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Anduin tugged his jacket close. It was a surprisingly cool day for midsummer, he thought. Back home this would not be long after the Fire Festival. The brisk breeze, the cool fresh air suited him, though- especially today. He strayed from the groomed paths winding through the park and headed into a grassy spot overshadowed by a ring of shade trees. It was up an awkward slope, and he knew its position meant he was unlikely to be disturbed.
It took him a moment to situate himself on the grass. Since his travels in Pandaria, Anduin had experimented with Pandaren meditation postures. Although he was not able to levitate like a proper monk, the crossed-legged posture was more comfortable than the kneeling he had been accustomed to from the Church. He also lacked the crystal Velen would use. That also suited him- he wished to be as self-sufficient in his practice as possible, and the fewer paraphernalia he required, the better.
He became very still. The wind whipped through his hair, the ponytail bobbing behind him and his bangs lashing his face, and stirred the hem of his jacket. A pained expression crossed his features.
The world melted away into blinding white light. Fog rose around him in greys and blues. The wind blew fiercely now, and particles of frost gathered in his hair, crusting it as he sat, eyes open and unfocused. The ground was covered in snow. The grass was gone, replaced by glacial ice. Anduin shifted at last. He looked up at the dim, light of the shrouded winter sun and stood. A soft snow began to fall.
"Bolvar," he said as if to someone standing by. "I need clarification," he walked on, deliberately until he reached a sheltered cave. Inside, the howl of the wind played its music. "Bolvar, I know you'll come." There was silence. Anduin walked on until he reached a round chamber. In the centre, a jagged formation of glacial ice, and perhaps blue-tinted crystal grew together like a rough dais. A great-sword was plunged into it.
Anduin stood and gazed on the sword. Frostmourne. He sighed. A figure emerged from the passage behind him. He turned, unsurprised to see a knight clad in torn cloak, jagged helm, and every inch of armor twisted into forms of writhing dead. Where the man's eyes should have been blue flames danced and sputtered. Anduin squared himself. "Why did you come to me before?"
The knight inclined his head in a slow movement. "It was a gift," he rasped, his voice sonorous, deep, but distant as if carried over snows of Northrend. "I take it, you have not used it."
"I'm not in the habit of using gifts from the Lich King, Bolvar," Anduin smiled ruefully. "Are... you even still in there?" he tried to peer through the helm, into the flames to see if there was anything he remembered of his childhood guardian. "You were a father to me," he said, finding nothing.
Anduin opened his eyes to a flash of green. The fresh breezes of Petros Park had chilled him in the shade. He wriggled his fingers, and rubbed them across his face. He still did not know why Bolvar, the Lich King, had come to him in a vision. It was shortly after he had discovered an odd, abandoned cottage in the countryside. At least now he knew he could seek him out. Perhaps he could learn more of this 'gift' in time.
It took him a moment to situate himself on the grass. Since his travels in Pandaria, Anduin had experimented with Pandaren meditation postures. Although he was not able to levitate like a proper monk, the crossed-legged posture was more comfortable than the kneeling he had been accustomed to from the Church. He also lacked the crystal Velen would use. That also suited him- he wished to be as self-sufficient in his practice as possible, and the fewer paraphernalia he required, the better.
He became very still. The wind whipped through his hair, the ponytail bobbing behind him and his bangs lashing his face, and stirred the hem of his jacket. A pained expression crossed his features.
The world melted away into blinding white light. Fog rose around him in greys and blues. The wind blew fiercely now, and particles of frost gathered in his hair, crusting it as he sat, eyes open and unfocused. The ground was covered in snow. The grass was gone, replaced by glacial ice. Anduin shifted at last. He looked up at the dim, light of the shrouded winter sun and stood. A soft snow began to fall.
"Bolvar," he said as if to someone standing by. "I need clarification," he walked on, deliberately until he reached a sheltered cave. Inside, the howl of the wind played its music. "Bolvar, I know you'll come." There was silence. Anduin walked on until he reached a round chamber. In the centre, a jagged formation of glacial ice, and perhaps blue-tinted crystal grew together like a rough dais. A great-sword was plunged into it.
Anduin stood and gazed on the sword. Frostmourne. He sighed. A figure emerged from the passage behind him. He turned, unsurprised to see a knight clad in torn cloak, jagged helm, and every inch of armor twisted into forms of writhing dead. Where the man's eyes should have been blue flames danced and sputtered. Anduin squared himself. "Why did you come to me before?"
The knight inclined his head in a slow movement. "It was a gift," he rasped, his voice sonorous, deep, but distant as if carried over snows of Northrend. "I take it, you have not used it."
"I'm not in the habit of using gifts from the Lich King, Bolvar," Anduin smiled ruefully. "Are... you even still in there?" he tried to peer through the helm, into the flames to see if there was anything he remembered of his childhood guardian. "You were a father to me," he said, finding nothing.
Anduin opened his eyes to a flash of green. The fresh breezes of Petros Park had chilled him in the shade. He wriggled his fingers, and rubbed them across his face. He still did not know why Bolvar, the Lich King, had come to him in a vision. It was shortly after he had discovered an odd, abandoned cottage in the countryside. At least now he knew he could seek him out. Perhaps he could learn more of this 'gift' in time.
