there were several large shapes inside. Arthas turned his head for a better look. They were orcs all right. Some of them were on the ground, curled up and covered by blankets. Over there was what looked like a family unit—a male, a female, and a young one. The female, slighter and shorter than the male, held something small to her chest, and Arthas realized it was an infant.

He quickly glanced up at the tower, but the guard had heard nothing. Jaina, these brutes destroyed Stormwind. They wanted to render humankind extinct. He was irritated, but then, maybe he should have expected a reaction like that from an eleven- year- old girl. Are you sure they belong here? Maybe they should be released. Arthas shook his head. Arthas glanced over his shoulder and saw the guard start to turn. He dove toward Jaina, grabbed her around the waist, and shoved her to the ground, hitting hard beside her.

Carefully, keeping his face as shadowed as possible, Arthas turned his head to look at the guard. After a long moment, during which Arthas heard his heart thundering in his ears, the guard turned to face the other direction. She grinned at him. Arthas looked up at the stars, completely satisfied. It had been a good day. Late that next morning, they arrived at Dalaran.

Arthas had never been there before, though of course had heard a great deal about it. The magi were a private and mysterious lot—quite powerful, but they kept to themselves save when needed.

Arthas remembered when Khadgar had accompanied Anduin Lothar and Prince—now King—Varian Wrynn to speak with Terenas, to warn them of the orcish threat.

Nor did they do the ordinary political maneuvering such as inviting royalty to enjoy their hospitality. It was only because Jaina was coming to study that Arthas and his retinue were permitted admittance. Dalaran was beautiful, even more glorious than Capital City.

It seemed almost impossibly clean and bright, as a city based so deeply on magic ought to be. There were several graceful towers reaching skyward, their bases white stone and their apexes violet encircled with gold. Many had radiant, hovering stones dancing around them. Others had windows of stained glass that caught the sunlight. Gardens bloomed, the fragrances from wild, fantastical flowers providing a scent so heady Arthas was almost dizzy.

Or maybe it was the constant thrum of magic in the air that caused the sensation. He glanced at his companion. Her blue eyes were wide with awe and excitement, her lips slightly parted. She turned to Arthas, those lips curving in a smile. She was drinking this in like one who had been given water after a week in the desert, but he felt…unwanted. It would be nice to see you again.

Very nice indeed. Arthas slashed with the sword, grinning beneath his own helm as it connected solidly. Then suddenly, he was sailing through the air to land hard on his back.

His vision was filled with the image of a looming head with a long beard, and he was barely able to lift his blade in time to parry. With a grunt, he pulled his legs in to his chest and then extended them hard, catching Muradin in the gut. This time it was the dwarf who went hurtling backward. Muradin lay where he was, his chest rising and falling. Muradin pumped the hand happily.

Some of what Muradin taught him would be repeated, honed, and reinforced in his paladin training. There was fighting and there was fighting, and Muradin Bronzebeard seemed determined that Arthas Menethil would understand all aspects of it. Arthas was fourteen now, and had been training with Muradin several times a week, save for when the dwarf was away on diplomatic errands. At first, it had gone as both parties had expected—badly.

Arthas left the first dozen or so sessions bruised, bloodied, and limping. Muradin had approved, and he had shown it by pressing Arthas all the harder.

Arthas never complained, not even when he wanted to, not even when Muradin scolded him or pressed the attack long after Arthas was too exhausted to even hold up a shield. And for that stubborn refusal to whine or to quit, he was rewarded twofold: he learned and learned well, and he won the respect of Muradin Bronzebeard. Today, it was Muradin who had taken the beating. And he seemed as happy as Arthas at the fact. Though a strict taskmaster, Muradin was someone of whom Arthas had grown terribly fond.

He whistled a little as he strode toward his quarters, but then a sudden outburst froze him in his tracks. I will not! You have no say in this matter. The door was ajar and he listened, slightly worried. Terenas doted on Calia.

What in the world was he asking of her to make her beg with him and use the term of endearment that both she and Arthas had dropped as they grew toward adulthood? Calia sobbed brokenly. Arthas could take it no longer. He opened the door. She will obey me. Arthas stared from his father to his sister in utter astonishment.

Terenas muttered something and stormed out. Arthas glanced back at Calia, then followed his father. Arthas recognized Lord Daval Prestor, a young noble whom Terenas seemed to hold in very high regard, and a pair of visiting Dalaran wizards he did not know. His older sister had not moved, although her sobs had quieted somewhat. At a total loss, Arthas simply sat beside her on the bed, feeling awkward. Calia sat up on the bed, her face wet.

So that was why Prestor was here…. Everyone says so. To be given away as Father sees fit—to seal a political bargain. I know that this is common practice among royalty and nobility. That we are pawns. He was much more interested in training with Muradin and riding Invincible. But Calia was right. It was common among the nobility to make good marriages to ensure their political status.

You heard him. Arthas was in no way ready to think about that. Make sure you care for this girl and —and that she cares for you. Or is at least asked about whom she wants to share her life and her b- bed with. His wife would be the mother of kings. His parents obviously cared greatly for each other. It was reflected in their smiles and gestures, despite many years of marriage.

Arthas wanted that. He wanted a companion, a friend, a— He frowned. Arthas knew it was only a temporary solution, but he was fourteen, and a temporary solution was still a solution. He was never happier than when he rode like this, the two of them merging into one glorious whole.

He had waited, his patience sorely tested, for so long to be able to ride the animal he had watched coming into the world, but it had been worth it. They were the perfect team. Invincible wanted nothing from him, asked nothing of him, only seemed to wish to be allowed to escape the confines of the stables as Arthas longed to escape the confines of his royalty.

