((OOC Note: Because of the particular gruesomeness of this entry and the mental imagery it evoked in my own head, I feel the need to state that it was neither written with the intention of offending anyone nor giving small children nightmares, or, for that matter, any other sadistic or malicious intent. Some of the more disgusting details have been left out, which may cripple the flow of the story, but I believed the sheer violence of it to be excessive even for the imagination, thus, these have been left out.
Any similarity to any persons, living or dead, is unintentional but very, very unfortunate, because something this fucked up probably has happened somewhere in the world at one point.))
What I remember of becoming a Death Knight is little. The pain of a thousand years contained in but a moment, and then... Surrender. No reason to fight at all- simply giving in to the inevitable. I was going to be brought back in His service, and why not? After all, He was my patron, the one who resurrected me, who cared for me. It was only fitting. It was -proper- to repay my debt.
Becoming a Tundra Stalker was something else again. That was akin in rigor to being declared a Saint by the Church of the Holy Light.
And the members of the Church must first be baptized.
~From the journal of Xynrael the Frostbane
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He stood alone amid the new snow of the early winter months, heavy boots leaving deep prints in the settling drift behind him, which quickly disappeared. Before him, a flurry covered all but the view of lights and faint shadows cast by the buildings. The inhabitants of the settlement in the valley below had named it Dawnhaven, a name full of hope. The name would also prove to be the town's undoing.
I do not understand, he thought. Why do we not simply ravage the town and be done with it?
Because you must be properly initiated. Your kind are not an engine of pure, unthinking destruction. You must inspire fear. You must either convince your enemies that surrender is a far better fate than fighting, or make their fighting so weak-spirited that it does not matter.
Why these people?
They believe the Light will still guide them. Will still protect them. They have hope in life. You must shatter that hope. The Voice spat back, indignation lacing every syllable with an unearthly venom. But, above all, you must make them -fear.- Sow doubt and discord. They know who their enemies are. You must take away the power of their knowledge.
Xynrael grinned a savage grin beneath the darkness cast by his hood. He resumed his path down the hill, letting the snow gather on himself as he went. He wore no armor this time, but carried it in his pack. A large bedroll, his pack, and cloak were all that adorned him besides dark leathers and his mace.
The flurry turned to a blizzard, and followed him down the hillside.
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The door to the Death's End tavern burst open, letting in a small group of travelers and street-dwellers who had managed to get into town before the blizzard overtook it. From his position behind the bar, Marcus Kidrian saw immediately a small family who were not settled there, but certainly had been displaced by the coming of the Scourge. They were Human, probably from Lordaeron proper by their clothing, and looked dirty but no worse for wear. Marcus motioned to a barmaid to show them to a room, and was rewarded for his good judgment by a small sack of silver.
The innkeeper's bushy mustache lifted awkwardly as he grinned, tossing the sack away behind the bar. The second to part from the crowd gave him pause- this one was dark. Not to say his skin was, or that Marcus was racist. Far be it for him to judge based on someone's skin color. But, the visitor also had pointed ears slipping out from under his hood, and his leathers and cowl shrouded all but those completely.
"Somethin' I can get for you, stranger?" Marcus asked, casually swiping a rag over the bar and breaking eye contact the moment the Quel'dorei turned to meet his gaze. The voice that replied, however, jolted him back into looking at the leather-clad elf.
"No," he replied, his voice echoing over itself. "And my name is An'darion Iceblood."
"...Well, you'll pardon my asking, master Iceblood, but what's happened to your voice? You sound like a cavern's in your throat, son." Marcus replied, still frozen in place. His eyes searched under An'darion's cowl, but he was rewarded with nothing save an unblinking stare of piercing blue from the glowing eyes beneath.
"If you must know," the Elf growled back, as if someone were intruding greatly on his privacy "I was struck across the neck by a piece of my home when -your- Prince came rampaging through our lands. Paid off a highly inept young healer to fix my throat, but this was the result. I'm only seeking a place to stay the night, but as you can see by my clothing, I lost what little money I had on that boy's work. I have food and a few things to trade, if you know of someone who might be so inclined."
Marcus again averted his eyes and went back to mopping at the bar, the redness of his cheeks indicating his feeling of appropriate shame at having called attention to this stranger's- An'darion Iceblood's, he corrected himself- predicament, and especially in front of patrons. However, he also felt appropriately angry at the mention of Arthas Menethil's recent betrayal, and suddenly found himself eager to get this snippy point-ear out of his tavern.
