KABOOM! THWUMP! BOOM! The explosions of artillery shells, which had moments ago been a symphony of destruction, fizzled out like a damp firework display, leaving behind only the ringing in everyone's ears and the faint smell of singed eyebrows. The siege weapons of both sides, seemingly exhausted by their own dramatic flair, ceased their incessant pounding.
"VARIAN!" Arthas bellowed, his voice cutting through the lingering smoke like a freshly sharpened blade. "Blackmoore's toast! And by 'toast,' I mean he's utterly, gloriously, irredeemably screwed!"
The relationship between Varian and Arthas, forged in years of shared battles, questionable tavern brawls, and a mutual hatred for anyone who dared to suggest 'sensible' battle plans, was tighter than a dwarf's purse strings. Varian instantly understood what Arthas meant. The Menethil family's grudge against Blackmoore wasn't just a grudge; it was a deeply ingrained, multi-generational, 'we're-going-to-carve-our-names-into-your-skull-with-a-rusty-spoon' kind of hatred. Because of this humiliation, Arthas had paid in blood, sweat, and an alarming number of therapy sessions for the sheer indignity of it all. It was also because of a belief – a stubborn, unshakeable belief that he was destined for greatness, and Blackmoore was merely a speed bump – that made him so strong.
"FORMATION!" Varian roared, drawing his gleaming Stormwind Royal Greatsword with a flourish that could impress even the most jaded of battle-hardened veterans. "Let's move forward as a whole! Lordaeron is ours! And by 'ours,' I mean ours, not that greasy usurper's!"
WOOOOOSH! The trumpets blared, a sound so inspiring it could make a dead man tap his foot and a goblin spontaneously combust with patriotic fervor. Amidst the inspiring cacophony, the warriors of the Seventh Legion, a sea of gleaming blue armor and suspiciously polished golden lion-head shields, formed formations so neat you could eat your dinner off them. They advanced with the stately, terrifying grace of a very large, very angry, very organized brick wall, slowly but inexorably towards the city wall!
Blackmoore, perched atop the crumbling ramparts like a particularly disgruntled gargoyle, watched the approaching enemy with eyes that promised vengeance and a very bad day for someone. He snatched a longbow from a bewildered grunt. "Give me that, you oaf!" he probably snarled, before letting fly an arrow with the precision of a drunken dart player. "SHOOT! For the love of all that's unholy, SHOOT! Are you trying to get us all repossessed by the royal treasury?!"
The other soldiers, spurred by their king's increasingly unhinged demeanor, immediately launched a counterattack. For a moment, the air was filled with a furious, whistling symphony of impending doom as arrows rained down from the top of the city wall!
"Hmph! Raise your shield!" Arthas, marching behind the advancing tide of blue, merely scoffed. "Shields up, you magnificent bastards! Unless you fancy a new, arrow-based piercing, of course!" He gave orders, and the soldiers continued their advance, their shields held high like very sturdy, very determined umbrellas.
"Musketeers! Let's give these overgrown pigeons a taste of dwarven ingenuity and gunpowder!" As Arthas spoke, from the gaps in the advancing blue wall, a gaggle of stout, grumbling dwarf musketeers waddled forth, their blunderbusses looking suspiciously oversized. They aimed, fired a thunderous volley that sounded like a dragon clearing its throat, and then, with practiced efficiency, waddled back to reload, muttering about the lack of decent ale in wartime.
After marching for a while, they approached the largest collapsed part of the city wall – a gaping maw where the city wall had decided to take an unscheduled nap. Blackmoore's soldiers were already guarding the gap, looking less than thrilled about their current career choices.
"CHARGE! WARRIORS OF STORMWIND!" Arthas, practically glowing with the ancestral Menethil 'don't-you-dare-cross-me' power, burst forth like a particularly well-aimed cannonball. "For Stormwind! For glory! And for the sheer satisfaction of wiping that smug look off Blackmoore's face!" The warriors of the Seventh Legion followed closely, a roaring wave of blue and gold.
"DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!" Blackmoore's diehard fan and his kingdom's marshal, Skarlock – a man whose loyalty was as unwavering as his unfortunate Mediterranean hairstyle – roared, brandishing a surprisingly clean axe. "Not on my watch, princeling! Not while I still have a pulse and a perfectly good set of armor to dent!"
