#sometimes people still come up to n.orthrend and it's like

[necroarchy]

@windrunnerrs​

Icy blue that shines colder than her eyes had ever shone in life do not lack usual resent, the gleam of hatred that is so faithful mirror of her heart (heart; as if she still possessed one at all, as if it hadn’t long rotted and turned to dust, nothing left of her but the ancient bones of one long dead).

He enjoys playing with his food, is thought that occurs to her; a cat pawing at a mouse as if it were a toy, only to leave it battered and bruised and dying and decide not to eat it at all. Too much of a flair for drama, heralding end he shall bring as inevitable as words echo towards those that brave Northrend in attempt to breach his domain — if the Lich King won’t succeed, he is nevertheless not wrong in fate he sentences mortals to, for they are bound to find the dark of death and its chilly embrace sooner or later regardless.

There is no hope.

There was none for her, and she finds some grim delight in that there shall be none for them as well, even if she resents invisible chains that bind her to her master. The queen of the Frostbrood shifts behind him, an antithesis of anticipation and loathing all at once; it gets dull, hearing speeches (it is infuriating to be used as mere mount, as if she were but a common beast, but in the least there is death and destruction to relish on, and she is less displeased when sharp wind hits what is left of her winds). “Words are wind. They will not fear until true cold has a grasp on their hearts.”

|| what is this that I  C A N ’ T  S E E            with  ICE COLD HANDS  taking hold of me? ||

     GIVE HIM A MOMENT, if you will, to relish the chorus he’s stirred to life — listen to the woodwind trill of human throats screaming their last, the way they shred themselves hoarse from fear and fury, or fall into a wet bloody gargle when the blood bubbles high. The percussive beat of metal against metal as weapons clash, bodies collide, doesn’t it just get your BLOOD PUMPING through veins gone stagnant and cold?

     Ah --- of course.           A difficult sentiment to share, when your blood is but stains on the bones.

     “ Impatient. ” Her hatred is so lovely. All that churning wrath raging against the great chains that bind them together. Nothing but fondness affects his voice, amusement curling like a cat in sunlight. “ You may join now, if you so desire. As for myself... ”

     What man doesn’t pause in the face of all this vital violence? How worthwhile would divinity be if he could not breathe deep the reek of their muddy copper deaths? He can tear his heart string by string from his chest, but even that darkest hollow must be moved by the frenetic, fever pitch of mortals killing each other in the name of prolonging their scrap-yarn existences. There is little so beautiful ( yes, he remembers that word ) as a battlefield frothing crimson, so dark as to be nearly black.

    “ A moment more. ”

                                     || when  GOD IS GONE  and the  DEVIL  takes hold                                                          who’ll have  M E R C Y  on your soul? ||