Xyn's eyes snapped open as if someone had flicked a switch in his head. In the corner of the room, a small globe cast a very dim, aqua light to every reach of the vast quarterings; bright enough to assure him there was was no one else in it, but too dim to truly illuminate anything. He swung both legs from his bed and took the shortsword from beside his nightstand, scanning the room as he rose.
There. The door to the balcony lay open, the night sky obscured only by a thin curtain. A silhouette danced lasciviously back and forth in the light of the moon, and Xynrael became acutely aware of a voice, singing in Thalassian, an all-too-familiar tune so beautiful and stomach-wrencing it made him want to cut his own ears off on the spot.
"...is coming, Children of the Sun..." She sang, as he broke through the curtain. Her form twirled slowly past him now, as if she were in no paticular hurry to get where she was going. She paused, turning and leaning both palms back on the balcony's rail, and smiled up with him.
But there was something wrong with the smile. The brightness and joy was gone from it. In fact, everything was. It was as if it had been frozen on a statue, the emotion forgotten by the sculptor. The fel-touch faded from her eyes, replaced by a similar nothing. It was an emptiness he knew all too well. She turned, looking down at the Dawning Lane.
It was littered with half-devoured corpses.
She looked back up at him, the sickeningly empty smile still there- he had been half-hoping it would be gone.
"What have you done to them?" She demanded, her voice sickeningly sweet as it wafted towards him on the night air.
Xynrael's sword fell point-first from his hands into the street below, and shattered like glass.
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They laid his body out on the altar, his pallid skin adhering to the freezing stone almost the moment it touched. Around him they sprinkled shards of metal; a blade that had been broken. They folded the fingers of each hand around identical weapon-hilts, then crossed his arms over his chest. The three men retreated back into the shadows of the icy cavern, long, gnarled fingers stroking at the pages of flesh-bound books, urging them open. From the single archway leading out came a tremendous creature, clothed in rich purples, chains... And an unholy chill.
The lich stood at the side of the altar, looking almost contemplative as he twirled in a circle, pointing one bony finger at the necromancer who stood behind him. "You are sure this is the one the Master seeks?" He demanded, his voice a chilled breath of wind and little more, though it echoed to the farthest reaches of the cavern.
"Yes," the necromancer replied, giving a look over at the Quel'dorei who lay upon the altar, just to be sure. "This is the one. The Paladin who stood against us in Eversong Wood, lord."
"You have his blades?" Again the chill, though the lich's arm retruned to his side, his robes fluttering this way and that, independent from the wind that rushed through the mouth of the cavern.
The necromancer uncurled his fingers, indicating the shards of metal that had been set out on and around the altar. "All that we could find, my lord."
With a nod of satisfaction, the lich made for the entrance, waving his hand dismissively. "Begin."
The three necromancers stood at angles from eachother, forming a perfect triangle around the altar. Each man stood upon a large rune, and all manner of these adorned the table's surface. They took hold of their staves, and, as if on cue, simultaneously raised them towards the ceiling, wailing in demonic tongues. In response, the room began to glow, the runes beneath each necromancer's feet lighting and steadily growing brighter. Slowly, the boby on the altar began to lift into the air, carried lovingly aloft by unholy arms that reached out from the stone horns at each corner. The shards of metal rose as well, surrounding the body and swirling about it like a horde of insects descending upon a plagued carcass.
Then, from somewhere deep inside itself, the 'body' began to scream. Blood sprayed over the necromancers' heads as each of the hundreds of shards drew a small sliver of lifeforce. The blood flew freely into the air and spilled onto the altar, bathing the entire cavern in a hellish red glow. As the glow from the runes reached the man suspended in mid-air, the shards shot out their own tendrils, seizing upon the man and undulating as if attempting to tug him, each in its own direction. He screamed all the louder, then descended into the silent cry of someone whose pain cannot be borne, even by the formless air.
He fell to the altar, his skin mended, eyes open, still screaming the silent scream. The red, green, and blue glows from the runes were gone, and as his pain subsided, the man whispered one word into the darkness.
"Where...?"