They did so together. They were coming up on the jump Arthas loved now. To the east of Capital City and close to the Balnir farmstead was a small cluster of hills. Invincible surged, the earth devoured by his pounding hooves, pulling himself upward toward the precipice almost as fast as if they were on level ground.

Then Arthas guided the stallion to the left, over an embankment—a shortcut to the Balnir property. Invincible did not hesitate, had not hesitated even the first time that Arthas had asked him to leap. He gathered himself and launched forward, and for a glorious, heart- stopping moment, horse and rider were airborne. Every precaution has been taken in the operation of this facility. Durnholde, not an internment camp itself, but the nerve center of all of the others, was huge, and indeed had almost a festival air about it.

It was a crisp but bright autumn day, and the breeze caused the blue and white banners that flew over the keep to snap energetically. Terenas had praised Arthas for his initiative and compassion. We can ascertain if he is taking proper care of the gladiatorial participants—and also, make sure he is not walking the path of his father. While his crimes had taken place long ago, when his son had been but a child, the stain had dogged Aedelas throughout his military career.

It was only his record of victory in battles, and particular ferocity in fighting the orcs, that had enabled the current Blackmoore to rise in the ranks. Arthas looked down, feigning interest in watching the dozens of guards who stood at rigid attention.

Well, so have I, he thought, but he also knew what sacrifices a king would be expected to make. Blackmoore, in contrast, ate sparingly, though he had more alcohol than Langston. The girl, golden- haired and simply clad, with a face that needed no artifice to be beautiful, smiled as if she enjoyed it, but Arthas caught a quick flash of unhappiness in her blue eyes.

She reminded him a bit of Jaina—her hair brightened by the sun, her skin tanned. She returned the smile fleetingly, then demurely looked away as she gathered the plates, dropping a quick curtsey before leaving. It took Arthas a second to grasp the meaning and then he blinked, startled. The two men laughed harder, and Blackmoore raised his goblet in a toast.

Arthas looked back at Taretha, thought of Jaina, and forced himself to raise his glass. An hour later Arthas had forgotten all about Taretha Foxton and his indignation on her behalf. His voice was raw from screaming, his hands hurt from clapping, and he was having the time of his life. The first few combatants in the ring were simple beasts pitted against one another, fighting to the death for no reason other than the enjoyment of the onlookers.

He was fond of animals; it unsettled him to see them used so. Langston had opened his mouth, but Blackmoore shushed him with a quick gesture. He had smiled, leaning back in his chaise lounge and snagging a bunch of grapes.

And as you can see, the bouts go quickly. If an animal survives and is not able to continue fighting again, we put him down at once, mercifully. A sick feeling in his gut told him Blackmoore probably was, but he ignored it. The feeling vanished when the fighting involved men against the beasts.

They in fact become minor celebrities. And Arthas knew it, and approved. Apparently, everything up until now had been a warm- up for the crowd. When the doors creaked open and a huge green shape strode forward, everyone stood, roaring. Somehow Arthas found himself among them. Thrall was enormous, appearing even larger because he was obviously so much healthier and alert than the other specimens Arthas had seen in the camps. He wore little armor and no helm, and green skin stretched tightly over powerful muscle.

Too, he stood straighter than others. The cheering was deafening, and Thrall walked a circle around the ring, lifting his fists, turning his ugly face up to be showered with rose petals usually reserved for holidays. Nor will he. Yet people keep hoping, and the money keeps flowing. He thumped his chest in a salute and then bowed deeply. He rose and lifted a flag, waving it, and across the ring a solidly built red- haired man waved another flag. Thrall turned toward the door, gripping the massive battle axe that was his weapon in this bout.

The guards began to raise the door, and before it had even opened fully, a bear the size of Invincible surged forward. He was angry, embarrassed, and hurting, and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and some briarthorn tea to ease the pain.

His right knee was starting to swell. It was a good smell, he thought. An honest one. He felt vaguely bad about that; the Light was important to both his father and Uther, and he knew that they badly wanted him to be as devout as they were.

It was just…there. An hour later, scrubbed and changed into an outfit that was simple yet elegant, Arthas hurried to the small family chapel in the royal wing. It was not a large room, but it was beautiful. It was a miniature version of the traditional chapel style that could be seen in every human town, perhaps a trifle more lavish with regard to the details. The chalice that was shared was finely wrought of gold and inlaid with gems; the table upon which it lay, an antique.

Even the benches had comfortable padding, while the common folk had to make do with flat wooden ones. He realized as he entered quietly that he was the last—and winced as he recalled that several important personages were visiting his father. In addition to the regular attendees—his family, Uther, and Muradin—King Trollbane was present, though he looked even less happy than Arthas to be here.

Rise of the Lich King And…someone else. A girl, slender and straight with long blond hair, her back turned to him. Arthas peered at her, curious, and bumped into one of the benches. He might as well have dropped a plate. Her gown was perfectly arranged, her hair pulled back in a golden coif from which no unruly tendril escaped. Calia, fourteen and looking as gawky and coltish as Invincible had been at his birth, shot him a scowl.

Evidently, word of his misdeeds had gotten out—or else she was just angry with him at being late. Terenas nodded at him, then returned his eyes to the bishop giving the service. Arthas cringed inwardly at the quiet disapproval in that gaze. Trollbane paid him no mind, and Muradin, too, did not turn. Arthas slouched down onto one of the benches against the back wall.