"Follow me," the innkeeper said, grabbing his own cloak from a peg on the wall. Andarion did so, shutting the door behind him as they left.
It was a short trudge trough the snow to a two-story home overlooking Dawnhaven's town square. A knock on the door and the call of the innkeeper's voice provided An'darion's entry. The pair were greeted by a lumberjack, of all things, a mountain of a man by the name of John Leman, affectionately dubbed "Long" John by the inhabitants of Dawnhaven, or so An'darion was told.
"Millie," Long John called, having shaken both men's hands and run his own once through the great curly length of brown beard that adorned his chin, "We've guests! And one to stay!"
Immediately from the top of the stairs came the woman who was ostensibly Long John's wife, and at the hem of her nightgown, a small child. They descended carefully, finally coming to rest on the ground floor a moment later. Out of respect, An'darion removed his hood.
The child, now clearly a small girl of perhaps six years, screamed in terror at the flash of deathly pale skin that hid beneath the Elf's hood. Long John made a sort of reproachful grunting noise, but the child would not be deterred. She immediately bolted from the safety of her mother's side and ran for the greater safety of her bed and blanket, though she didn't make it up the stairs. The leg of her red pajamas caught on a small crack in the steps, and she tripped.
Before Millie could finish crying out, the Elf was halfway up the stairs, the back of her daughter's head resting against An'darion's chest. Daughter looked terribly confused and was breathing heavily, her eyes darting frantically around to find out why she had stopped. Mother, however, was caught somewhere between a cry of fear for her child and an open-mouthed gasp of relief, her hand hovering over her lips in a sort of combination of terror and astonishment.
"H...How did...you... You...Emma would have broken her neck!" Was all she could manage, and judging by the fact that 'Emma' had been on her way from a full head-over-heels tumble, it was probably true.
"M-m-m-mommyyy...he's cold..." Emily Leman choked, eyes finally rolling upwards to stare into her savior's face. She squeaked as he smiled down at her. To her fearful, childish mind, it looked more like the smirk a lion would give to its prey, and that settled that. She was up again and a moment later, the door to her room slammed shut.
Millie Leman immediately lifted her gown a bit, bowed to the stranger, and brushed past him up the stairs, muttering apologies for her daughter, along with the occasional statement of disbelief, leaving only Long John in the house's living room, scratching his head. Marcus had gone.
"Well, as fantastic as that was, mister Iceblood, sir, I think we'd best be barterin' your room and board tomorrow. Any man who'll go out of his way to help my daughter is welcome in my home... Even if he's the one who up and scared the daylights out of her in the first place. Come along, now." Long John took his guest by the arm, and thought briefly that his daughter was right- the man was cold as death. Then again, there was a blizzard out. Awfully quiet for a blizzard, though... "We'll get you to sleep and have a talk 'bout payment after breakfast."
The snow outside began to settle.
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Long John's eyes slammed open as if someone had just felled a tree right in front of him. He sat up slowly, rubbing at one eye, and was greeted by the sight of his daughter, who reached up and began tugging at his sleeve. "Daddy... I hurt. Can I sleep with you and mommy tonight?" She asked, lifting her arms up to him.
In spite of his frustration at having been woken up, the woodsman grinned sleepily, reached down, took his daughter in one enormous hand, and set her down in his lap. "Did you have a nightmare?" He asked, his other gigantic paw lifting to run over his daughter's curly tresses. She had his hair, he thought, as he looked down at her.
Presently, Millie began to stir beside the pair, and rose as well. Before she could ask, her husband explained, and she, too, grinned. "Oh, she probably just hurt herself fallin' down the stairs like hat, John. Put her back to bed."
John nodded and lifted his daughter up against him as he swung out of bed, causing a small whimpering sound and a protest of "But, Daddy, I'm hungry!"
"Now, honey, you can't just go making things up because you want to sleep with your mother and I. You're a big girl now, and-..." It was then, looking down into his daughter's eyes for the first time since she had entered the room, that Long John Leman's blood ran cold. Just as he noticed the faint yellow gleam in her deep hazel eyes, he woke enough to feel the sticky mess beneath the fingers curled lovingly around his little girl's back.
"No...No, please, Light, no..." He whispered. In shock, he nearly dropped his daughter to the floor. She hit, and the soared through the air like a flea, landing on her mother. Before Millie could scream, her daughter's freshly-clawed hands sunk into her throat, producing nothing but a very loud, impassioned gurgle and a spray of blood across the sheets. He hadn't noticed it at first, but Long John's hands were now soaked in blood, as were his sheets. By the time he could snap himself away from the sheer horror of the situation and lay hands on his woodcutting ax, John's bedsheets were stained with crimson spew and his wife's head hung by a few threads.
