Point of View.
The King sighed, his legs bending into a low crouch as he looked down at the various bodies moving about Dalaran’s streets. That’s all they were now–bodies. He hated this new sight. Absolutely despised it. How did the Catalysts cope with this damned curse. How did The Other? Is this the reason they seemed so twisted? Is this the reason they always put on a smile? To lie to themselves?
He could see Dalaran. All of them. Every possible instance of Dalaran, overlapping one another in a sea of blurred nonsense and crystal clarity. His shadowed eye swept over the scene, the ever-open white glow of its gaze taking it all in. How did these beings find the will to even bother? He could see it–all of it. It all felt so pointless now.
“The Game must be played–regardless of our desires. Focus, King. They grow stronger. Their Army gathers.”
I know. He answered, his dulled gaze still looming over the city. And he did now–he knew, just as The Catalysts did. Just as The Other did. The Game must be played.
Even now he could see them gather. The Army. The Vindicated. The Sacrilege. Friends of the past, the present, and the future, gathering to stand before him. Unwanted enemies he didn’t want to fight.