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Azeroth's Finest

The tall, pale, powerfully-muscled man in the black armor assumed a characteristically aggressive stance. His long body tensed as he stared intently to his right, clenched fists resting on lean hips, strong fingers flexing impatiently on the baseball in his hand. He squinted; and one white eyebrow rose in wonderment as he watched the worn sandbag that was third base slowly creep by on its trek across the dusty expanse of red dirt.

It was being drawn to its destination by the powers of the Light.

Wrath quickly overtook incredulity. "Fordring, you brazen asshole!" Arthas, the Lich King roared.

The bag drooped, suddenly motionless. The accused, Highlord Tirion Fordring, smiled placidly from his place at second base; he was the very picture of innocence.

"Did you see that?" Arthas demanded of his teammates, "Tell me somebody else saw that!"

At first base, Lady Vashj flailed her many arms, "Just throw the fucking ball…!" she screeched.

"There are rules!" was Arthas' angry retort, punctuated with his most baleful glare.

"Look who's talking rules..." Varian Wrynn shouted, pointing the bat impudently at Arthas. "Warmonger! Hell-raiser! Mass murderer!" he chanted reproachfully, his proud chin jutting with principled ire.

Ah yes...Arthas thought with a sneer...denounced for my violent behavior by man who uncontrollably pisses himself at the mere mention of peace...

Tirion glanced sidelong at the willing base, once again arresting Arthas' attention. The sandbag quivered; it yearned to go to the Highlord. It so desired to be of service.

"Yogg-Sarondamn it…! He's doing it again!" Arthas vociferated, shaking his fist at Tirion, "You're a paladin, Fordring…" he added with equal volume, "I used to be one too, if you will recall, and you know as well as I do that you aren't supposed to use the Light for devious purposes…!"

"Righteous indignation from the Prince of Darkness…" Thrall commented, "Yep…I have now, officially, heard it all."

Muttering curses, Arthas scanned the field, pondering his fellow players.

There was Illidan, oblivious as always, the Lord of left field; he was certainly having a lively conversation with himself.

At third, was Lor'themar—all flowing hair and chiseled features. With his dashing eye patch and, consequently, his total lack of depth perception, the Regent Lord appeared to be completely unaware of the fact that he no longer had a base to defend.

Dominating right field, was Deathwing—the Windbreaker—demonstrating, once again, his undisputed mastery of the lighted fart.

Thassarian yawned, winking at Koltira. And those two...

I need some people who are actually on my side, for once...Arthas decided, glowering malevolently at his less than enthusiastic teammates.

Unfortunately, with the exception of Kel'Thuzad—who adamantly refused to indulge in any activity that might muss his robes—Arthas was forced to begrudgingly admit that he had totally ostracized himself from everyone's good graces.

Ner'zhul wouldn't even speak to him anymore...the hypocrite. Hell, even Darion was still peeved with him over that silly Light's Hope Chapel fiasco.

Spying Matthias Lehner loitering about in foul territory, Arthas gave him an extended, icy stare. He curled his lip and the ghostly lad fled, screaming.

You'd best run...you meddling little shit...

Turning back to face the irksome Varian—who was flexing his huge biceps for a small cluster of squealing, nubile elves—Arthas glared stonily at the maliciously-smiling figure crouched behind home plate.

Sylvanas...

Just what in the hell was she doing on his team? One thing, he knew was certain—she was busily plotting traumatic ways to stick it to him. In fact, Arthas had it on very good authority that since his untimely demise, Sylvanas had spent an inordinate amount of her spare time meticulously engraving his name into specially-poisoned arrows.

Again, with that crap!

Hell hath no fury, for sure…that was no shit.

Kel'Thuzad had somehow arrived at the baffling conclusion that such dangerously compulsive behavior was the elf's twisted idea of...love letters. This was positive proof his bony, only friend was a raging, closet romantic; as Sylvanas had already made it abundantly clear to Arthas that her greatest aspiration in undeath was to slowly, gleefully dismember him and use the still-squirming pieces to redecorate the Undercity…

That was the basis of their relationship—nothing complicated about it.

