Also, because some of you are thinking it, I have no idea why he isn't wearing a shirt. But, nipples. HAHA. Nipples. XD
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Cold Fire
Also, because some of you are thinking it, I have no idea why he isn't wearing a shirt. But, nipples. HAHA. Nipples. XD
Thursday, November 3, 2011
No Gods, No Masters
((No Gods, No Masters is a belated Day of the Dead story, intended as a minor reflection on how a character moves through RP, and how OOC decisions made by the player can, over time, affect the character. In this case, sparing somewhat evil, obvious bad-guys altered Xynrael's character in a very grave way. The title is meant to reflect not Xynrael's attitude before this story was written, but a liberation of the character from my OOC decisions and those of other players. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.))
What of the Skysong Manor remained aboveground did not terribly disturb the eternal Spring air of Quel'thalas. The single structure, part of a smaller wing of the home, was weather-worn and looked as if the Wretched had been using it as Shelter for far too long. The grounds were clear now, but the shattered mana crystals spoke plainly of the most recent inhabitants.
A closer study of the grounds would reveal scarlet ribbons upon the ground, and spatters upon both walls and ceiling of the single remaining building. Between fence posts, crumbling walls, and smashed furniture, Xynrael had weaved for himself a tiny path of blood, also leaving behind crushed and torn remnants of the Wretched.
The sole building that stood as testament to the fact that this place had once been the private holding of some great family was the only one that needed stand any longer- it had been built the sturdiest out of any section of the house. The lone death knight approached the very center of the circular room that took up most of the building, and knelt, placing his left hand on the ground.
"Wisdom," he muttered under his breath, causing a hidden latticework of magical conduits erupted over the stone floor, and the center sunburst design on which Xynrael stood descended, replaced overhead by another stone slab.
The room in which he stood was pitch black, though the echo of his footsteps suggested the room was tremendous. He descended thirty steps, then stopped. The floor beneath him sunk two inches, and lightglobes levitating above pillars on either side of the room bathed it in a dim blue glow.
The room itself was covered in shelves. Wall after wall of shelves; a thousand years of books, papers, and records gathering dust in the darkness. Further ahead, the room was lined with weapons and suits of armor, and behind these was a single wall with a monolothic vault door set into the center. The door was nearly bright, as if recently polished, despite the gloom of the place and the scratch marks dug into he wall, which suggested that some attempt at forced entry had been made aisde from the door itself.
Upon closer inspection, the vault door had no handles, no bars; indeed, it had nothing to suggest that it was at all operable save a hinge. It was to this door that Xynrael strode, removing his helmet. Once again, he laid his hand before him, resting it as high upon the door as he could reach.
"Honor." He said, his voice rebounding through the halls.
The door strained with a metallic groan, then opened slowly as he stepped back. This hall was adorned with row upon row of gold bars- a fortune amassed over generations of the Skysong family, all of it untouched.
Past this, Xynrael strode, his boots thumping, the shuffle of his armor reverberating throughout the lonely halls as if an army were marching behind him. A second door awaited at the end of the hall. The first swung shut as he laid his hand upon the second.
"Duty." He said. This door was carved out of rock, but rolled aside as if independent from the wall in which it sat. The death knight strode through, bracing himself.
This room was bathed in an ethereal Light that had no apparent source. It caused his skin to tingle, and as he entered, the Light shied away from the place where he stood. Lining the walls were suits of armor, and in the center was a single blue and gold outfit- the arms and colors of a Paladin of the Silver Hand. Upon the suit rested a tabard confirming this, and at its feet, the gauntlets folded over its pommel, rested a mighty hammer.
Before each suit lay a stone monument, containing only a name and a date. Not all were armor, though some were suited of robes armored at the shoulders, with staves before them. Others were leather, green and gray with a gold trim, with the gauntlets resting upon bows, rather than any form of physical weaponry.