The blue tide of righteous fury crashed head-on into the black wall of desperate villainy. The air instantly filled with the clang of steel, the grunt of effort, and the occasional, highly undignified squeal as a fierce fight erupted immediately!
BANG! In a whirlwind of steel and righteous indignation, Arthas, with a swing that would make a blacksmith weep with joy, introduced Skarlock's Mediterranean hairstyle to the business end of his warhammer. The marshal's last thought was probably, 'Well, there goes my hair gel.' Arthas then proceeded to carve a path through the enemy lines like a very angry, very efficient lawnmower, successfully entering the city with his soldiers!
Looking at the Storm Kingdom soldiers who kept rushing in from the gap in the city wall, Blackmoore's eyes, already a shade of 'I haven't slept in three days and I'm fueled by pure spite,' turned a furious, arterial red. His anger, a tangible, noxious cloud, began to coalesce around him, making the very air crackle with villainous static.
"AHA! DAMN IT ALL TO THE VOID! LORDAERON IS MINE! YOU HEAR ME?! MINE! I'VE GOT THE DEEDS, THE TAX RECORDS, AND A VERY IMPRESSIVE THRONE!" he shrieked, a sound that could curdle milk and shatter glass. Blackmoore wielded a greatsword that looked suspiciously like it had been designed for a small, angry giant, not a man of Blackmoore's... stature. He charged, a furious, flailing blur of black armor, at the nearest bewildered Seventh Legionnaire. His strength, clearly fueled by pure, unadulterated rage and perhaps a few too many questionable energy drinks, was truly superhuman! The giant sword flashed as it was swung, and a formation of elite soldiers fell like bowling pins in a particularly aggressive game, or perhaps very unfortunate melons and vegetables in a maniacal chef's kitchen.
The sight of their deranged king, flailing a sword the size of a small tree, somehow galvanized his troops. "For the King!" they roared, "For Blackmoore! For the guy who pays us slightly better than the other guy!" These soldiers all started out as Blackmoore's subordinates and had been trained continuously; Blackmoore was their pillar and belief, however misguided.
Faced with the sudden, desperate counterattack from the defenders, the soldiers of the Seventh Legion suffered heavy casualties! This particular iteration of the Seventh Legion, bless their earnest hearts, hadn't yet been through the cosmic wringer. They hadn't faced down mountain-sized demons, exterminated intergalactic bug armies, or even negotiated a reasonable price for a hero's feast. They were, in essence, still in the 'training montage' phase of their heroic journey, and it showed.
"Humph!" Arthas, having just dispatched a particularly stubborn marshal, scoffed again. Today, he felt like he could arm-wrestle a mountain and win! Or at least, convince it to concede gracefully! "Holy Light! Please give me strength!" Arthas raised his warhammer, a beacon of shiny righteousness, to the heavens. "Oh, Holy Light!" he boomed, with just the right amount of dramatic flair. "Please, for the love of all that is good and sparkly, lend me a hand! Or, you know, a full-body power-up!"
KRA-THUMP! A pillar of blinding, glorious golden light descended from the heavens, landing with pinpoint accuracy directly on Arthas. He probably felt like he'd just won the cosmic lottery. Arthas beamed, practically preening. "See?!" he thought, probably a little too loudly. "I told you the Holy Light had a favorite! And it's me!"
"WAKE UP! MY WARRIORS! THE HOLY LIGHT HAS SENT US A DISCOUNT ON PAIN RELIEF!" he roared. The Holy Light, clearly impressed by Arthas's dramatic prayer, decided to go all out. He became less a prince and more a walking, talking, utterly fabulous Holy Light disco ball, spewing golden energy in every direction! Golden holy light rained down like divine glitter, washing over the battered Seventh Legionnaires. Wounds knitted themselves shut, exhaustion evaporated, and even the most severely 'melon-and-vegetable-d' soldiers sprang back up, looking mildly annoyed but significantly less dead.
"EVERYONE! UNITE! FOR VICTORY! AND PERHAPS A WELL-DESERVED NAP AFTER ALL THIS!" The inspired soldiers were full of fighting spirit. They raised their weapons and charged again! "For His Highness Arthas!" "For the glory of Menethil!" "For the sheer novelty of not being dead! ATTACK!"
