Kris Kringle: A Visit in Fiction from TyphoonAndrew

As part of the Blog Azeroth Kris Kringle, a shared posting event – I’m very humbly submitting this short fiction for consideration on Ambermist’s BattleChicken blog. This fiction is in a different style to BattleChicken’s work, but it is at least a fictional story rather than my typical wow rant about pugs, Death Knights, and gear upgrades.

TyphoonAndrew

Large hands lifted the last frozen stones into place, completing the cairn of the most recently slain. Stretching backward, Mortigen rubbed his sore back and strained forearms; then reached for his helm and gauntlets which were discarded hours ago when the battle ended and the dead needed burying. He was tired and starting to feel the cold. Northrend was a cruel home.

The recent battle had thankfully been brief and viciously one sided. The Alliance force had no idea the cohort was waiting for them, and like most groups of inexperienced soldiers, they had not listened to their commanders and had been easily overcome. After the killing was finished and the valuables retrieved, most the cohort had moved onward to {fancyname spire}, ending their patrol for the evening. Those few that remained mainly stayed because they were too recently joined the cohort’s ranks, and had yet to learn that some of the behavior of their commander was ill-received by their superiors.

As they had parted, a young blood elf archer watched the gap between the commander and his departing troops widen, his face clearly showing his confusion on which direction was the proper path.

“Make your choice Sirfyr. They go to bathe in the pools of The Deathbringer. I stay to ensure our recent enemies a better grave than frozen rain.”

Sirfyr looked quickly across the small pass, smiled weakly; then turned to join his departing comrades. Mortigen began to bury the dead, garnishing hard looks and blunt mutterings from the victors.

“Even in undeath the Blood Elf charm perseveres.”

He thought back to his first battles in Northrend and pondered that even his old commanders had taken no real effort to respect the fallen. Human, dwarf, gnome, and night elf had all been left as food and fodder for the wretched northern denizens. Even as a Draenei Warrior many years ago the thought of disrespecting the dead was distasteful, but only a few Draenei had made special effort to see their own kind well entombed, and somehow over those first few short years of the campaign against Arthas the moral had stuck.

Now the same denizens were remade as pets, Arthas was now his master, and the faces of his lost companions were mirrored in the faces of the freezing dead. The thought of everlasting life that was once a sweet daydream, now made real in service to the Lich King, had become a month by month sentence without escape.

Looking back onto the red stained ice field, Mortigen reached into his well of burning energy and called forth his charger. As the incantation ended the scraps of flesh and bone from around the field swirled, mixing with the frozen sleet. Within moments a mount reminiscent of his charger but so unlike any  natural gryphon scratched the wintered earth.

Mortigen walked toward the gathered bones, silently thankful that putrescence was stalled by the ice, and speaking out loud to himself,  “At least the Ebon hold will stop the damned chill wind”.

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As part of the Kris Kringle project over at BlogAzeroth, TyphoonAndrew caught wind of my propensity to write fanfiction pieces of ridiculous lengths, and graced my page with his own piece.  Job well done; thank you Andrew!

P.S.  Your comment about PuGs reminded me of this (I highly recommend clicking on the link so you can see it and the other two versions in their full size):