His grip, however, was too weak, whether it be on his ax or the reality of the situation. As his daughter leaped again, the lumberjack swung perhaps the weakest swing he ever had, connecting with his bedsheets and barely succeeding in shredding those. The cry in his throat was one of relief as well as anguish as sharp, lupine teeth sunk into his skull, and tears fell from his eyes, leading to a swimming miasma, and then the mercy of darkness.
From the shadows of the doorway, the Death Knight slowly applauded the work of his newest pet. She stood upright and walked to him, then curled at his feet like a kitten.
Xynrael reached for the little girl and lifted her into his arms, first carrying her downstairs.
Once she was properly tucked away in front of the fireplace, he returned for her parents.
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The screams carried through the town square, shattering the early-morning peace of Dawnhaven. These were no feminine screams of pain, nothing that could be mistaken for a domestic dispute; they were instead the cries of a man in tremendous pain. Captain Darius Montgomery arrived a few moments later, still tugging on his helmet. Guards had already surrounded the home of "Long" John Leman- the house where their mysterious guest was staying. Marcus, the innkeeper, had already reported the newcomers, and Captain Montgomery regretted not ordering the Elf checked.
"What's the situation inside?" He demanded of the duty sergeant, whose men were already setting up barricades on the streets.
"Our men at the windows report three bodies but nothing else. Looks like all that time in the woods finally turned Leman into a wild-man. They say his axe is buried in what's left of his wife's neck in the living room." The sergeant reported, shifting his rifle nervously.
"Aye," Darius commented, tapping the top of his helmet twice to secure it over the chainmail hood and leather cap underneath, "and my name is Mary-Sue. John's no madman. Breach front and side doors. No one in our out after that until our men have swept every inch of the house."
"Sir, his axe is in his wife's neck. There's a butcher knife with blood on it on the floor beside her, it's fairly obv-
"Did anyone SEE it?"
"What? No, but-"
"Breach, you sodding idiot, or I'll throw you in the window." The Captain growled, thumping his Sergeant on the shoulderplate with the corner of his shield.
"...Yes, Captain. Dawnhaven Guard! Stack up, side and front doors! Prepare to make entry!" The Sergeant barked in reply, turning to face his men. He moved to join the team at the front door, taking position behind the close-quarters group that held shortswords and shields. The Sergeant leaned his rifle against the last shieldbearer's shoulder, and inhaled deeply. It had been a long time since they had done this, and that was attempting to clear a farmhouse in the Lordaeron countryside...
"Breach and clear!"
At the call, the two foremost shieldmen on either side of the house slammed their shoulders against the heavy wooden doors, then kicked the weakened wood right off the hinges. The sound of heavy leather boots slamming on wooden floor was all that could be heard, along with men shouting "Clear!" as they trod through the house, overzealously body-slamming their way through unlocked doors in their hurry to deal with the imaginary threat that dwelt within. Finally, the Sergeant of the Guard called "House Clear!" And the Captain made his way inside.
What greeted him was a grisly sight indeed.
On the floor in the living room, near Millie Leman's body lay a butcher knife, stained with blood. Further off, facing away from her, one hand wrapped partially around a clean slice in his throat, was the corpse of the stranger An'darion Iceblood, his blue eyes still wide and glowing. John Leman's axe lay between them, closer to Millie's feet- her head hung off to one side, nearly severed clean off.
John himself was slumped in a corner, a tremendous chunk of his skull either missing, or caved in out of sight. A piece of the mantle had crumbled above him, making the cause of his death fairly obvious.
The Captain lifted his helmet off, sighing heavily. Another day, another thankless waste of human life, all too precious since the invasion of the Scourge and the utter decimation of Human lands north of Stormwind-
"Where is Emily Leman?" He asked, suddenly.
"Sir?"
"John's little girl. Where is she?" The Captain demanded of the nearest guard.
Said guard looked at him dumbly for a moment, before brightening up and replying, "She's not here, sir. She must be hiding somewhere we haven't checked. Do you want us to sweep the house again?"
The Captain was about to reply in the affirmative, before he looked at the fireplace. It had a layer of fresh soot coating it, but the log pile where John kept his firewood was full. The guard followed his commanding officer's eyes, reaching the same conclusion almost immediately. "You don't think someone..."
