Only a student… (RP)

In the Alliance stronghold of Wintergarde Keep, Commander Eligor Dawnbringer educates Alliance adventurers about the many bosses of Naxxramas. About Instructor Razuvious, he has this to say:

“Pay attention. This is Instructor Razuvious, Kel’Thuzad’s appointed trainer of all death knights. It is said that his own technique is so potent, only a disciple of his could possibly withstand his might.”

Due to neglecting my RSS reader, I hadn’t seen Anna’s Friday 500: To Battle!, but when I did, it struck me as the perfect opportunity to imagine a meeting between master and student. At least, I’m imagining it – to poor Zulfon, it’s life or death. Also: 500 words is kind of hard – I had to keep finding words to remove… sorry ‘bout the actual story, I don’t do this kind of thing too often!

CLANG! Ancient runeblade strikes emblazoned polearm, parrying again and again. My arms are growing tired, but I cannot show him that.

I MUST not show him that.

"You disappoint me, student!" he yells, his voice resounding off the walls of the dread citadel. "I trained you myself, and for what – for this? For betrayal?" He lifted his blade again, swinging down like an executioner. This time I moved, a quick roll, lest I be split in two.

"T’was you dat betrayed me," I replied, spitting as I said it. I seethed. "Y’gave me dis life I never wanted, whispa’d sweet lies into mah ear. You ‘n’ yer Lich King both." Seeing an opening as he lifted the runeblade, I shifted sideways, swinging the wide blade of the polearm that I had wrested from Heigan’s unholy cache. It caught an opening in his armor, but it was just a scratch.

He actually laughed.

"And you wanted it more than you think, whelp! I remember the look in your eyes!" He barked another laugh as he brought the sword around sideways to mimic my own move. Another lesson I learned at the hands of the ‘master,’ I suppose. I brought my own weapon up again, and the runes flared as they met. The vibrations of the clash of weaponry set my arms to aching – I knew I would not last much longer under his onslaught.

I pushed his sword back, bringing the polearm up and under as the momentum raised his arms. Cryptfiend’s Bite nicked him yet again, blood welling up beneath his armor. I was not without my own share of wounds, but he looked to be getting the worst of it. Down came the sword, and I rolled this time, but not fast enough – the wound itself felt like searing flame, as I felt it cleave through the armor on my back like a hot claymore through so much butter. I slumped to the ground, panting.

Clank. Clank. His heavy bootsteps approached over the stone floors. "How fitting you die in the dust," he said, his voice low and menacing. I felt a sharp pain as my opponent kicked my ribs as hard as he could, his steel-plated sabaton sending me into the air a short distance to land on my still-bleeding back. I cried out – from the wound, from the kick, from the doubtlessly-broken ribs.

Again he approached. An eternity. Why must he walk so slow? I spat in defiance again. "Jus’ do it and be done, or dere’ll be hell to pay!" He paused, roaring with laughter.

"Hell to pay? Very funny, little tro–" His words cut short, blood trickling from his mouth. He looked down, eyes wide with amazement, to where only the handle of Cryptfiend’s Bite emerged from the chink in his armor under his dead black heart. Blood coated the side of his armor, a sickening black ichor.

I knelt, pushing as deeply as I could. "Your last lesson, Instructor Razuvious."