The bishop began to speak and lifted his hands, limned with a soft, white radiance. Arthas wished the girl would turn a little so he could catch a glimpse of her face. Who was she? Obviously the daughter of a noble or someone else of high rank, else she would not be invited to attend private family services.

He thought about who she might be, more interested in discovering her identity than in the words of the service. The bishop turned to the queen and the princess. Arthas leaned against the back room of the wall. The mystery girl was a mystery no longer. Jaina Proudmoore, a year younger than he, daughter to Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, naval war hero and ruler of Kul Tiras.

We ask that she become a representative of the Light, and that in the role of a mage, she will serve her people well and truly.

She was on her way to Dalaran, the beautiful city of magi not too far from Capital City. This, he thought, could be fun. At the end of the service, Arthas, already located near the door, stepped out first.

Muradin and Trollbane were the first out, both looking slightly relieved that the service was over.

Terenas, Uther, Lianne, Calia, and Jaina followed. Rise of the Lich King Both his sister and the Proudmoore girl were fair haired and slender.

But the resemblance stopped there. Calia was delicately boned, with a face right out of old paintings, pale skinned and soft. Jaina, however, had bright eyes and a lively smile, and she moved like someone who was well accustomed to riding and hiking.

She obviously spent a great deal of time out of doors, as her face was tanned with a smattering of sprinkles across her nose. This, Arthas decided, was a girl who would not mind getting a snowball in the face, or going for a swim on a hot day. Someone, unlike his sister, he could play with. Arthas turned to see the ambassador peering up at him.

All he wanted to do was talk to this new friend—he was already sure they would get along famously—and Muradin probably wanted to scold him again for the embarrassing display earlier in the armory. At least the dwarf was discreet enough to walk a few paces away. You saw what happened when I tried. The dwarves were renowned for their fighting prowess, among many things. Part of Arthas wondered if Muradin would also teach him how to hold his ale, another thing dwarves were known for, but he decided not to ask that.

Muradin nodded and stuck out a large, calloused hand. Arthas shook it. Grinning, he glanced up at his father, who was deep in conversation with Uther. They turned as one to regard him, both pairs of eyes narrowing in speculation, and inwardly Arthas sighed. He knew that look. Arthas would rise before dawn, grab a quick breakfast of bread and cheese, and go on an early ride with Muradin.

The ride would end in a hike, and it was the twelve- year- old youth who always ended up shaking and winded. Back home, bath, lessons in history, mathematics, and calligraphy.

A midday meal, then it was all afternoon in the chapel with Uther, praying, meditating, and discussing the nature of paladins and the rigorous disciplines they must observe. It pleased Terenas to think of his son as being so responsible, Jaina smiled brightly at the prospect, and it got Arthas exactly what he wanted.

Everyone was happy. And so it was that in early summer, when the flowers were blooming, the woods were full of game, and the sun danced above them in a sky of bright blue, Prince Arthas Menethil was accompanying a brightly smiling, blond, young lady on a journey to the wondrous city of magi.

He was in no hurry. But still, the servants hung back and let the two young nobles become acquainted. They rode for a while, then stopped for a picnic lunch. On the morrow, we can push on the rest of the way to Dalaran. We should arrive there by nightfall. We can camp overnight in the Hillsbrad area. That will get Lady Jaina to Dalaran by mid- morning tomorrow.

Rise of the Lich King She smiled back, though he caught a hint of disappointment in her eyes. While the servants set up camp, Arthas and Jaina went exploring. They scrambled up a hill that gave them an unparalleled view.

To the east, they could almost make out Dalaran itself, and more clearly, the internment camp to its south. Since the end of the Second War, the orcs had been rounded up and placed into these camps. It was more merciful than simply slaughtering them on sight, Terenas had explained to Arthas. Most of the time when humans stumbled upon them, or hunted them, they fought only halfheartedly and went into internment peacefully. There were several camps just like this one. They had a rustic meal of roasted rabbit on a spit and retired shortly after dark.

Once he was assured that everyone was asleep, Arthas threw a tunic over his breeches and quickly tugged on his boots. As an afterthought, he took one of his daggers and fastened it to his belt, then crept over to Jaina.

He squatted back as she sat up, putting a finger to his lips. She spoke in a whisper. Is something wrong? She rose, made a halfhearted attempt to comb her fingers through her blond hair, and nodded. Rise of the Lich King Jaina followed him as they ascended the same ridge they had explored earlier that day. The climb was more challenging at night, but the moonlight was quite bright and their feet did not slip.

Jaina gulped. My older brother. I missed a chance to get a good look at Doomhammer when he was in the Undercity. Other than patrols, someone is always stationed in those two watchtowers. Now, let this fellow here complete his circuit, and we should have ample time to get close to that wall right there and take a good look. Both had fair hair, and it would be far too easy for the guards to spot.

Jaina looked nervous but excited, and obeyed. Fortunately both she and Arthas wore cloaks of a dark shade. Arthas held her back for a moment until the guard in the tower was looking in the other direction, then motioned to her.

They ran forward, making sure their hoods were securely in place, and a few steps later they were pressing against the wall of the camp. They were made of wood, little more than logs fastened together, sharpened at the top and embedded deep into the ground.

It was hard to see at first, but there were several large shapes inside. Arthas turned his head for a better look. They were orcs all right. Some of them were on the ground, curled up and covered by blankets. Over there was what looked like a family unit—a male, a female, and a young one. The female, slighter and shorter than the male, held something small to her chest, and Arthas realized it was an infant. He quickly glanced up at the tower, but the guard had heard nothing.

