The Lich King. Two decades since the betrayal of the world. Arthas lay, Frostmourne in his grip. He was still steeped in unlife, of course, but for the time, he lay as many that stood against him lay. The bloodspattered eagle of her armor was a fitting tribute to the dead and living of both the Horde and Alliance. Once again united against a common foe, for a common cause, for a common pyhrric victory. Kiiyue bowed her head. "So are we, if we stick around longer." As if on an afterthought, she looked at her left arm. Then tossed it over her shoulder; she wouldn't be needing it anymore. "Don't."