This hall of arms kept silent vigil over one final door, over which the words "May all who enter here find peace" were engraved. It was here, at the door to the final hall of the Skysong vaults, that Xynrael stopped. Rather than lay his hand upon the door, he lifted both and ran his fingers over it, as if the door itself were some inconceivable treasure. His touch lingered for several minutes before he spoke, the word catching in his throat.
"Sacrifice."
The last door slid downwards, disappearing into the floor. Another door of stone slid upwards from its position just behind the first. The death knight entered.
What greeted him on the other side was a very somber sight. Laid out upon low stone altars were stone sarcophagi in rows on either side of a long path. This hall was more narrow than the rest, with only room for the path, the sarcophagi, and some space to walk between each altar. All the nearer altars were undecorated an without engraving, but towards the rear lay some that had life-size stone sentinels before them. Each sentinel was unique, though all were Elven in stature ad shape, and each had unique features. Some bore phrases, prayers, or quotations at their feet, and the lid of the sarcophagus each protected was engraved with either one or two coats of arms, signifying heritage.
The statues were men and women both, and certain altars had two guardians, a couple laid within the same sarcophagus. Xynrael walked to the first that was guarded by a sentinel, and took to one knee before it.
Once a year, and only once in the last three, did he re-enter these vaults, on the Day of the Dead. He laid his hands upon the lid, rested his forehead against it, and wept bitterly.
Partially obscured by the leather of the death knight's right gauntlet was a name, etched into the stone.
"Here lies Jaevyn, the last Lord Skysong, who, with his blood and the blood of his sons, refreshed the free land of Quel'thalas. May his spirit endure forever."
An hour passed as Xynrael knelt, his arms laid out upon the stone coffin. His tears ceased, though not rapidly enough for his taste, and gave way to prayers in remembrance of the dead. Eventually, he stood, and made to leave.
The back wall began to glow, dark runes carved into it swirling with magic. The sound that came next was one of an unbearable shrieking, sharper than the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. The death knight covered his ears and dropped to his knees, but as he hit the ground, the noise stopped.
He looked up, and at first saw nothing. Then, upon the back wall, he saw another door that had not been there before; a tremendous double-door made entirely out of stone and otherwise solid rock, save for the seams. It was closed, and over it words in Thalassian shimmered brightly.
"Only the dead may enter here."
The statues, too, were glowing with a bluish hue similar to that which came from Xynrael's eyes, but he took no notice of this until misty tendrils began to twirl from the stone sentinels.
They took form, and in the darkness of the crypt, he could see men and women standing before him, their visages like light dancing upon a fog. Some were done up in noble dress, others in full suits of armor, but one in particular caught his attention.
"Father," he croaked, struggling to stand. "How..."
The Lord Skysong stood in much the same way his armor had in the center of the previous room; back straight, arms out before him, hands folded over the shaft of his hammer.
"A dream. A nightmare. Magic. The closeness of the world of the dead. It matters not." He waved one hand, lifting his hammer and stepping forward to eye his son. "The dead have come to speak to you, and you will hear what we have to say."
"Father, I have fought beside the dead, what more wisdom could they have to share with m-" The blow came swiftly, and was unexpectedly strong, considering that the hammer which landed it was non-corporeal. A heavy clang resounded from Xynrael's armor as he was struck upon the chest, knocked back onto the steps leading to his father's sarcophagus.
"No gods or masters has Xynrael the Frostbane," said another ghostly form, breaking from two that stood apart from the death knight's father. This was one of the Skysong brothers; the eldest behind Xynrael, once Daeyn. "And no wisdom but his own will do."
The sarcastic, mocking tone, as much as the hammer blow, brought a betrayed look to Xynrael's features. Rather than respond, however, he pushed himself to his feet. This attempt was met with similar results to his irreverence; another hammer blow fell, this time sending him sprawling onto his back. He groaned somewhat, but this time only raised himself to a sitting position on the steps.
"You have darkened, son. You were a bastard in life, now you are truly one in death. The Veil shrouds all things, but it does not make false nobility of them." His father reprimanded, the ghost once more laying its hammer against the floor.