Jaina, these brutes destroyed Stormwind. They wanted to render humankind extinct. He was irritated, but then, maybe he should have expected a reaction like that from an eleven- year- old girl. Are you sure they belong here? Maybe they should be released. Arthas shook his head.

Arthas glanced over his shoulder and saw the guard start to turn. He dove toward Jaina, grabbed her around the waist, and shoved her to the ground, hitting hard beside her. Carefully, keeping his face as shadowed as possible, Arthas turned his head to look at the guard. After a long moment, during which Arthas heard his heart thundering in his ears, the guard turned to face the other direction.

She grinned at him. Rise of the Lich King They were back in their respective sleeping areas a few moments later. Arthas looked up at the stars, completely satisfied. It had been a good day. Late that next morning, they arrived at Dalaran. Arthas had never been there before, though of course had heard a great deal about it. The magi were a private and mysterious lot—quite powerful, but they kept to themselves save when needed.

Arthas remembered when Khadgar had accompanied Anduin Lothar and Prince—now King—Varian Wrynn to speak with Terenas, to warn them of the orcish threat. Nor did they do the ordinary political maneuvering such as inviting royalty to enjoy their hospitality.

It was only because Jaina was coming to study that Arthas and his retinue were permitted admittance. Dalaran was beautiful, even more glorious than Capital City.

It seemed almost impossibly clean and bright, as a city based so deeply on magic ought to be. There were several graceful towers reaching skyward, their bases white stone and their apexes violet encircled with gold. Many had radiant, hovering stones dancing around them. Others had windows of stained glass that caught the sunlight. Gardens bloomed, the fragrances from wild, fantastical flowers providing a scent so heady Arthas was almost dizzy.

Or maybe it was the constant thrum of magic in the air that caused the sensation. He glanced at his companion. Her blue eyes were wide with awe and excitement, her lips slightly parted. She turned to Arthas, those lips curving in a smile. She was drinking this in like one who had been given water after a week in the desert, but he felt…unwanted.

It would be nice to see you again. Very nice indeed. Arthas slashed with the sword, grinning beneath his own helm as it connected solidly. Then suddenly, he was sailing through the air to land hard on his back. His vision was filled with the image of a looming head with a long beard, and he was barely able to lift his blade in time to parry. With a grunt, he pulled his legs in to his chest and then extended them hard, catching Muradin in the gut. This time it was the dwarf who went hurtling backward.

Muradin lay where he was, his chest rising and falling. Muradin pumped the hand happily. Some of what Muradin taught him would be repeated, honed, and reinforced in his paladin training.

There was fighting and there was fighting, and Muradin Bronzebeard seemed determined that Arthas Menethil would understand all aspects of it. Arthas was fourteen now, and had been training with Muradin several times a week, save for when the dwarf was away on diplomatic errands.

At first, it had gone as both parties had expected—badly. Arthas left the first dozen or so sessions bruised, bloodied, and limping. Muradin had approved, and he had shown it by pressing Arthas all the harder. Arthas never complained, not even when he wanted to, not even when Muradin scolded him or pressed the attack long after Arthas was too exhausted to even hold up a shield.

And for that stubborn refusal to whine or to quit, he was rewarded twofold: Rise of the Lich King His eyes twinkled as he spoke and Arthas nodded as if agreeing. Today, it was Muradin who had taken the beating.

And he seemed as happy as Arthas at the fact. Though a strict taskmaster, Muradin was someone of whom Arthas had grown terribly fond. He whistled a little as he strode toward his quarters, but then a sudden outburst froze him in his tracks.

I will not! You have no say in this matter. The door was ajar and he listened, slightly worried. Terenas doted on Calia. What in the world was he asking of her to make her beg with him and use the term of endearment that both she and Arthas had dropped as they grew toward adulthood?

Calia sobbed brokenly. Arthas could take it no longer. He opened the door. She will obey me. Arthas stared from his father to his sister in utter astonishment. Terenas muttered something and stormed out. Arthas glanced back at Calia, then followed his father.

Arthas recognized Lord Daval Prestor, a young noble whom Terenas seemed to hold in very high regard, and a pair of visiting Dalaran wizards he did not know.

His older sister had not moved, although her sobs had quieted somewhat. At a total loss, Arthas simply sat beside her on the bed, feeling awkward. Calia sat up on the bed, her face wet. So that was why Prestor was here…. Everyone says so. To be given away as Father sees fit—to seal a political bargain. I know that this is common practice among royalty and nobility.

That we are pawns. He was much more interested in training with Muradin and riding Invincible. But Calia was right. It was common among the nobility to make good marriages to ensure their political status. You heard him. Arthas was in no way ready to think about that. Make sure you care for this girl and —and that she cares for you. Or is at least asked about whom she wants to share her life and her b- bed with. Rise of the Lich King She started to weep afresh, but Arthas was too shaken by the revelation that burst upon him.

His wife would be the mother of kings. His parents obviously cared greatly for each other. It was reflected in their smiles and gestures, despite many years of marriage. Arthas wanted that. He wanted a companion, a friend, a— He frowned. Arthas knew it was only a temporary solution, but he was fourteen, and a temporary solution was still a solution.

He was never happier than when he rode like this, the two of them merging into one glorious whole. He had waited, his patience sorely tested, for so long to be able to ride the animal he had watched coming into the world, but it had been worth it. They were the perfect team. Invincible wanted nothing from him, asked nothing of him, only seemed to wish to be allowed to escape the confines of the stables as Arthas longed to escape the confines of his royalty.