Blackmoore watched this utterly unfair display, his jaw hanging open like a broken gate. His heart, already a shriveled prune of pure spite, shriveled even further with a fresh wave of incandescent resentment. "That's just cheating!" he probably whined internally. "KILL THEM ALL! AND SOMEONE GET ME A HOLY LIGHT-PROOF UMBRELLA!" Under his leadership, the black-armored soldiers belonging to Blackmoore's side also launched a charge!
BANG! The two groups slammed into each other again, a chaotic symphony of clashing steel and desperate shouts, punctuated by the occasional 'Oof!' and 'My shin!'
Arthas, now practically radiating pure, unadulterated awesome, held the Hammer of Menethil's Might in one hand and raised the other high, channeling the Holy Light with the casual confidence of a seasoned barista pouring latte art. Golden energy shot into the sky, then cascaded down like a divine, sparkly fountain. He absolutely loved this feeling. This feeling of being the Holy Light's favorite, its golden child, its personal celestial spotlight recipient.
And then, just as he was basking in his own gloriousness, a sensation crawled up his spine that felt suspiciously like a spider wearing tiny, tap-dancing shoes. His scalp tingled, a sure sign that something sneaky was afoot. Years of rigorous training – and perhaps a few too many close calls with rogue pastries – allowed Arthas to spin faster than a goblin on a sugar rush. He whipped up the Hammer of Menethil, just in time to deflect a shadowy, sudden attack.
Blackmoore! The audacity! A king, for crying out loud, resorting to stealth tactics? What was next, poisoned teacups and booby-trapped thrones? The man had no sense of regal decorum!
"You damn rat!" Arthas snarled. "You don't deserve this crown! You don't even deserve a decent pair of socks!"
Blackmoore, whose 'long-planned sneak attack' had clearly involved a lot of dramatic lurking and not enough actual combat assessment, gaped. He had severely underestimated Arthas's ability to glow and hit things. He then executed a surprisingly agile combat roll, a maneuver usually reserved for acrobats or very confused squirrels, finally neutralizing the force of the hammer blow.
"In your eyes, I am a thief, am I not?" Blackmoore scrambled back, regaining his footing. He sneered, though his voice had a distinct tremor of 'oh-crap-he's-glowing-now' in it. Blackmoore, now looking less like a king and more like a very angry, very shiny, very desperate wielder of an oversized butter knife, regrouped. He brandished his greatsword, putting every ounce of his villainous might into another attack.
Arthas, regrettably, had to pause his Holy Light fountain show to deal with the persistent nuisance of Blackmoore. He adopted a serious expression, which, on Arthas, usually meant 'I'm about to hit something very hard.' Arthas gritted his teeth, his eyes darting like a caffeinated hummingbird, trying to track the greatsword's trajectory. 'Powerful!' he thought, grudgingly impressed. 'Who knew that the kingdom's most notorious drunkard and general ne'er-do-well would suddenly transform into a beefed-up, orc-slaying menace? It's almost as if he's been secretly working out... or possessed by a very angry demon!'
'Holy Light!' Arthas pleaded inwardly, perhaps a little desperately. 'Look, I know I just asked for a power-up, but this guy's really pushing it! A little extra oomph would be greatly appreciated! And maybe a distraction for his giant sword!'
KA-POW! The Holy Light, clearly enjoying the show, responded with the theatricality Arthas had come to expect. A pair of magnificent, shimmering golden wings erupted from his back, looking like they'd been fashioned by a very enthusiastic celestial fashion designer. Arthas practically vibrated with delight. Every ache, every bruise, every minor indignity inflicted by Blackmoore's flailing sword vanished as the Holy Light surged through him. It felt like a warm, comforting, yet incredibly potent energy drink, flowing through his veins, making his muscles hum with newfound power and his limbs feel like they could dance a jig while simultaneously delivering a crushing blow.
With the Holy Light now actively cheering him on (or at least, making him significantly more capable), Arthas began to relentlessly, gloriously, and quite humorously gain the upper hand. He didn't even need to think; his warhammer seemed to move on its own, guided by years of muscle memory and the Holy Light's divine suggestion box. He swung, he bashed, he hammered Blackmoore with the relentless efficiency of a very determined, very shiny, very angry human-shaped battering ram.
Finally, Blackmoore, looking utterly horrified, like he'd just seen his favorite villainous monologue interrupted by a singing telegram, leaped back. He cowered into a defensive stance, his oversized greatsword held in front of him like a very inadequate security blanket.