"How mean you?" He demanded, expecting another strike, though it did not come. Xynrael was already beginning to understand that more of his father had manifested in him than he might have liked.
"You send messengers to wronged men, carrying lavish gifts and notes of apology," Jaevyn responded. Even as he spoke, the ghostly crowd behind him changed shape and form. The scene was instead himself, standing with the Vanguard's newest informant, a silent re-enactment of his orders that she carry a box of gifts to a man they had nearly killed over a misunderstanding.
"You lead men valiantly into battle, but punish them as a taskmaster." This time, a scene of him striking out at Jaen Peaceroot, one of the Vanguard's soldiers. Though the crime was insubordination and in many cases may have gotten the young man killed, it was overall a harmless case of running mouth. "Men should be punished, but for causing division. This one was merely voicing his frustration."
The mist danced before Xynrael as his father spoke. He wanted to look away, but found his gaze transfixed on the scenes that played out.
"You were once a champion, a protector. Men followed you into battle for your character and your leadership, not for your ability to plan and execute an assault." The image was now a wholesale slaughter; three of the Ebonhawks standing amidst the disintegrating ranks of a marshal's personal guard. The plan had been prepared by another, one Cadros Dawntreader.
The scene continued for the full duration of the battle, ending with Xynrael, Jaen, and Cadros making their scape from the Swamp of Sorrows with the Alliance marashal in tow.
Once again, the image changed.
"Even when other men would do nothing, you would go alone."
Now before him sat Aerather Sunrender, mounted upon the seat of his mechano-hog. A wounded Eriene Duskbane stood to the side of the contraption, speaking with the former Knight-Lord. Xynrael was standing, relative to the scene, where he had been that day.
Suddenly, Aerather lurched to the right, grabbing the female Blood Knight by her undamaged arm and yanking her towards him. At the same moment, the side car of the contraption unfolded, and he dumped her into it. Before she had even fallen into the car, a non-coporeal Xynrael appeared from over his own shoulder, galloping past on a misty deathcharger, which leapt into the air, bearing its rider over Aerather. The ghost-Xynrael dragged Eriene from the sidecar and galloped off, followed by Sunrender.
Rather than outrun him to the gates, Xynrael had stopped at the edge of Murder Row. The guardians watched, unmoving, as the death knight set himself between Sunrender and the former Knight-Lord's quarry. Knight-Master Duskbane commanded that they not draw their weapons, but the Knight-Lord drew his blade and attacked, landing blow after blow for not less than half an hour. During the course of the fight, the Knight-Master had managed to push through her wound sufficiently to return the favor, and surrounded him in a veil of the Light before another potentially mortal blow had landed. Eventually, more Blood Knights had arrived and diffused the situation, though no heed was paid to Aerather's attempted abduction or assault.
The reward had been a small, subtle thing. He had placed himself between an innocent person and someone who meant them harm, and she had protected him in turn... And offered him the tiniest glimmer of friendship.
Another shift; this time a memory of Xynrael's first appearance in Silvermoon, as one of the death knights secretly sworn to protect Sunrender- also a memory of the Frostbane's duplicity. He had defeated Sunrender's plans to kidnap Circe Shadewind by betraying the Knight-Lord's trust.
This had gained him allies, in the form of Taleal and her company of agents, who had worked against Sunrender.
"You were never one to shirk the pillars upon which House Skysong has founded. Now your personal distaste for men impairs your judgement- even when it comes to your own kind, who are already pushed aside by the world." The death knight winced at this; he was unsure as to what was coming, but he was quite certain whom it would involve.
Once more, the mist swirled, revealing a small scene that had taken place on the water of Stillwhisper Pond. The events were unimportant, but they focused in on a single face, one that looked far less embittered by time spent in the world, the Cult of the Damned markings accenting eyes that gave a nearly trusting look.
The scene swirled around the face, which hardened somewhat. The view of the pond also shifted, the face and body repositioning to a hill some small distance away. Nikkitah Blightheart stood there, asking his assistance. Xynrael remembered the events only dimly, remembered Treue whispering in his ear, and remembered turning away, convinced that Blightheart's situation was irrelevant to his confession.