"I think someone." The Captain glumly responded, moving to the fireplace.
More soot fell from the chimney as he approached.
"What in th-" was all he got out before Emma fell from the chimney, the greyness of her skin evident despite the soot that coated her from the tip of her head to the feet of her bloodstained pajamas. She leaped into the air, as had been her wont since being reanimated, and howled line a tiny banshee, her claws and teeth finding purchase just above the neckline of the Captain's plated chestpiece.
"GET HER OFF. GET HER OFF!" Montomgery shouted, dropping his shield and pounding at the little girl with the pommel of his shortsword. Several men rushed to help, but the little girl began scurrying all over his body like a bug, clawed hands prying at his armor and ripping at the leather that held it in place. She dug in to his joints, causing him to drop to one knee, his left arm wrenching as she bit into it.
"AAAGH. GET THE LITTLE WHORE OFF ME! SHOOT HER, SHOOT HER YOU IDIOTS!" The guards moved to follow his command, but were soon busy with problems of their own. The flue of the fireplace suddenly shut, and the corpse of John Leman rolled over, tossing another log on the pile before rising uneasteadily to his feet.
John and Millie Leman each seized the nearest guard, yanking them to the floor by their ankles. John subsequently ripped his man's leg off, producing a satisfying spray of blood, whilst Millie's sharp nails dug into the other's eyes, then jerked backwards, removing both eye and retina in one solid movement. She fell upon the young man, fists pounding at his helmet, teeth shredding into his lips, ripping his gums, and dragging his own teeth from his mouth with violent, gnashing bites.
The young man's tongue followed, and when his jaw had been satisfactorily devoured, she set to work on eating out his skull from the roof of his mouth upwards. Bullets sunk into her flesh and shots rang out amidst the growing smoke, but did not deter her. John again rose to his feet, having literally disarmed his first man, and moved on. Rounded shot sunk into his chest and stomach, producing only a mild stagger as he dragged the Sergeant straight through the railing of the stairs.
In the confusion, the body of An'darion Iceblood rose from the floor, unseen. The room was now filled with smoke which seeped eagerly out the doors, and all according to plan. He grinned as he heard the ringing of the bells over the town hall, and the yelling outside. Already, men with buckets were attempting to brush their way past the barricade set up at the end of the street.
It wasn't a riot, but as far as chaos and confusion go, it would do.
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By the time he had flung himself out the door and into the street, the Death Knight could hear the thoughts of the fallen echoing in his mind. Each individual mind he plucked and twisted, like a master cello player tuning his instrument.
And his instrument they were. Their bodies now filled with plague and necrotic energies, every single former life in the house was his instrument. The guards, the little girl- Emma. Sweet Emma. She had looked at him with the fearful look one gives a shadow on the wall, long before growing old enough to realize it is not a monster. But, she had also looked upon him with the trust one looks upon an adult. She had given him that mixed look even as he sat down on the edge of her bed and run his fingers through the curly locks that adorned her head. He had told her everything would be just fine...
Then, with one, quick jerk, he had snapped her neck.
Now she ran screaming from her former home, shrieking as loud as her little lungs could manage. She was on fire. Another mirror in the illusion- and there was plenty of smoke already. He needed more, however.
Many of the men carrying buckets and jugs of water from the town well shrunk back in horror, and a few tried to douse her or lay hold of her to choke the fire out, but in the trickiness of her childhood, she evaded them, instead throwing herself through the open door of a house across the street. Still, none of the eyes were on the apparently unconscious An'darion. All according to plan thus far.
The Death Knight reached up and grasped at his throat, blood pouring from the wound as he gurgled for aid, grasping at the nearest passerby. The man immediately dropped his bucket and began yelling for aid. Such was the state of the town with the rapidly-circulating rumors, now two fires, and missing guard captain and sergeant, however, that none came immediately. The remainder of the guard was attempting to hold back the crowd of onlookers, which was now growing according to its own size. The more ran to the scene of the chaos, the more chaos ensued.
Suddenly, he reached up, having drawn a sharp dagger with many individual, disproportionate, and curved spikes jutting up from the hilt from his boot. He drove it into the man's temple and left it there, watching contently as the pallor drained from the human's face, sweet lifeblood seeping down his cheek. That was it. The tipping point.
Using the blood of the human as sacrificial reagant with which to heal his own throat, Xynrael rose, and took his mace from inside the door of the apparently smoldering house. Those who had run in to the other after Emma were already crying out in horror, each one falling with little real fight. Trained guards, they were not, and the structure of the city guard was already crippled from the first few minutes of the attack.
