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Stratholme. Ah, how he loved this city in the spring.

The sun peeked over the horizon just as Tres'thar Lightstrider awoke next to his loving wife. He sat up, breathing in deeply the fresh morning air. Peering out his window, he could see it, there, on the horizon. Stratholme. What a beautiful city it was. By the light, this was the day they received a visit from Prince Arthas Menethil himself. He must get ready, must look his best for the prince.

Naturally, being a priest of The Argent Dawn meant that Tres'thar needed to awaken bright and early each morning, to give a sermon at his local chapel, and heal those that needed it, should that need arise. A heated bath, a fresh robe, and a breakfast of eggs and various fruits assured that the priest would have yet another lovely day. His wife was waiting to kiss him goodbye, and wish him luck on his sermon. Surely nothing could go wrong today.

Upon arriving at his chapel, the priest could immediately tell something was wrong. The grain shipment had arrived the day prior and something seemed...off about it. An odd smell in the air. When he arrived inside, most of his audience seemed far too sickly to even stand to greet him. Unsure of what to do, he arrived at his podium and began his sermon.

“Brothers and Sisters, let us rejoice, in the grace of the light. Let us bask in its' glow, so that we may--”. He was cut short by a loud hacking in the back row. Let's try this again. “So that we may be given sight to understand the mistakes of others, and the mistakes of ourselves. Let us revel in its' glory, so that we may be guided through dark times, and times of peril or stri--” More hacking. More coughing. This was getting a bit much. He stepped down from his podium, and walked towards the crowd. “Is there a bit of a sickness going around, brothers and sisters?” Most of the crowd nodded, with an occasional weak or stifled 'yes' coming from somewhere within the walls. “Well then. Let me see what I can do to help.”

Tres'thar Lightstrider was not prepared for what this day would bring. He walked slowly to the first man to cough, who had begun coughing again. He sat next to the man and smiled his warm, priestly smile. “Come, brother. Let me look upon you, that I may help.” The man turned his head, and he couldn't help it. That ever so practiced priest let out a yelp, and jumped from his seat, backing up. “By...by the light!” The man's face was beginning to rot, his eyes rolled back in his skull. He got to his feet and started hobbling towards the priest.

At that moment, the other coughing guest stood up, the same look about her. Then another, and another. Nearly half the congregation appeared afflicted with this...sickness, then. “Everybody, get towards the door! Exit the chapel! Run!” He stayed behind, putting up a barrier of a sort of light magic to keep the afflicted at bay. Once everyone else was gone, he let loose his barrier, and ran to the door.

As he was about to grab the handle, it flew open. And there, in his Silver and Blue armor, stood Arthas Menethil. Prince of Lordaeron and Knight of the Silver Hand. And there he was, bashing in the face of a member of Tres'thar's congregation with a bloody warhammer. “What in the world!” He had forgotten himself. This was a prince, and a paladin. He knelt down. And was quickly brought back to his feet. “Get up! And ready your holy magics, priest. You're coming with me.”

In absolute awe, the priest of the argent dawn stepped out of his chapel, to witness the horror that was going on around him. That's when he spotted them, but only a glimmer, for naught but a second. His wife and Daughter, in the crowd. He began to rush to them, but his shoulder was grabbed by an armored hand. “They're gone, man. All of them. Come on!” The prince practically had to drag him, but he went along. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, threatening to make him seem less a man. He pushed them back, fought them as the soldiers around him were fighting these...monstrosities.

Suddenly, an unknown force threatened to tug his long ear right off his head. He looked up. “What....what the fel?!” Some kind of flying gargoyle creature had attached itself to the Quel'dorei's ear, yanking, and gnawing, and tugging. The man closed his eyes and sent a bolt of holy energy straight for the thing. It was torn completely in half, dropped limp to the ground, and his ear was free once more. “This cannot be...happening, what in...Prince Arthas!” He jogged to catch up to the paladin. “What's going on?”

The Prince kept his gaze straight forward, not bothering to look at this little elven insect that asked him a question. Though he did, at least, answer. “Grain's been infected by a demonic influence, elf. The whole city's susceptible, save people like us, who have control of holy magic. Which is why we need every last one of you. The knights of the silver hand will be on their way shortly, and—ah. Here he is now.”

Uther...Lightbringer. He knelt once more, his body practically trembling. Then he heard the bickering. He didn't hear much, over the sound of the town in utter shambles. But what he did here was a plea...sounded like a female voice. And shouting, so much shouting. He...what? Disbanded the knights of the silver hand? Why would he do that...

When the high elf stood once more, the paladin and a woman were leaving. Could that have been Miss Proudmoore? Hard to say. Regardless, what happened next would affect the rest of this priest's life. What remained of it anyway. Arthas gave the order to enter the town, Tres'thar was dragged along in the front lines.

Arthas ordered the extermination of the city's people. Tres'thar was dragged along in the front lines.

Then he heard it, that scream. He knew that voice. They were so deep in to the city already, she wouldn't have...but she did. The man turned, and saw his wife and daughter before him, running to him. He ran to them as well, his arms outstretched as if to try and lie to them, tell them it was okay. He embraced them...a moment too late. As his hands reached their backs, he felt a wet substance...and a shaft of wood. No. No, this can't be...this can't be happening.