They did so together. They were coming up on the jump Arthas loved now. To the east of Capital City and close to the Balnir farmstead was a small cluster of hills. Invincible surged, the earth devoured by his pounding hooves, pulling himself upward toward the precipice almost as fast as if they were on level ground.

Then Arthas guided the stallion to the left, over an embankment—a shortcut to the Balnir property. Invincible did not hesitate, had not hesitated even the first time that Arthas had asked him to leap. He gathered himself and launched forward, and for a glorious, heart- stopping moment, horse and rider were airborne. Every precaution has been taken in the operation of this facility. Durnholde, not an internment camp itself, but the nerve center of all of the others, was huge, and indeed had almost a festival air about it.

It was a crisp but bright autumn day, and the breeze caused the blue and white banners that flew over the keep to snap energetically. Terenas had praised Arthas for his initiative and compassion. We can ascertain if he is taking proper care of the gladiatorial participants—and also, make sure he is not walking the path of his father.

While his crimes had taken place long ago, when his son had been but a child, the stain had dogged Aedelas throughout his military career. It was only his record of victory in battles, and particular ferocity in fighting the orcs, that had enabled the current Blackmoore to rise in the ranks. Arthas looked down, feigning interest in watching the dozens of guards who stood at rigid attention.

Well, so have I, he thought, but he also knew what sacrifices a king would be expected to make. Rise of the Lich King himself to the choicest cuts of meat, the most lavish pastries, and more than one glass of wine to wash it down with.

Blackmoore, in contrast, ate sparingly, though he had more alcohol than Langston. The girl, golden- haired and simply clad, with a face that needed no artifice to be beautiful, smiled as if she enjoyed it, but Arthas caught a quick flash of unhappiness in her blue eyes.

She reminded him a bit of Jaina—her hair brightened by the sun, her skin tanned. She returned the smile fleetingly, then demurely looked away as she gathered the plates, dropping a quick curtsey before leaving. It took Arthas a second to grasp the meaning and then he blinked, startled. The two men laughed harder, and Blackmoore raised his goblet in a toast. Arthas looked back at Taretha, thought of Jaina, and forced himself to raise his glass.

An hour later Arthas had forgotten all about Taretha Foxton and his indignation on her behalf. His voice was raw from screaming, his hands hurt from clapping, and he was having the time of his life. The first few combatants in the ring were simple beasts pitted against one another, fighting to the death for no reason other than the enjoyment of the onlookers.

He was fond of animals; it unsettled him to see them used so. Langston had opened his mouth, but Blackmoore shushed him with a quick gesture.

He had smiled, leaning back in his chaise lounge and snagging a bunch of grapes. And as you can see, the bouts go quickly. If an animal survives and is not able to continue fighting again, we put him down at once, mercifully. A sick feeling in his gut told him Blackmoore probably was, but he ignored it.

The feeling vanished when the fighting involved men against the beasts. They in fact become minor celebrities. And Arthas knew it, and approved. Rise of the Lich King He was not disappointed. Apparently, everything up until now had been a warm- up for the crowd. When the doors creaked open and a huge green shape strode forward, everyone stood, roaring. Somehow Arthas found himself among them. Thrall was enormous, appearing even larger because he was obviously so much healthier and alert than the other specimens Arthas had seen in the camps.

He wore little armor and no helm, and green skin stretched tightly over powerful muscle. Too, he stood straighter than others. The cheering was deafening, and Thrall walked a circle around the ring, lifting his fists, turning his ugly face up to be showered with rose petals usually reserved for holidays. Nor will he.

Yet people keep hoping, and the money keeps flowing. He thumped his chest in a salute and then bowed deeply. He rose and lifted a flag, waving it, and across the ring a solidly built red- haired man waved another flag.

Thrall turned toward the door, gripping the massive battle axe that was his weapon in this bout. The guards began to raise the door, and before it had even opened fully, a bear the size of Invincible surged forward. Its hackles had risen and it barreled straight for Thrall as if it had been launched from a cannon, its snarl audible even over the roar of the crowd.

Thrall held his ground, stepping aside at the absolute last minute and bringing the huge axe around as if it weighed nothing at all. Again, the orc stood his ground, resting on the balls of his bare feet until he moved with a speed that belied his size.

He met the bear head- on, shouting taunts in a guttural voice in perfect Common, and brought the axe crunching down. Thrall threw back his head and cried out his victory. The crowd went mad. Arthas stared. Arthas watched as Thrall sized them up and wondered just how smart it was of Blackmoore to make his pet orc so damn good at fighting.

If Thrall ever escaped, he could teach those skills to other orcs. It was possible, despite the increased security. After all, if Orgrim Doomhammer could escape from the Undercity, in the very heart of the palace, Thrall could escape from Durnholde. The state visit lasted five days. During one of those days, late in the evening, Taretha Foxton came to visit the prince in his private quarters.

He was puzzled that his servants did not answer the tentative knock on the door and was even more startled to see the pretty blond girl standing there carrying a tray of delicacies.

Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (World of Warcraft)

She dropped a curtsey. Arthas was confused. They were calm, resigned. Understanding, and embarrassment, and irritation, and anger. I need nothing else. Arthas stepped forward and lifted her trailing hair out of the way, frowning at the brownish- blue fading marks on her wrists and throat. Taretha blinked at him. It took a moment for her to understand what he was saying, and then cautious relief and gratitude spread over her face as she poured the wine. After a little while, she began to respond to his questions with more than a few polite words, and they spent the next few hours talking before they agreed it was time for her to return.

