The fall of Ephitos and the rise of a new leader.
They stood facing each other in the empty Stratholme, the fighting of the undead and
the argents had been fierce in another part of the city. This was a very important moment
for every single denizen of the titan created world named Azeroth. The Scourgelord had felt his presence
for quite some time yet had not realized until it was to late. This was one of the last remaining actual Lich's
selected from Scholomance and trained endlessly in necromancy, shadow magic and frost magic.
This Lich has been sent to replace me the Scourgelord thought, he was right. Bringing his weapon from the shadow realm
he allowed the souls he gathered, the power he stole, the misery he brought, to flow into the Lich forcing him to collapse to the floor.
As the flow of years, power, feelings and amongst other things decisive attitude poured into the Lich he understood. The blade had been a conduit, but he had not known that.
The spiral of crimson, blue, black and diverse magic's flowed from the very soul of the Scourgelord, into the blade and into the Lich. As Sytherius grew weaker the
Lich grew stronger, the green eyes began to dim as he slowly fell to his knees letting the Blade slide from his hands.
As the Scourgelord slowly crumpled to the floor the Lich stood, the aura of death around him. He had ascended, been elevated, his head was blank. The thoughts, ideas, images, everything the Scourgelord felt, knew, understood was now inside him. He was in a way, the Scourgelord. Flexing his hands and feeling, new. He began to think of the Undead. Would they serve him, or would they have to be recreated to serve the purposes which he had for them. As he thought, a powerful emotion struck him, it was not his own but that of the Scourgelord. It was a deep and powerful sorrow combined with remorse. This was fate, the Scourgelord was weak, he was not.
Grinning madly the Lich thought of any Undead close by, and at his own thoughts ghouls, zombies, and an abomination came lumbering towards them, staring at him,
their wills were combined, nothing more. As the undead continued to move they stopped, the Lich suddenly froze over, ready to protect himself from the possible
hostile Undead that had once served the Scourgelord. The body of the Scourgelord lay there, unmoving, destroyed, weak. As soon as the Lich thought it, the Undead were upon him, destroying the corpse, rubbing it out from existence.
The time for a new era had come, grinning wickedly he began to cast as skeletons rose by his side. Now he had others to conquer, the Scourge Commander, the others.
He had to do this quickly or the Scourge would fracture and he would lose all control - He could not allow this to happen, he had plans to throw quickly into action.
The plague must be created and used, the world must crumble and the Dark Lords will be done.
The Scourgelord had fallen to personal power-mongering with the local factions and actually -allying- himself to other cults. The Scourge, allies, itself to none.
Compromise is for the weak, alliances for the pathetic. Undeath shall be granted to the living and when it comes the Scourge will rise again.
The Lich stood alone at the head of the remains of the Scourgelord, kneeling down he ripped his armour off piece by piece smashing it in half with shadow bolts. Throwing the pieces into different directions he had an idea, the past is over. The future is upon us. Converting those who served Sytherius shall be a task, but one of many.
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