Acherus, Ebon Hold
Less than twelve hours prior to the assault on New Avalon

Denalas Moontreader stood at attention as the San’layn looked him over.  There was a palpable sense of hunger coming from the vampyric elf. But there was always a sense of hunger from any of the darkfallen.  It had become their nature–their appetite.  It did not phase the night elven death knight one bit, however.  Prince Menaes had been a mentor of his, teaching Denal the darker arts of the blood rituals.  And while few could consider a member of the San’layn “harmless,” Denalas feared not for his unlife when in the presence of the former quel’dorei.

“You have shaved your head, Denal.  The look is fitting,” said Menaes, who stood about a hand shorter than the death knight in front of him. 

“What remains of my rotting hair only gets in the way.  What I have left becomes a badge of war.”  Denalas Moontreader, death knight in service to the Lich King, did not look down at the San’layn.  But he did run his gauntleted hand over the thin strip of white hair that ran down the center of his withered skull.  Pale skin, parched from the cold and undeath, was pulled tightly around Moontreader’s scalp.

The San’layn nodded, his faded red robes blowing in the chill wind.  They stood atop Acherus, otherwise known as the Ebon Hold.  The floating fortress was en route to the eastern plaguelands in an attempt to assault the fanatical Scarlet Crusade.  Moontreader was not the only death knight present.

“The Lich King stands below us, instructing the new death knights in their task against the humans.  You are above these neophytes, are you not, Denal?”  Menaes grinned, but the tall collar he wore masked the fanged smile.  “How long have you been in the master’s service?”

“I was awakened a handful of years ago, Prince.  You know this already.”

“I do, Denal, I do.  But it is good to remind you of this once in a while.  You have a habit of reverting back to your ways of servitude if not constantly reminded of what you truly are.  Of what you truly can be.” Manaes’s voice, while seething like a foul mist creeping forth from within a shattered grave, was actually comforting.  “Never forget your place as a champion, Denal.  You are one of His.  One of the chosen of the Lich King.”

“Yet now he bestows these gifts upon anyone, Menaes.  What good is to be ‘chosen’ when everyone is chosen?  How can one be ‘above’ when all stand on an equal plane?”  Denal took a step towards the balcony.  He watched as the blighted landscape below him passed under.  The world was rotting, and it was good, but it did not ease the death knight’s mind.

“A general amongst a thousand generals is still a man of rank, Denal.  A man with soldiers.  Do not forget this.  You lament about becoming ‘commonplace,’ but your capabilities are far from common amongst the bulk of the mindless.  You ARE a chosen one.  You are a death knight.”

It is time…

Both Denalas and Menaes ceased their discussion and straightened.  They had both heard the voice of their master–the psychic call of the Lich King himself.  Menaes walked to stand next to Denal at the railing as Denalas glanced downward at the sprawling human village and township approaching beneath them.  Acherus slowed to a halt.

It was, indeed, time.  The assault on the Scarlet Crusade would begin soon.

***