The only necromancer to speak thus far stepped foreward, laying his hand on the now-blue glow that was the Death Knight's eyes. "You are in the service of our master, now. Where does not matter. Only who matters. Whom do you serve?"
The Death Knight sat up slowly his legs bent at the knee, drenched in a puddle of his own blood. Beside him lay a single weapon where two had been, a tremendous mace gilded with runic patterns, bearing eight blades on the head of it, four larger atop, and four smaller immediately below that. He reached instinctively for the weapon, his hand wrapping around the shaft.
Kill them.
One long, pale arm lashed out, weilding the tremendous weapon as if it weighed little more than a child's rattle. It crashed down upon the skull of the first necromancer, shattering the ceremonial ram's-head that covered him, breaking his neck, and caving the pasted remnants of his head into his chest cavity. The other two looked on in horror; dull, dreary eyes suddenly wide with shock as they reached for their chests. The Death Knight grinned the grin of a man with a great deal of sarcasm and hatred in his heart, a smile that looked cruel enough to kill.
"You expected to live... In the service of death? You are unfit to serve Him." He admonished, as the blood of each necromancer began to bubble past their skin, crimson rivers already hemorrhaging from their eyes, ears, noses, and mouths. One of them gurgled from the throat, as if attempting to speak. He hit the floor first, chest swelling with the distinct "pop" of his heart expoding.
"Shut UP. I can't even UNDERSTAND you and your prattle is unbearable!" The other necromancer clawed desperately at his own face even as his former compatriot was being admonished... Then fell limp, and crumpled to the floor. The Death Knight's grin softened a little (not much at all), and he looked briefly pleased by his work. With a raise of the newly-formed mace, the three necromancers reached from their various states of macabre repose with a sort of grim determination, and began clawing away at their own skin, bony fingers quickly descending into sharp claws, spines distorting into hunched curves as they started struggling to their feet (and out of their now-shredded skin).
The Death Knight lifted himself back onto the altar and crossed his legs, sitting naked in the freezing remains of his own blood. The ghouls looked at him expectantly, their heads tilted. Well, two of them, anyway.
"You there! Gah. Imbicile, get over here!" Their new master barked at the ghoul who conspicuously lacked a head of any kind. It shambled over at him... backwards, and fell over, flopping like a wet fish. With a roll of the eyes and a swing of the arm he dispatched it, sending the other two off.
This is no time for games. There is much to be done. They will return with your armor. In life, you were Daeyn Skysong, Paladin of the Silver Hand. In death, you are Xynrael the Dawnbreaker, first of My Tundra Stalkers. You will slaughter your brothers and sisters in My name, and you will crush any who attempt to rise up from under My will. You will go where I tell you, and do as I tell you, without question. Above all, you will protect My subjects from those who wish to do them harm. There is a valley south of here where those you once protected are withdrawing, fleeing My wrath. You will need many to command if you are to serve My will. They will do.
Xynrael dropped from the altar, extending his arms and spreading his legs slightly. For dead, mindless servants, the ghouls were adept at strapping on the gunmetal blue armor that had been made for him. As he listened to the voice, the Death Knight nodded his understanding, first slowly, then faster and faster as it carried on, finally replying aloud "Very well."
Hefting his mace over his shoulder, he departed the cavern, his left hand tugging the hood of his dark gray cloak up over his face.
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The touch of her fingers against his skin shook Xynrael loose from his nightmare, though he knew already he was trading a nightmare of his past for a nightmare of another kind. As he looked down at her face, relief passed over his own; her features had been restored. The smile was gone, replaced with a look of concern.
Briefly, he glanced over at the Dawning Lane. The corpses were gone, but he knew where he had seen them all before. He recognized each one.
"What did you do to them?" She asked, her fingers falling to his shoulder, as if trying to hold him there with her.
He looked away, understanding suddenly passing over him. But he had to be sure. "Are you asking because you want to know, or because you're hoping it isn't what you imagine?"
Now it was her turn to look away. At least, from his head. Her eyes followed his face, catching his own. "I'm hoping it isn't worse than what I imagine," she replied.
As Xyn's eyes left her face again, he noticed that her outfit had changed. She wore an aqua robe, and her hair was done differently. She looked brighter now, and almost hopeful. Much less like the world-worn young woman he had seen a moment before. The innocence in her eyes gave him pause.
