- --by Lilithia
Arnathy looked to the ground in horror, staring at the pile of charred plate armour that lay where his friend once stood. He rose his sword into the air and shouted his battle cry. "For Lordaeron!" He charged toward the black cloaked figure, unsure--perhaps uncaring--of his own fate.
As Arnathy moved foward a small flame gathered in his opponent's hand. Twenty paces from his enemy--the figure extended its hand and the flame vanished. Ten paces--the guard pulled his sword back and to his side, preparing to cleave the witch in two. Two paces--Arnathy dropped his sword and fell to his knees.
He tried to scream, but could only release a hoarse moan. A thousand knives began slicing and stabbing within his chest. In his mind Arnathy wailed in pain and terror as the first flames began to erupt through his flesh. There he burned on his knees with his face to the sky, the flames rising high and licking the air like that of a grim candle, until all that remained of the man was a few scraps of his armour.
The witch grinned from under its cloak. Two red eyes rose and looked to the market district ahead. Lordaeron would give mass to the Lich King this day, and there were many more candles to burn.