From the houses seeped thicker and thicker smoke, and now, a press of the dead. His instrument now tuned, the Death Knight formerly known as An'darion Iceblood let loose the first chord in a flawless symphony of violence, death, chaos, and confusion. The dead let loose a great and terrifying howl.
Those who heard it and recognized it for what it was, and those being very nearly all, panicked and began to run.
Most were met with a press of the second wave of guards, but these were neither local, nor were they living. These men bore older crests of Lordaeron, ones far more worn than the tabards and badges crafted for the protectors of Dawnhaven. As they ripped their helmets from their shoulders, the soft blues and yellows of Undeath could be seen shimmering beneath drooping lids. The press of the crowd stopped. Silence of voice, at least, overtook the crowd as the fallen marched up the street, forcing the crowd further and further back until they lay, half-encircled on one side by Undead guards, boxed in and pressed further together on the other by the backpedaling living.
The Death Knight's surprisingly warm, but somehow hollow and cavernous voice rose above the crowd. "Good morn, ladies and gentlemen of Dawnhaven! Survivors of he Lordaeron Massacre... Well, not for long. If that didn't, let me answer you the single question that is burning in your minds: Are you going to die? The answer is, of course, aye! You are going to die GLORIOUSLY, and in service to His Majesty the Lich King! How, you might ask? Well, by the sword, obviously, though some of you might be lucky enough to be trodden on in the press, and indeed, one or twelve of you will be DEVOURED! All of you. Bit by bit. Probably while you're still alive, it really depends where my pets happen to land their teeth and claws first." He announced, leaning his arm on his mace as the remainder of his new pets made their way out of the burning houses.
The fire spread quickly, overtaking and dominating the dawn light in terms of brightness as he spoke.
"Or maybe you meant," he went on, "'How am I going to serve the Lich King?' Quite simple. My name is Xynrael. I am a Tundra Stalker- the first. Shut UP, or I'll let them rend you all one at a time, starting with your digits!" Xynrael barked, lifting his mace and slamming it into the ground like a judge's gavel, for effect. The crowd had become restless- whiny even. "Now then... Tundra Stalkers are Death Knights, as you've gathered. But, the instruments of our trade are different. You will be killed in whatever brutal fashions I can imagine. You will be stabbed with the weapons meant to protect you. The freshly-severed heads of fathers will be used to club their children to death. You will be eviscerated. You will be raped. You're going to spread the word about this instrument, whether you mean to or not. Allow me to demonstrate."
Without so much as a twitch of the eye from their master, the Undead fell upon the crowd. Their moment of hypnotized silence shattered, the screaming resumed, and the crowd broke, running for any clear space they could see. The Undead who had been turned before, those in Lordaeronian armor whom had been foolishly allowed in by the gatekeeper at the town's paliside, blocked most of the view of freedom, but some did manage to escape. When questioned by his new lieutenant, the former Captain of the Guard, Xynrael merely grinned, his eyes surveying the carnage with contentedness and great affection for the work
"Look at them, Montgomery. We do not chase them. We do not even touch them, and still they run. This is the power fear holds over them- a guilty man may run when no man pursues, but a fearful man will weaken and die where no man strikes. Whither we go now, they will fear, and they will break before us. Whither we do not go, they will fear the stranger. They will fear the shadow. They will fear the howl of the wolf at night and think that he is our call. And they will think on their own cowardice, and they will despair. And their despair will pierce their hearts... And they shall suffer, and in their old age and young sickness they, too, untouched but by our fear, will die."
Xynrael extended his hand over the scene, sweeping it to include every road out of the town. In the panic, fathers deserted their wives and children to the mouths of the ravenous dead.
Sisters left their little brothers to be cracked and split open like walnuts by the Death Knight's crushing mace.
The young men among the guard dropped their weapons and fled to the countryside in undisciplined terror, leaving the old to cover their cowardly retreat, a living sacrifice to the fragile inner god of youth.
The sun rose from its bed in the mountains, and shone brightly over Xynrael and his minions as the Death Knight stripped himself of his clothes and armor, baptizing himself in the river of blood and flesh that ran down the High Street of Dawnhaven. He submerged a lone member of the Scourge, and emerged reborn by the blood of the innocent.
He emerged Xynrael the Dawnbreaker.
Beneath the golden rays of light and a cloudless sky, Dawnhaven burned.
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