"That was you..."
She nodded once. The small hint of innocence in her voice from the question before had made him see, and he was beginning to understand. As he saw her for what she was, the more she became just that. And suddenly he remembered her, not from Undeath, but from life.
"It defines you." She said, meditatively, laying her head on his bare chest as she had the night before, her fingers seeking his. "You can't forgive yourself for their bodies."
"Neither can you."
"It hurts less when I hate you." She responded, her voice soft like that of a child admitting some private fear to a parent.
"What does?"
"I can't tell you." She choked on the words, looking back up at him, as if some part of her was about to break under the strain of the simple question.
"I didn't mean to hurt you..." He whispered, leaning his head down to press his lips against her forehead.
"You don't understand!" She shouted. Suddenly she lifted away from him, tears streaming down her cheeks. She punched him heavily- it bore more force than he remembered. Much more. As he doubled over, she struck him again, this time with the flat of her palm against his face.
"Why..." He started to demand, gathering back his wind. "Why are you doing this?"
"I can't help it," she cried, her voice reduced to a whimper. She looked angry, like a child throwing a tantrum, and raised her hand to strike him again. He looked up into her face, and saw something else in her eyes. Hatred. Not of him, but of herself. And suddenly it was she who was struck with the force of the blow, falling onto her hip, legs curled to one side of her, as if someone had backhanded her to the ground. She hung her head and looked away from him, face obscured by her hair.
On reflex, he reached for her, fingers drawing her hair aside and stroking the tears from her eyes. Both of her hands clung desperately to his fingers, as if she were clinging to some sort of life-line. His other arm slid about her waist, and he sat on the floor, drawing her into his lap.
For a moment, she simply rested there, her face buried in his neck, tears staining his flesh. Her fists beat weakly against his chest for a moment before he took hold of both of them, taking a small leather strap from inside his nightstand, and wrapping it around her wrists, tying them together in front of her.
The tears slowly halted, and she looked up at him, her eyes again slightly widened but trusting, as if she was certain whatever he was doing was to help her.
"Why am I doing this?" He asked, continuing with the motion. He himself wasn't sure- it was automatic.
She leaned foreward a little, nuzzling into his neck like a cat, her lips brushing against his skin with each syllable as she spoke. "You've always protected me, even when it was just from myself," she whispered, her tone quietly grateful. As he finished binding her, she pulled her hands in close, the fingers of one hand resting in the palm of the other as she lay against his chest, legs curled into his lap, body resting against the left side of his abomden. He reached up with his free hand, fingers brushing through her hair until it fell in its normal place, his hands slowly undoing the ties that held the robe over her shoulders. As he rose, slipping one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders, her robe fell to the floor.
"I like it better like this," she said, though she looked nervous as he lifted her into bed, laying her to rest atop him. She looked over her shoulder and the side of the bed at her robe, then back into his eyes. "...If I promose not to hide again, will you keep me safe?" She asked, asi f the question itsef made her want to disappear, her bound hands splayed slightly on his chest.
"No matter what."
"Promise me, Frostbane." She demanded, shifting so that she was a little above him, staring down into his eye.
"I promise, I'll keep you safe." he replied immediately, reaching to trace his fingers along her cheek.
"You keep your promises," she said, again sounding meditative as she leaned down, her lips parting slightly, brushing against his with just the slightest tickle of a touch, still parted enough breath to pass between them. She held ther for a moment before drawing back, her head falling over his shoulder, lips resting against his ear.
He felt something rustle behind him as her hands moved over his head, finally coming to rest again against the palm of his opposite hand, fingers working slightly at something. It was a small length of rope, tied, he saw, to the strip of leather that bound her wrists. As she pulled her hands away, she revealed a small bow tied with the other end of the rope, the length of it pressed into his palm.
"Sweet dreams," she purred, just barely loud enough for him to hear, even with her lips against his flesh.
"They are," he replied, sadly.
He awoke and looked to his side, unhappiness clouding his face for a moment before he lay down again, losing himself in the momentary peace between dreams.
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