As she picked up the tray, she turned to him. The lady you choose to make your queen will be a very lucky woman. The lady he would choose to make his queen. He recalled his conversation with Calia; fortunately for his sister, Terenas had started to have some suspicions about Prestor—nothing that could be proven, but enough for second thoughts.

Arthas was almost of age—a year older than Calia had been when their father had nearly betrothed her to Prestor.

Christie Golden: World of Warcraft: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King

Tomorrow he would be leaving, and not a minute too soon. The winter chill was in the air. In a few more months, Arthas would reach his nineteenth year and be inducted into the Order of the Silver Hand, and he was more than ready. His training with Muradin had ended a few months ago, and he had now begun sparring with Uther. What Muradin had taught was attentiveness and a willingness to win the battle no matter what. Rise of the Lich King swordplay.

Which meant that now Arthas had afternoons free for a few days, and he was not about to waste them, even if the weather was less than perfect. He could see his breath and that of the great white horse as Invincible tossed his head and snorted. It was starting to snow again now, not the soft fat flakes that drifted lazily down but small, hard crystals that stung.

Arthas frowned and pressed on. A little farther, then he would turn back, he told himself. He might even stop at the Balnir farm. It had been a while since he had been there; Jorum and Jarim would likely be interested to see the magnificent horse that the gawky little colt had grown into. The impulse, having struck, now demanded to be obeyed, and Arthas turned Invincible with a subtle pressure from his left leg. The snow was picking up, tiny needles digging into his exposed skin, and Arthas pulled the cape up over his head for a little more protection.

Invincible shook his head, his skin twitching as it did when he was being annoyed by insects in the summer. He galloped down the path, stretching his neck forward, enjoying the exertion every bit as much as Arthas. They were coming up on the jump soon, and shortly after that, a warm stable for the steed and a hot mug of tea for his rider before they headed back to the palace. He pulled hard on the reins, as if that could do something, as if anything could do something— The sound cut through his stupor, and he blinked his way back to consciousness with the bonechilling shriek of a beast in agony clawing at his brain.

Finally he was able to sit up. The snow had picked up and was coming down hard and heavy now. He could barely see three feet in front of him.

He shut out the pain, craning his neck, trying to find— Invincible. His eye was drawn to movement and the widening pool of crimson that melted the snow, that steamed in the cold. The world went black around the edges and he almost lost consciousness again, but through sheer will hung on. Slowly, he made his way to the panicked animal, struggling against the pain and the driving wind and snow that threatened to knock him over.

Invincible was churning up the bloodied snow with two powerful, unharmed rear legs and two shattered forelegs. Arthas felt his stomach heave at the sight of the limbs, once so long and straight and clean and powerful, hanging at odd angles as Invincible kept trying and failing to stand.

Then the image was mercifully blurred by the snow and the rush of hot tears that spilled down his cheeks. He slogged toward his horse, sobbing, dropping to his knees beside the maddened animal and trying to do—what?

This was no scratch, to be quickly bound so that Invincible could be led to a warm stable and hot mash. And he kept screaming.

There were priests and Sir Uther—maybe they could heal— Pain greater than physical shot through the youth.

The bishop had gone with his father to Stromgarde, as had Uther. With the storm, he could never find a healer before Invincible either died of his injuries or froze to death. He lay in the snow, his sides heaving, his eyes rolling in torment. Every breath was agony, and he welcomed the pain. This was his fault. His fault. For that moment, everything was all just beginning, and not coming to this shocking, sickening, avoidable end.

Invincible trembled, his brown eyes wide with now- silent pain. His feet sank in the red puddle of melted snow as he stood over the fallen animal. Rise of the Lich King Invincible regarded him calmly, trustingly, as if he somehow understood what was about to happen, and the need for it.

It was more than Arthas could bear, and for a moment tears again clouded his vision. He blinked them back hard. Arthas lifted the sword and brought it straight down. He felt the sword pierce skin, flesh, scrape against bone, and impale itself into the earth below. Invincible arched once, then shuddered and lay still. As the elder man bent to pick him up, Arthas cried out with pain.

That storm came on quickly. So I can come visit? He was a noble steed. He would let them all think it was an accident, because he could not bear to tell anyone what he had done. And he made a vow then and there that if anyone else ever needed protection—that if sacrifices had to be made for the welfare of others—he would do it.

Whatever it takes, he thought. He was in a foul mood, despite the fact that this was a day that he was supposed to have been looking forward to all his life. Sitting atop his new charger only served to remind him that the horse, while powerful, well- trained, and wellbred, was not Invincible, gone for only a few months and bitterly missed.

And he found that his mind had suddenly gone blank regarding what he was supposed to do once the ceremony began. It was one of the biggest celebrations Stormwind had ever seen. He had opened the palace to all the visiting royalty and their retinues.

Sitting with Varian last night, drinking mead and talking, had been the highlight of the trip for Arthas so far. The hurting, traumatized youth of a decade ago had grown into a confident, handsome, centered king. Varian, trained since early childhood, had always been good and now he was better. But so was Arthas, and he gave as good as he got. In a rare moment, Arthas had spoken of his feelings to Uther. The intimidating paladin, who, since Arthas was old enough to remember, had been the very image of rock- solid steadfastness to the Light, had startled the prince with his reply.

No one feels he deserves it. And you know why? Because no one does. But the Light loves us anyway. It loves us for what we sometimes can rise to in rare moments.