He looked up, and saw the archer that had loosed the arrows, drawing another one and aiming it at yet another citizen. With his family dying in his arms, it was all the Quel'dorei priest could do to scream. And scream, and scream, and scream, until there was no voice left in him. He loosed a bolt of holy magic at the archer, and managed one final sentence. “They were, not, DEAD!” The bolt struck the archer in the throat and seemed to wrap around him. Tres'thar held his hand there, unsure of what was happening. But then he realized, he was controlling the pressure. He clamped down, until he felt that invisible little snap. Then released. The archer slumped in to a heap of flesh and bone on the pavement.

He couldn't help it anymore. The tears flowed from him like the death that flowed through the town. Looking upon his once happy family, torn from him so quickly, he couldn't help but feel a deep sense of loss. And a stronger lust for revenge. He dropped the bodies where they laid, and closed their eyes. The last he saw of his family, he had cast a spell over them, to protect their remains from the gnawing teeth of the undead horde that he now understood was flowing through the city.

He had had enough. Grabbing up a mace dropped by a dead soldier, he made his way back to the front lines, next to the prince. Caving in skulls, burning the dead with his magics, none of this could assuage his hatred. But he had to try. Eventually, they reached the spot where it was clear the demonic lord causing this corruption waited. He was so large, with such large...black...wings.

It was hard for this poor priest to remember, after that. But the story must be told.

Mal'Ganis, was the demon's name. The dreadlord that had caused the culling. He saw the prince, and his ragged band of followers, knights, priests, and paladins alike, all eyes on the dreadlord. All. Eyes. Thus, it was too late to notice the parade of demonic forces encroaching behind them. Tres'thar was hit in the back by a bolt of shadow magic. A trained eye could notice the color of his eyes flicker. He turned around, and threw up a shield of holy power, just as a veritable volley of shadow magics came flying at him. It was too much.

Rather than protecting him, his holy shield, under such strain, began absorbing the fel magics in to his body. His eyes turned a sickly green color, and his skin contorted. Pale, ashy. He fell then, cold, dead, his eyes burning that bright green, and his body preserved, as his holy magics formed a sort of cocoon around him.

Dirt. Why is there so much dirt?

What was that? Worms? Maggots. Why?

What is this place?

* Crunch *

What was that noise? What...

* Crunch *

Is that...light? Daylight? How can it be

* Crunch. *

At that, a skeletal hand reached through the dirt and yanked this bloody elf out of the ground. How long was he out? By the light, it felt like years. His body ached, and creaked. Shaking his head, Tres'thar looked around. Stratholme.

He loved this city in the spring.

((More will come when I get a chance to type it up. Until then, any thoughts are certainly appreciated.))

They won't accept you like this.

Stop it.

You're malformed. A monster.

Please.

Your only purpose now...is to serve me...in death.

He couldn't help it. The green eyed elf looked up from the boots he had been staring at. Past those horrendous Blackened legplates. The chest guard, and the spaulders that looked liked they were made of skulls. He looked in to the eyes of evil that day, yet he knew them. They were the eyes of a prince. The eyes of a paladin.

The eyes of a kinslayer. Apparently, Tres'thar had missed quite a bit, while he was buried in that mass grave on the outskirts of Stratholme. The prince took a trip to Northrend, in search of the demon that attacked Stratholme. While there, he found a sword. Frostmourne, it was. The king, Terenis Menethil, was killed. Slaughtered, by his own son. Lordaeron was in ruins, now occupied by a splinter group of undead calling themselves the Forsaken. If his holy magics hadn't preserved him, he might be counting himself among their numbers at this moment.

Instead, he was raised, not as forsaken, but as a death knight, in service to this Prince. This boy calling himself a lich king.

His eyes, which were once a majestic blue coloring, now had a dark green tint to them. Of course, that was hard to see behind the icy blue glow that undeath had given them. When he dared to speak, his voice rang with a distant echo.

Closed off from his peers, both by his eye color, and his status in undeath, Tres'thar was just beginning his training, in the ebon hold of Acherus.

Evidently, when he was raised, the magics used to bind him were of a frost nature. His entire being was always cold. He could not assuage it. He gave off an air of winter, his very skin icy to the touch. His heart still beat, though very, very slowly.

He continued staring into the eyes of this lich king, unable to blink. Unable to look away.

Your old name, holds no meaning to you now. You are no longer a priest of the Argent Dawn. You serve me, and only me, as a death knight of the scourge. You will, henceforth, respond to the title Fastice. And Fastice only.

"Yes...my master." He wanted to resist. He wanted to run, but he knew he would be punished. He couldn't do this, he couldn't...be...this. But he had to. He didn't remember any prayers, any spells, any hymns. Just him and his sword now. But...maybe that was for the best. Maybe he needed this fresh start. After seeing what happened to his wife and child...

He stood up, and returned to the training grounds. While he was there, he came across an elf, looking very similar to him. He nodded at the man, and the man yanked him aside by an arm.

"The name's Illithan. In here, they call me Deathrot." He waved his hands over his eyes, the blue hue from them disappearing in a flash. "I'm a paladin of the Argent Dawn. And I remember you. Tres'thar Lightstrider. I did not expect to see you here, but honestly...I could use the help." He waved his hand over his eyes again, the tint disappearing.

"What..." Before he could finish his thought, the man was long gone. He did not remember any Illithan. How could a paladin have gotten in to the Ebon Hold? Where...was the ebon hold?

"I ought to tell...somebody." He sighed, shrugging. He didn't care. If they found out he was keeping secrets, they'd kill him. They've already done so much worse by bringing him back.