It followed then—to Arthas' way of thinking—that faithful vigilance was absolutely required...lest he find one of the Banshee Queen's doting epistles delivered straight up his unsuspecting arse. This distinct probability was the very reason she was up there in plain sight behind home plate, presently staring raptly at Varian's snugly packaged, restlessly twitching posterior and spitting into her catcher's mitt.

And then there was Thrall…or whatever the hell that new name was that he was suddenly insisting everybody use. Arthas snorted. Shit, there was no telling what sob-story Jaina had oozed all over him.

Arthas preferred the old Warchief of the Horde; all the new Earth-Warder, wanted to do was pray and/or meditate. Some shortstop he made. Benignly overlooking cheating paladins and animated bases…right. Not to mention the balls flying idly by over his head, or rolling away between his sanctified feet. Particularly, it seemed, when Garrosh or Baine happened to be up to bat...

Not that Hellscream could hit the broad side of Outland...

Still, Arthas conceded, giving praise where it was due—whether the orc was concussing himself with wildly erratic foul balls, or rupturing tendons and dislocating body parts with his mighty, but unproductive swings—Garrosh did give his all...every time he struck out. That being whenever he stepped up to the plate.

But when Baine connected—Oh, Sundering!—there was always the possibility of seeing the hurtling missile blow Kil'jaeden right out of the Twisting Nether, and onto his substantial rump amongst them.

Like he was missed.

Illidan had once made the benighted blunder of flying up to catch one of Baine's hits—recklessly over-excited because he had actually seen its meteoric passage. Talk about a lack of preparedness. Arthas had long wondered which moronic, demonic overlord had decided that poster child for ineptitude had need of wings.

The Lich King shook his head, awed by the grand scheme—the often cosmic assholery—of The Lore Masters.

Well, at any rate, he reminisced, Baine's homer had bonked Illidan solidly between the eyes, sending him crashing back to the ground, stunned recipient of a temporary, third horn and the bleary delirium of what would have been, for anyone else, lethal brain injury. During this time, the woozy elf had told some exquisitely funny stories about Malfurion's bed-wetting days, as well as a few interesting tales of his brother's lifelong penchant for trees with knotholes.

Fortunately, as next to nothing of any real importance was stowed away in that particular elven pate, no harm was done—except to a certain archdruid's previously pristine reputation.

That suited Arthas just fine. Malfurion had always been an insufferably self-righteous horse's asshole, in the only opinion that greatly concerned the Dark Lord of the Dead—his own.

Baine, humongous, but sensitive bovine that he was, had been deeply apologetic to the downed and dazed Illidan, and so beside himself with remorse, he could not even lumber around the diamond in the obligatory run of the bases.

Arthas had made what he considered the cogent argument that Illidan had, in truth, flown directly and intentionally into the ball's blistering path—the same strategically brilliant maneuver that had virtually impaled him upon Frostmourne at Icecrown. Unconvinced by this wisdom, Baine remained immobilized and penitent.

Still, in some ways, this was a good thing, as when the Tauren High Chieftain did decide to thunderously trot about, it caused a minor quake, and every single one of those freaks from StarCraft came boiling out of their bunker, like wasps, spoiling for a fight.

Shit.

Garrosh—that great legend in his own mind—took it upon himself to make the run in Baine's stead, arms held high in victory. His first time ever, at least in Arthas' memory of these farcical, annoyingly pointless games.

He sighed deeply. Well, they had to do something between expansions. What little could be achieved in the brief interludes when Varian and Garrosh weren't throttling each other. And, of course, Sylvanas doing everything she could possibly think of to goad them both into a killing frenzy.

Arthas grunted. Was he actually the only one who was not blind to the truth of Sylvanas Windrunner?