It loves us for what we can do to help others. He squared his shoulders, tilted the visor back, and smiled and waved to the crowd that was cheering so happily on this hot summer day. Rose petals were showered upon him, and from somewhere trumpets blared. They had reached the cathedral. Arthas dismounted and a groom led away his charger. His blond hair was damp with sweat, and he quickly ran a gauntleted hand over it.

Rise of the Lich King Arthas had never been to Stormwind before, and he was impressed by the combination of serenity and power the cathedral radiated. The fragrance of the incense was calming and familiar; it was the same as that which his family burned in their small chapel. There was no giddy throng here now, just silent, respectful rows of prominent personages and clergy. Arthas recognized several faces: She had certainly grown up in the years since he had last seen her.

Arthas returned his attention to the altar he approached, but felt a little bit of the trepidation leave his heart.

He hoped there would be a chance for him to talk to her after all the formalities were taken care of. Archbishop Alonsus Faol awaited him at the altar. The archbishop reminded Arthas more of Greatfather Winter than of any of the rulers he had hitherto met. Short and stout, with a long flowing snow- white beard and bright eyes, even in the midst of solemn ceremony Faol radiated warmth and kindliness. Faol waited until Arthas approached him and knelt before him respectfully before opening a large book and speaking.

In its grace, he will be made anew. In its power, he shall educate the masses. In its strength, he shall combat the shadow. And in its wisdom, he shall lead his brethren to the eternal rewards of paradise. Some held censors, which swayed almost hypnotically. Others bore large candles. One carried an embroidered blue stole. Arthas had been introduced to many of them earlier, but found that their names had gone right out of his head.

Archbishop Faol asked the clerics to bestow their blessings upon Arthas. They were the original paladins of the Silver Hand, and it was the first time they had assembled since their induction many years past. Rise of the Lich King powerful and graceful, now governor of Hearthglen; the six- and- a- half- foot Saidan Dathrohan, and the pious, bushy- bearded Gavinrad.

One was missing from their number—Turalyon, right hand to Anduin Lothar in the Second War, who was lost with the company that had ventured through the Dark Portal when Arthas was twelve.

Gavinrad stepped forth, holding an enormous, heavy- looking hammer, its silver head etched with runes and its sturdy haft wrapped in blue leather.

He placed the hammer in front of Arthas, then stepped back to stand with his brethren. In his hands he carried a pair of ceremonial shoulder plates. He spoke in a voice that was both powerful and trembling with emotion. Archbishop Faol smiled at the prince kindly. Arthas met the gaze evenly, no longer worried. He remembered everything now.

Arthas did so. Faol gave him a quick wink of reassurance, then turned to address both the clerics and the paladins. They pointed at Arthas, directing the radiance toward him. Nothing happened. The moment stretched on. What was going wrong? And then the sunlight streaming in through windows in the ceiling slowly began to move toward the prince standing alone in shining armor, and Arthas exhaled in relief. This had to be what Uther had spoken of. The feeling of unworthiness that Uther assured him all paladins felt simply seemed to drag out the moment.

The words Uther had spoken came back to him: No one feels he deserves it…its grace, pure and simple…but the Light loves us anyway.

Now it shone down on him, in him, through him, and he was forced to shut his eyes against the almost blinding radiance. It warmed at first, then seared, and he winced slightly. He felt—scoured. Emptied, scrubbed clean, then filled again, and he felt the Light swell inside him and then fade away to a tolerable level.

He blinked and reached for the hammer, the symbol of the order. As his hand closed about the haft, he looked up at Archbishop Faol, whose benign smile widened. Welcome to the Order of the Silver Hand. The Light, he realized, made the hammer seem to weigh less in his hands. At his exultant cry, the cathedral suddenly began to ring with the sound of answering cheers and applause. Arthas found himself roughly embraced by his new brothers and sisters, and then all remnants of formality were torn away as his father, Varian, and others crowded the altar area.

Much laughter was had as Varian tried to clap him on the shoulder, only to have his hand sting when he struck the hard metal of the shoulder plates.

And then somehow Arthas was turned around and stared into the blue- eyed, smiling face of Lady Jaina Proudmoore.

Almost at once his left arm slipped around her trim waist and he pulled her to him. She looked startled, but not displeased, as he hugged her. She returned the hug, laughing against his chest for a moment, then pulling back, still smiling. For a moment, the happy sounds of a celebrating crowd on a hot summer afternoon went away, and all Arthas could see was this suntanned, smiling girl.

Could he kiss her? Should he kiss her? He certainly wanted to. But even as he debated she disentangled herself and stepped back, and her fairhaired girlish form was replaced by another fair- haired, girlish form. Calia laughed and hugged her brother tightly. What was meant by that? Was his father not proud of him on other days? He was suddenly angry, and not certain why or with whom.

The Light, delaying its approval; Jaina backing away from him right at the moment when he could have kissed her; Terenas and his comment. He forced a smile and began to shoulder his way through the crowd. Arthas was nineteen. At the same age, Varian had been king for a full year. He was of an age to do whatever he wanted to, and now had the blessing of the Silver Hand to guide him.

He wanted to do something…fun. Something that his power, his position, his abilities would earn him. And he knew exactly what he wanted that something to be. While the ocean breezes always made Theramore feel cool, even in the hot summer months, the chill of the wind and rain that now pummeled the city cut to the bone. The ocean churned unhappily, the sky above it gray and menacing.

It showed no signs of letting up. Outside, training fields turned to mud, travelers sought the shelter of the inn, and Dr.

Arthas Rise Of the Lich King

VanHowzen would need to watch the injured in his care for signs of illness brought on by the sudden cold and wetness. No doubt they were miserable. Jaina ordered one of her attendants to take the pot of tea she had just brewed for her and her chancellor down to the stalwart guards enduring their duty.