The confession itself was one that would have resulted in execution, but was made out of desperation, he knew- he had simply walked away, after knocking Nikkitah unconscious and leaving the younger man for his 'father' to pick up.
Xynrael watched himself walk away, fists clenched tightly at his sides. "Blightheart's loyalties were suspect before this, what bearing ha-" Another hammer blow, like judgement being passed.
"You judged his position without proof. You were by duty and by pursuit of wisdom, at the very least, to explore it. That could have been a turning point in that death knight's afterlife- instead you sent him right back to what he had escaped."
The scene changed again.
He stood, watching years of memories unfold in minutes, and realized with increasing shame how much like the death knight he had originally been he was again becoming.
"Now you send your soldiers to do your work, hold grudges against men for protecting their own, wield the authority of your station like a weapon... Like a politician. A noble and a general you are not, but a leader, and only by your virtues." His father admonished, driving the final nail in Xynrael's metaphorical coffin.
The death knight rose, laying his hand upon his father's sarcophagus to steady himself. The judging eyes of the dead rested upon him, his own scanning the crowd nervously. After a long silence, he asked, "What would you have of me?"
The second of the younger Skysong brothers stepped forward without hesitation. "You must recover your status. Dead or alive, you are a protector. To lose touch with the people you protect, and the reasons you protect them, is unacceptable. There was always a reason, whether it was the sheer evil of that which you fought, the girl, your men... But, you believed in all these reasons, and fought for them earnestly, and not as a noble fights, from a lounge."
Another, this one clothed in fine silks and walking with a finely-engraved cane, stepped forward. Xynrael did not recognize him on a personal level, but remembered seeing a painting of him adorning one wall of his father's study. "You must steel your mind, child, and widen your gaze. The task that lays before you and your Ebonhawks is monumental, but it this manner of war requires no general. Wars fought in shadows need leaders and men clever, focused, and involved." He stuck the ferrule of his cane under Xynrael's nose, then tapped the death knight's chin with it before retreating.
When others had come and gone, at at last the reminiscence was over, Xynrael whispered a sorrowful goodbye to his father and brothers.
He turned to leave, still somewhat shamed by the events, but was stopped by the resting of a wispy hand upon his shoulder. "You are my son, whatever name you might choose. No matter our bents, we are guardians of life, all of us, and I expect nothing less from my eldest boy."
The two traded small smiles.
Again, the screeching noise came. This time, it did not stop for many minutes. When finally it did, and the death knight had unclenched his jaw and opened his eyes from the tremendous sensory invasion, the ghosts were gone, and he was kneeling where he had begun so many hours before, with his elbows resting upon his father's sarcophagus.
Xynrael rose, replaying the conversations in his head for a moment, the echoes of dead voices still whispering in his ear as he left, for the moment unaware that the stone door remained present at the far side of the crypt.
What of the Skysong Manor remained aboveground did not terribly disturb the eternal Spring air of Quel'thalas. The single structure, part of a smaller wing of the home, was weather-worn and looked as if the Wretched had been using it as Shelter for far too long. The grounds were clear now, but the shattered mana crystals spoke plainly of the most recent inhabitants.
A closer study of the grounds would reveal scarlet ribbons upon the ground, and spatters upon both walls and ceiling of the single remaining building. Between fence posts, crumbling walls, and smashed furniture, Xynrael had weaved for himself a tiny path of blood, also leaving behind crushed and torn remnants of the Wretched.
The sole building that stood as testament to the fact that this place had once been the private holding of some great family was the only one that needed stand any longer- it had been built the sturdiest out of any section of the house. The lone death knight approached the very center of the circular room that took up most of the building, and knelt, placing his left hand on the ground.
"Wisdom," he muttered under his breath, causing a hidden latticework of magical conduits erupted over the stone floor, and the center sunburst design on which Xynrael stood descended, replaced overhead by another stone slab.