She's me…he thought…with tits…

How was that for clarity?

Yet, despite all the evidence that she was a gloating reprobate, Thrall was always intoning some shamanic twaddle for the betterment of her shriveled soul, while Tirion and Uther groaned out their unending prayers of salvage. Even Kael'thas was forever crooning over her…no, on second thought, Kael didn't count—that opportunistic junkie was just on the perpetual prowl…living, dead…hell, he didn't care. If it had some mana, he was on it.

And—no surprise to Arthas—she was still squealing about making the Lich King (him) eat her dust. What had possessed him to raise such a contentious shrew as a banshee? He had no fucking idea...

Even so, she had never been the gigantic bur in his butt that she liked to pretend, and despite all her bombastic claims, her little flock of Forsaken had been about as problematic to him as the icy dust bunnies under the Frozen Throne...

Well, all right...so Putress had managed to irritate him into that sneezing fit at the Wrathgate…but that was a hell of a lot more than any of the rest of them had ever been able to accomplish.

Arthas pondered thoughtfully for a moment, trying to recall…how exactly had these inveterate twits managed to kill him, anyway…? Rapier wit? Ha! Or perhaps it was the shrapnel-laden expletives hurled by gonzo lore-hounds…

The King hissed derisively, glaring up at the oppressive Durotar sun; he felt like a chain mail burrito in this heat.

He had suggested they play their games at Northrend, where the weather was so much more comfortable; predictably, the others had moaned and keened about the sub-zero temperatures that he, personally, found so bracing. Arthas was then forced to pointedly remind them of their Argent Tournament—tauntingly held right under his very nose—but they all seemed to have contracted mass amnesia over that event.

If truth be told, and despite what Tirion Fordring thought, Arthas had not resented that little statement of intent at all. While he never grew weary of shepherding the dead, a nice diversion was always welcome; undeath was certainly not required to be monotonous.

Watching these alleged allies whale the living shit out of each other for their Blood-caked Stompers and Girdles of Valorous Defeat had been extremely entertaining. Arthas could only imagine how many hours Fordring had prayed to the Light for inspiration, before he was blessed with those names…

And all for the dubious honor of having their frozen asses chewed off at his Citadel.

Arthas realized Sylvanas was smiling sweetly at him; and he was instantly suspicious. Certain of his undivided attention, she waved her wee, elfish hand, for the express purpose of slipping him The Finger. Just another little thing Tirion 'Holier than Thou' Fordring never seemed to notice.

Arthas cheerfully returned the gesture, and with great relish—the sort of response that involved his entire right arm, in fact. The Dark Lady cackled.

"You rude asshole…" Uther gravely admonished him. Umpire Uther. Of course. Only dear old Dad, Terenas, could pass condemning judgment on him faster than the almighty Lightbringer.

Arthas ground his teeth, removing his cap and shaking off its newest layer of red dust, before firmly resettling it on his shaggy, white locks. He knew and fully accepted the fact that he was outrageously arrogant—excessively so, even for a Warcraft villain of his caliber; but the pride he had in his fastball was perfectly justified.

He took his best shot. The ball rocketed, dead-center, over home plate, sizzling straight into Sylvanas' waiting glove, knocking her right onto her cute little elven tush, and sprawling her in the dirt...as intended.

Arthas clenched a triumphant fist. Yes!

"Strike three..." Uther proclaimed decisively, "and you're out!"

Varian stared, agape, the previously-overconfident bat drooping impotently in his hand. "Son of a...you...you whoreson...!" he brayed, flushed and furious, "No fucking fair!"

"Unprepared!" Illidan boomed from his remote position.

Arthas gave the chortling demon hunter a thumbs up, smiling in satisfaction as the usual argument erupted. Sylvanas was cursing roundly, Varian was yodeling accusations, while Uther—looking cranky and thoroughly put upon—tried unsuccessfully to reestablish some semblance of order.