She could wait for a second pot to be ready. Thunder rumbled and there was a flash of lightning. Jaina, snug in her tower surrounded by the books and papers she so loved, shivered and drew her cloak about her more closely, then turned to one who was doubtless even more uncomfortable than she. Magna Aegwynn, former Guardian of Tirisfal, mother to the great Magus Medivh, once the most powerful woman in the world, sat in a chair drawn close to the fire, sipping a cup of tea.

Her gnarled hands closed about the cup, seeking its warmth. Her long hair, white as freshly fallen snow, was loose about her shoulders. She looked up as Jaina approached and sat in the chair across from her. Her green eyes, a deep, knowing emerald, missed nothing. Besides, you always get in this mood when the weather turns.

When the weather is cold, I do think of him. About what happened. About whether I could have done anything. Too much else to worry about. She had tried to chalk it up to the weather and the tensions that always ran high when it was so damp and unpleasant. But Aegwynn was suggesting that there was more to it than that, and Jaina Proudmoore, thirty years of age, ruler of Theramore Isle, knew the old woman was right.

Old woman. A smile flickered on her lips as she thought about the words. She herself was well past her own youth, a youth in which Arthas Menethil had played so significant a role. At that moment, one of the servants came with a fresh pot of tea and cookies hot from the oven. Jaina accepted a cup gratefully. I want you to tell me about him. Arthas Menethil. Not yet at any rate. Everything here emanated magic, and to her it was almost like a scent, a fragrance of everything in bloom, and she inhaled it with a smile.

She had never seen healthier, more colorful flowers, or eaten more delicious fruits and vegetables than here. And the knowledge! Rise of the Lich King more in the last eight years than in her entire life—and most of that in the last two, since Archmage Antonidas had formally taken her as his apprentice.

Few things contented her more than sitting curled up in the sun with a cold glass of sweet nectar and a pile of books. Of course, some of the rarer parchments needed to be protected from sunlight and spilled nectar, so the next best thing was sitting inside one of the many rooms, wearing gloves so her hands would not damage the fragile paper, carefully perusing something that was older almost than she could comprehend.

But for now, she just wanted to wander in the gardens, feeling the living earth beneath her feet, smelling the incredible scents, and, when hunger gnawed at her stomach, reaching up and plucking a ripe goldenbark apple warm from the sunlight and crunching it happily.

I think you would enjoy seeing them someday. A pleasure. Her father, Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, ruled the city- state of Kul Tiras, and Jaina had grown up accustomed to interaction with nobility. He was handsome, certainly, with that grace and beauty that all elves possessed. Tall, with hair like spun gold that fell halfway down his back, he always looked to her like a figure out of legend rather than a real, living person.

Perhaps that was it—there was a sort of…antiquated formality about him. Too, he was much older than she, though he looked about her age.

He was sharply intelligent and an extremely talented and powerful mage, and some of the students whispered that he was one of the Six, the secret membership of the highest ranking magi of Dalaran. He reached up and took an apple himself, biting into it. She only wished it worked better. The silence stretched between then, awkward despite the casualness of the setting and the warmth of the sun.

So I should not need to depart again anytime soon. Still, Jaina knew he was waiting for her reaction. At once it transformed into a sheep, a look of comical surprise on its face as the branch broke beneath its weight and it started to fall.

Immediately Jaina extended a hand and the squirrel- sheep halted in midair. Gently she lowered it unharmed to the ground. It bleated at her, twitching its ears, and after a moment again resumed the shape of a very confused- looking squirrel. No more setting books on fire, I hope? Dalaran is a marvelous city, and some of the finest magi in Azeroth live here. But I think you would enjoy visiting an entire land where magic is so much a part of the culture.

Not just a part of the city, or confined to a handful of elite, educated magi. Magic is the birthright of every citizen. We are all embraced by the Sunwell. Surely you must have some curiosity about it yourself? And I would love to go there someday. But I think for the moment, my studies can be best advanced here. Nonetheless, this prince and mage looks deeply forward to more demonstrations of how your training has advanced…and more time spent with you.

Not knowing how to respond, Jaina settled for a curtsey, then watched him go, striding through the gardens like the sun, head high, every inch of him exuding confidence and coiled grace.

Even the dirt seemed unwilling to cling to his boots and robe hem. Rise of the Lich King Jaina crunched a final bite of the apple, then she, too, tossed it away. A pair of hands abruptly covered her eyes. She started, but only in mild surprise—no one who posed a threat would be able to breach the powerful wards erected about the magical city. Jaina, her eyes covered, considered, fighting back a smile.

She felt the shape of the stone, the design—the seal of Lordaeron. He uncovered her eyes at once, and grinned down at her. He was tall and well- built, seeming solid rather than fluidly graceful to her.

Decorum returned to her and she dropped a curtsey.It was more merciful than simply slaughtering them on sight, Terenas had explained to Arthas. He continued to touch her face, trailing strong, calloused fingers down the curve of her cheek. While the servants set up camp, Arthas and Jaina went exploring. A sick feeling in his gut told him Blackmoore probably was, but he ignored it. Now it shone down on him, in him, through him, and he was forced to shut his eyes against the almost blinding radiance.

He met the bear head- on, shouting taunts in a guttural voice in perfect Common, and brought the axe crunching down.

KRISTINE from Sunnyvale
Look over my other posts. I am highly influenced by shorinji kempo. I enjoy doubtfully .
>