This is part 1 of Aftermath, the “what happens next” story of Aely, a Lordaeron Paladin, after the fall of the Lich King. You can see the introduction and other parts of the story here.
The landscape didn’t change much, really. He had fallen; they had won. But the snowy desolation of Icecrown was still snowy and desolate, unchanged from the events that occurred inside.
Light-forsaken. The land where even sunlight would not shine.
The Light’s work had been done regardless; the Crusade marched onward, past the ever menacing gates of Icecrown, until the sound of Fordring’s voice echoed in the very halls of the Lich King. It echoed past the chambers of plague and blood, past the reanimated dead and willful, fanatic living, past the screams of Bolvar Fordragon and the screeching of frostwyrm and Val’kyr, until it reached the very halls of the Frozen Throne. And they had been victorious at the end.
The Lich King fell, but with such a terrible price as to be almost immesurable.
Aely walked, rather resolutely, past the gathering throng of people waiting outside and back to her tent on the Crusade grounds, ignoring the ever-increasing shouts and whoops of victory.
Not far behind, Arrens tried to trace her path, pushing his way through mobs of celebrating men and women and families searching for their loved ones in the crowd. He had seen Aely storm from the keep doors and tried to get her attention, but the loud, unruly crowd had kept her from seeing him.
Once he reached the bottom, however, she was gone.
He raced towards where he had last seen her and found an injured soldier sitting on the frozen ground surrounding the tents. Hurriedly, Arrens asked, “Excuse me. I’m looking for Aely Larsdottir. Do you know where her tent’s located?” The soldier never bothered to look up and instead flicked his thumb behind him in the direction of several dozen tents.
Arrens raced passed him, asking anyone and everyone where Aely’s tent was. At last, a bloodied, grizzled-looking Dwarf had an answer.
“Ye be lookin’ fer Dame Larsdottir, she’s like ta be o’er ‘n tha’ tent, lad,” he said, pointing towards a tent on the edge of the Crusader’s medic camp.
Thanking him profusely, Arrens got there just in time to hear the clattering of metal on metal. Fearing the worst, he yanked the flap of the tent open, only to have her sword come clattering to a stop at his feet, surrounded by a pile of hastily discarded armor. Her hands were badly scratched and bloody, and she’d picked up a nasty gash on her forehead but was otherwise whole. Relieved, he pulled her gently in against his chest. He whispered softly as he ran his hands over her hair, pushing it out of her face. “It’s over my love. It’s over.”
She leaned against him. “I ken. I saw. ‘s just… na real yet.”
- Godmodding and Griefing (116)
- On Privacy, Real ID’s and Roleplay (49)
- XX and XY in RP (47)
- Population Disparity (34)
- Tanking Perceptions (33)