Sylvanas returned the ball with zinging precision—a smoking mass of plague and dark magic. Unaffected, Arthas smirked, deeming her rage and the sight of her rumpled, dusty behind well worth any reprisal she could exact against him. Thwarted, she hocked a contemptuous loogie.

"Why is Menethil a team captain instead of me…?" Garrosh whooped from the dugout, "Everybody hates him!"

The squabblers froze; there was a wary exchange of loaded glances.

And…

…crickets…

No one offered to point out the glaringly obvious.

Instead, as always, they looked expectantly to Arthas, in anticipation of his usual remorseless cruelty.

The Lich King smiled. Works for me...

"Because everybody hates you even more…!" he yelled back. "Nobody even wants you on their team, Garrosh! Let alone the captain of it! How about that one? Does it suck, or what?"

Varian was certainly on board with that assessment.

Garrosh sullenly pooched out his lips. Making his crabby-baby face.

"Well, I hate you more…" Sylvanas remarked.

And what a lightning bolt of revelation that was for everyone!

"Besides," Garrosh added, once again showing his great intelligence by swallowing the myth of Sylvanas' solidarity, "He's dead…!"

"And let us thank the Light for that..." Bolvar muttered from the sidelines. He was milking that frostbite of his for all it was worth, Arthas noted.

"In case it somehow eludes you, Fordragon..."

"I know I'm dead!" Bolvar screamed; he was certainly in high dudgeon, "Something else to your evil credit..."

Arthas clenched his jaw so tightly it creaked, "You insisted on coming to Northrend..." he pointed out, "The Forsaken brought the plague, and the goddamned red dragons are the ones who decided to have a fucking weenie roast! I didn't invite any of you!"

"You blame Sylvanas for everything!" Garrosh accused.

"Well, not for the absolutely mind-boggling fact that you are now somehow Warchief of the Horde! I believe we have Thrall's psychotic episode to thank for that stroke of genius!"

"Go'el..." a familiar voice from the bleachers corrected, and Arthas paused, glancing around. Oh, gods...Jaina...Little Miss Voice of Reason and Diplomacy, herself...

"Whatever!" Arthas bellowed, livid with exasperation; his fingers curled into fists, promptly pulverizing the baseball in his hand.

"Those things don't grow on trees, you know!" ball boy, Sicco Thermaplugg squeaked from the equipment shed, as Arthas carelessly tossed the flattened wad aside to join its several other, similarly-annihilated fellows. "That's the ninth one this week, Your Majesty! Blatant, wanton destruction of property...!"

The Lich King turned to look at him deliberately, "Anger management..." he growled. "And for your edification," he added, with a savage, icy grin that made the gnome's tiny bladder spasm with urgency, "I am not at all particular about what I squash..." Thermaplugg wisely took that as his cue to flicker out of sight.

"I want to be team captain..." Garrosh declared, ignoring the look of ferocity worn by the notoriously-volatile pitcher; the orc stamped a big, petulant foot. "Why should anybody even listen to you?"

Arthas appeared to muse, "Well, let us see..." he suggested, rather sarcastically, "Could it possibly be because I am the only one here with even rudimentary leadership skills…?"

"Hey!" the King of Stormwind shrieked indignantly.

"You tell him, Varian…" Tirion agreed.

"Isn't fire beeyooteefuul...!" Deathwing suddenly bugled, for no apparent reason.

"Who's dead…?" Illidan hollered.

Palm to forehead, Arthas sighed. "So this is bad karma..."he muttered grimly.

"Everything's all right…" Frostmourne whispered. "You just need a little snack, low blood sugar and all that. You know how grumpy it makes you. And if you don't mind, how about we kill a couple of elves at the concession stand…what do you say? I'm famished for some fel…"

Arthas patted the sword's pommel, "Wait 'til no one's looking…they're all such intolerant bigots about your eating habits…"

"Hmm…I saw Kael'thas over there earlier…" Frostmourne urged. "He seems especially fond of those caramel apples, doesn't he?"

