The roar of combat echoed across the cold stones, shattering the silence in even the deepest reaches of the crypt. The shouts of men and the clank of armor intermingled with the unnatural squelches and wails of the undead and the clear tones which signaled the use of holy magic. The only other noise throughout the entire plague-ridden complex was the steady chanting of the only living beings that would willingly inhabit such a dank edifice: a remnant of the Cult of the Damned.
"Hurry up!" The shout cut through the background din like thunder, louder than any newcomer would have believed such a decrepit orc was capable of, if there were any newcomers the Cult. "They've engaged the abominations! I hope I don't need to tell you maggots what happens when they reach us!" The chanting picked up pace, and the great purple rune occupying the room began glowing brighter by the moment.
"Barricade the door and arm the plague charges!" Skeletal hands scurried across a pile of green-glowing drums to make final adjustments to the explosives that would scatter the corruption contained within, and an abomination, likely the last of the three-armed patchworks of flesh in the crypt, moved to press its considerable bulk against the door. Metal boots and the thuds of hammers could be heard beyond, and persisted for nearly a minute. The trapped cultists not manning the rune held their breath (those that had any to hold), and many sighed in relief as their besiegers ceased their pounding.
A sigh which was swiftly retracted as a soft hissing snaked its way through the barriers.
"Away from the Door! It's about to blow!" A thunderous explosion consumed the abomination before it could budge and nearly eclipsed the crescendo of chanting as the spell finally activated. The purple light flared, before coalescing into a swirling vortex suspended in the air above the pattern's center. As the cultists ran for the newly-opened portal, bony hands and mindless ghouls rushed towards the ruined door, intent on swarming the luminously armored figures now charging the breach. Figures bearing the emblem of the Argent Crusade.
Lances of light flashed out, blowing apart the many of undead before they could engage the steel-plated soldiers. The few that remained were hacked apart in short order as bullets and bolts shot out to cut down the fleeing cultists. Sickly green blasts were cast back to stagger the charging knights, more out of desperation than anything.
The last thing Plague Master Gartok saw before leaping through the gate was a radiant figure charging straight for him, and an armed detonator falling from a disembodied hand amid a pile of caustic barrels. Surprise, flashlight, the ancient orc practically spat in his mind. I cooked up that brew just for you.
He did not see the flash of light which lit up the tomb as bright as the paladins it engulfed. He did not see the survivors fall amid the green mist, frothing black foam at the mouth. He did not even see the flare of arcane energy as the portal collapsed, tearing through the surrounding stone and burying the room in tons of rubble. All he saw was the dark graveyard of another world into which he was thrust, and the black-cloaked figures picking themselves up from the ground and taking stock of their new environment.
And what good stock it was. Hundreds of headstones littered the field, a veritable legion of corpses with which to form a literal legion of undead. If this world had more sites such as this, they would be able to retake Azeroth by storm!
But that would have to wait. Such a wealth of dead signified and even greater wealth of life, life that would have to be taken and turned into a new source of power for a new Scourge. They would have to return to the old ways to rebuild their numbers, as hardly a dozen had survived the exodus. They needed to remain undetected until a proper sickness could be spread, and learn of the locals and their defenses. Above all, they would need a new Lich King.
Judging by the power emanating from one grave in particular, that goal was near at hand. It was a plain burial site, ironically overshadowed by a great statue of an angel of death immediately to the left. On the simple gravestone was carved:
May he never threaten a third rise.
The corpse was eagerly exhumed, sallow flesh still clinging to the bones, all wrapped in tattered black robes. These were placed in the heart of a new rune alongside an old mason jar and jeweled ring which would serve as a phylactery until more suitable arrangements could be made. As the ascension ritual began, Gartok turned to the milling necromancers. "Brothers! On Azeroth we nearly met our end, but we have been gifted not only a reprieve, but an opportunity. This new world is fresh, its graves full and its people unsuspecting of the scouring which awaits them. From their numbers, we shall rebuild our cult, our armies, and our power! With the dead of this world, we shall retake Azeroth and crush the Horde, the Alliance, and the Argent Crusade as they rightly deserve!" A cheer rose up, the pale faces looking hopeful for the first time since the old Lich King's fall. "It begins now! With us and the ascension of a new Lich King, we shall rise again! With the flesh and souls of two worlds, we shall rival the Burning Legion itself! All who oppose us will learn that death has no mercy and no equal!"
Amid the renewed shouts of victory and revenge, Gartok turned back to the ritual and placed his hands on the shining circle. "Now arise, my lord, that our destinies be fulfilled!" Magic surged through him, focused into the corrupting symbol by his will as it called for the spirit which belonged to the bones of their new ruler.
Surprisingly, it was not one whole soul that answered the call, but eight fragments which flickered and fused before entering the jury-rigged phylactery. A sickly yellow-green light suffused the body, filling the empty eye sockets and rib cage. With jerking, shuddering movements, it stood for the first time in years. "I live?" a hissing, ghostly voice called from the new lich. "But how?!"
"Pardon me, my lord," Gartok interrupted, "but you are not alive. Such a state is no longer suitable for one such as you."
The skeletal form whirled on him, seeming to point at him out of reflex. "You are not my Death Eaters," it mumbled, lowering its arm and glancing over the forms kneeling before it. "Many of you aren't even human. What are you?"
"I am Plague Master Gartok Greenblood, at your service my lord. Those before you are the last remnant of the Undead Scourge, a force which once conquered kingdoms and continents as death itself. It was we who called you from your grave, that you might lead us to the greatness that we have been thus far denied."
"To hold back Death takes powerful magics, but to undo it? How did you uncover such secrets?"
"Apologies, Lord Riddle, I don't know wha-urk!"
In an instant, a bony hand ensnared his throat and yanked his face to within inches of the yellow deathlights of the lich. "What did you call me?" it growled, eyes flaring in rage.
"I-I did not mean to offend you, sire. I merely used the title carved on your gravestone," the orc groveled, gesturing to the upturned grave and the marker at its head. Sputtering inanely, the lich who was evidently not named Riddle stormed to the site of it former resting place. The lights within it flashed wildly as it glared between it grave and the monument beside it, seemingly intent on annihilating both with anger alone.
But the fit passed as suddenly as it had come, and the lich turned to regard its new subjects in a relaxed, almost jovial manner. "The Ministry will regret this slight," it said offhandedly, "more so than others, but that time will come soon enough. For now, call me Lord Voldemort. Now, what were you saying about magic?"
Author's Notes: Don't expect much from this. I wrote it in a bit of a fit, and I have no clue what to do with it now. All I know is that you can expect no help from Azaroth; they think all of the cultists died in the blast.