Her features were hard as steel as she offered the golden blades of Scourgebane. The hilts were formed together by ancient magics and by the wielders will could they be separated into the deadly duel blades. "Reforge my blades, make them stronger so that they do not shatter. He cannot stand against the both of us." For reasons of her own she wanted revenge against the fallen prince. Even if she had to fight along side a demon and vile Naga. "We will make him pay." - Finnall
The deathly winds of Northrend howled just outside, battering the roof of the tent they inhabited. Not much could the engineers salvage in this barren wasteland, but what they did, they had the essence of magic to their advantage--and with Illidan Stormrage and Lady Vashj’s minions as support, what could that bastard prince ever raise in comparison?
He reached for the blade of Finnall Goldensword and examined it, just as he had done in a time long gone. He knew the half-elven warrior to be the daughter of Daelin Proudmoore and a respectable elven woman of the Kirin Tor. Finnall could use magic herself, but her prowess lie in swordsmanship, a feat of strength he knew all too well himself. He glanced over a moment at his own sword--his prized family’s heirloom, Felo’melorn--secured on the table behind the woman. The runes etched on the blade burned with scorching intensity, no longer broken and as lifeless as the body he found it on.
Felo’melorn traveled with the elven prince ever since, resting on a table in his own quarters. Idealistic dreams of long ago turned to haunting nightmares of what could have been had he been there. What was worse--actually being there or the images of elves dying to the Scourge and subsequently raised in undeath? The last word used to chill him to the bone. He’d gotten his own taste of fighting liches, abominations, and ghouls with the invasion of Lordaeron and the remnants of Dalaran.
No. He could care less about what the humans did now that his people were on the brink of extermination, but this woman was, in part, an indirect link to them. She’d proven to be a formidable soldier in his ranks, standing for the elven half of her heritage and for that, he respected, even shared, her desire for vengeance. He assumed she had made this very request after hearing of Felo’melorn’s successful reforging.
He recounted his dreams and events on parchment stashed away in his personal accounts. He wrote at the dead of night, long after the shouting orders of his lieutenants training troops had died down, after servants tended to his needs, after battle plans with Stormrage had concluded, after blowing out the fires of his camp before bed. He’d brought the blade to a descendant of the legendary Highborne magesmith, Luminarian, who originally forged the blade for Dath’Remar Sunstrider. His personal request, he wrote, was not one of selfish gain, but to reforge the blade as a beacon of hope for the Sin’dorei, to remind them they would never be broken.
Grief came to him in those times when he was finally by himself, but with it came an emotion more fulfilling than the gnawing pang of guilt and sorrow.
It came so easily to him that sometimes it startled him and made him think of what he might become. The hunger that slowly coursed through his veins reminded Kael’thas with every breath that he would press on in the name of justice for the sin’dorei. He would use whatever power to crush Arthas’s army before it ever began.
“Yes, we will,” he said, turning his attention back to her. At last, he took the sword in his hands. As he examined with steady fire in his eyes, he felt the ancient, arcanic floes of the blade call to him, his fingertips shimmering with their glow. “It will be made stronger, friend,” he said with a firm sense of authority that overshadowed his usually soft-spoken manner that Finnall could almost wonder if he giving a leader’s speech or a friend’s comfort--though the genuity was there. “I promise you. We will have our salvation.”