Arthas could honestly say he had not noticed.

"The way he scarfs them down, I think they must remind him of Jaina…" the ravenous death-blade teased, hoping to provoke him to violence. A task ordinarily requiring very little effort.

But Arthas was unmoved, "Well, Kael's too pretty for Jaina now…she's gone orc…"

Frostmourne rumbled hungrily, "I'll bet he's just gorgeous covered in blood…" the sword murmured feverishly, "writhing in a big, yummy puddle of dainty elf guts…delectable brains splattered…oh, nom nom nom…"

"Whoa, now…" Arthas said, with a grimace, "Keep it down, will you?"

"Well, you leave me no choice, my Prince…" the runeblade snarled, taking a greedy bite out of Arthas' captive soul. He recoiled, howling in sudden, excruciating pain.

Sylvanas twittered jubilantly, "What's wrong?" she crooned, and Arthas noticed there was not even a pretense of concern in her spiteful voice, "Is its itsy-bitsy soul having a boo-boo…?"

"Oh, screw you, Windrunner!" Arthas shouted, flinching from yet another stabbing bolt of pain, "Why do you deliberately do this shit to me in public?" he demanded of Frostmourne, who jolted him yet again,"Oh, gods! Shit! It was bad enough at Icecrown, in front of the crypt fiends and Sindragosa! What the hell is the matter with you? I feed you!"

"I don't ask for much," Frostmourne pouted, "considering all you get from our relationship. Sometimes, I think I'm just a trophy to you, Arthas…I swear, I think you don't really care how I feel at all…!" The demonic weapon heaved an anguished sigh of blue smoke. "We never talk anymore..."

"All right, already...I said I'd feed you…" Arthas grumbled. "And don't you start with me, goddamn it..." he warned, "Please recall how you—at the most inopportune moment imaginable—elected to break and regurgitate every fucking soul you'd ever stolen...all of whom wanted nothing more than to kick my ass!"

He glared at the coyly glowing sword, before turning his fierce gaze upon his giggling cohorts. Sylvanas was leaping about in mocking imitation of his terrible ordeal, while the others squealed and hooted with laughter.

Arthas scowled, consoling himself with sweet memories of every shamelessly-nasty thing he had ever done to the galling little elf. As that required considerable time, the distraction was quite calming.

Varian and Garrosh had resumed one of their many mindlessly rabid altercations, he saw—a shoving match, presently—soon to be a fist-fest. It was just a matter of time before this lovely exchange morphed into yet another pissing contest...

Arthas snickered, always hopeful that such might literally come to pass. He had no difficulty whatsoever imagining these two hurling rancorous epithets as they energetically hosed away at each other.

Suddenly, there was a puff of incense and a rotund, black and white bear materialized at his side; it was wearing a serene smile and what appeared to be a straw hat.

Well, what the happy fuck is this...? Arthas wondered.

To ask why Frostmourne hungers...a soothing voice whispered in his mind...is to ask why leaves...

Arthas punched the bear in the face.

He then leaned over the crumpled form, now reposed in the dirt at his feet; it peeped up at him with startled, topaz eyes. The odd hat spun away like a top.

"I am really sick of hearing voices in my head..." Arthas said emphatically. He smiled coldly; the bear cringed. "Now. Go away, or be skewered. Your choice."

The chubby bear dimmed to a wisp of fragrant smoke that was momentarily borne aloft on a cherry blossom scented breeze.

And there was Tirion, levitating third base again.

The Lich King tilted his head, with a familiar, wicked laugh and Frostmourne shivered with joyous anticipation; the eager blade just loved the feel of the scabbard sliding down its brutal length as it was unsheathed.

Arthas glanced casually around the field, and then smiled indulgently at the gleaming sword.

"So, just how hungry are you…?" he asked.

End

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