World of Warcraft Anthology

Fall of Lordearon

Krista Lionren

Year 20

A once great man, flawed yes, but great at his heart. And yet such a fragile heart it was. Prince Arthas Menethil, son of King Terenis Menethil, had returned home after being away for so long. His people gathered in the cobblestone streets of Lordaeron and celebrated his grand return. One such person was Krista Lionren, a young, bright-eyed girl who was only 12. She hooped and hollered like the rest at the sight of the armor-clad men. Suddenly, a firm and large hand rested gently on her shoulder and she looked up to see the pale broad face of her father, Anthor. He was bald, with a mighty full beard of ginger color, and with strong, sharp brown eyes and full lips.

"F-father? What's the matter?" Asked the youthful girl.

"Do you see it?" Came the strong, firm voice of her father, yet Krista did not know if it was directed at her, or her mother, who stood beside Anthor.

Terra Lionren, Krista's mother, was a slender woman of pale skin as well, with bright blonde hair that came down to her mid-back, and soft fair features though a few crinkles around her eyes showed her age of 36, only four years younger than her husband.

"I mean it's understandable right? It was a long excursion. And if the stories are true, a terrible one." Came the soft, warm voice of her mother.

"No, it's more than that, love. Something is amiss, the light it's..." Her father's voice raised small red flags in Krista's mind. What was wrong? Everything should be okay, right? Krista ... wasn't the brightest candle in the hall, even for her age her mother would chastisingly call her oblivious or tell her she was far too trusting. And her father, though rarely ever critical of her, did say she could always benefit from giving things a second look. One where she wasn't caught up in the sounds and activities around her. And so she did. The young girl looked past the two people in front of her and again looked at the entourage. Something was a little strange. Arthas, the prince, was cloaked, and long strands of sickly grey hair dangled lifelessly out of his hood. His armor was dreadful... just the sight of it instantly made her think of death. A dark purple cape draped over the cobblestone street, with large, drab grey pauldrons with skulls carved into them, and dark plating covered him with a skull buckling the belt of his armor. And he didn't move at what she first took to be wearily, but more... angrily? Broodingly. That was the word mother used to describe father when he was silent and irritable. As if the people around him, as if his very home, were a nuisance.

"Gone? What do you mean by gone?" Her mother asked, the world around Krista suddenly coming back to her.

"I... I think it has abandoned him. It seems to recoil at the very sight of him." Replied her father. Suddenly, her father's hand engulfed Krista's wrist and gently, yet insistently tugged her away.

Krista did not question her father this time. She already knew why he was taking his family away, and why she began to see small pockets of people doing the same. Like her, they had also taken a second, closer look at their dear prince and found that he was no longer such a man. And deep down, she wondered if they also felt that something very terrible was coming.

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It was not more than a few minutes down what were now mostly empty main streets that Kirsta was washed with a very sudden, bone-chilling cold, which came from behind her, back toward the celebration. She froze. Her father, not wanting to hurt his daughter, stopped rather than yanking her along.

"Kirista? What is wrong?" He asked.

"Father... do you..." She couldn't speak. She felt a dreadful fear clench her small heart. Her father stepped toward her and stopped when he heard it too. The cheering had stopped. Only a whistling of the wind which Kirsta in her fear-addled mind, which was gripped with paranoia could have sworn sounded oddly like a scream could be heard.