The room in which he stood was pitch black, though the echo of his footsteps suggested the room was tremendous. He descended thirty steps, then stopped. The floor beneath him sunk two inches, and lightglobes levitating above pillars on either side of the room bathed it in a dim blue glow.
The room itself was covered in shelves. Wall after wall of shelves; a thousand years of books, papers, and records gathering dust in the darkness. Further ahead, the room was lined with weapons and suits of armor, and behind these was a single wall with a monolothic vault door set into the center. The door was nearly bright, as if recently polished, despite the gloom of the place and the scratch marks dug into he wall, which suggested that some attempt at forced entry had been made aisde from the door itself.
Upon closer inspection, the vault door had no handles, no bars; indeed, it had nothing to suggest that it was at all operable save a hinge. It was to this door that Xynrael strode, removing his helmet. Once again, he laid his hand before him, resting it as high upon the door as he could reach.
"Honor." He said, his voice rebounding through the halls.
The door strained with a metallic groan, then opened slowly as he stepped back. This hall was adorned with row upon row of gold bars- a fortune amassed over generations of the Skysong family, all of it untouched.
Past this, Xynrael strode, his boots thumping, the shuffle of his armor reverberating throughout the lonely halls as if an army were marching behind him. A second door awaited at the end of the hall. The first swung shut as he laid his hand upon the second.
"Duty." He said. This door was carved out of rock, but rolled aside as if independent from the wall in which it sat. The death knight strode through, bracing himself.
This room was bathed in an ethereal Light that had no apparent source. It caused his skin to tingle, and as he entered, the Light shied away from the place where he stood. Lining the walls were suits of armor, and in the center was a single blue and gold outfit- the arms and colors of a Paladin of the Silver Hand. Upon the suit rested a tabard confirming this, and at its feet, the gauntlets folded over its pommel, rested a mighty hammer.
Before each suit lay a stone monument, containing only a name and a date. Not all were armor, though some were suited of robes armored at the shoulders, with staves before them. Others were leather, green and gray with a gold trim, with the gauntlets resting upon bows, rather than any form of physical weaponry.
This hall of arms kept silent vigil over one final door, over which the words "May all who enter here find peace" were engraved. It was here, at the door to the final hall of the Skysong vaults, that Xynrael stopped. Rather than lay his hand upon the door, he lifted both and ran his fingers over it, as if the door itself were some inconceivable treasure. His touch lingered for several minutes before he spoke, the word catching in his throat.
"Sacrifice."
The last door slid downwards, disappearing into the floor. Another door of stone slid upwards from its position just behind the first. The death knight entered.
What greeted him on the other side was a very somber sight. Laid out upon low stone altars were stone sarcophagi in rows on either side of a long path. This hall was more narrow than the rest, with only room for the path, the sarcophagi, and some space to walk between each altar. All the nearer altars were undecorated an without engraving, but towards the rear lay some that had life-size stone sentinels before them. Each sentinel was unique, though all were Elven in stature ad shape, and each had unique features. Some bore phrases, prayers, or quotations at their feet, and the lid of the sarcophagus each protected was engraved with either one or two coats of arms, signifying heritage.
The statues were men and women both, and certain altars had two guardians, a couple laid within the same sarcophagus. Xynrael walked to the first that was guarded by a sentinel, and took to one knee before it.
Once a year, and only once in the last three, did he re-enter these vaults, on the Day of the Dead. He laid his hands upon the lid, rested his forehead against it, and wept bitterly.
Partially obscured by the leather of the death knight's right gauntlet was a name, etched into the stone.
"Here lies Jaevyn, the last Lord Skysong, who, with his blood and the blood of his sons, refreshed the free land of Quel'thalas. May his spirit endure forever."
An hour passed as Xynrael knelt, his arms laid out upon the stone coffin. His tears ceased, though not rapidly enough for his taste, and gave way to prayers in remembrance of the dead. Eventually, he stood, and made to leave.
The back wall began to glow, dark runes carved into it swirling with magic. The sound that came next was one of an unbearable shrieking, sharper than the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. The death knight covered his ears and dropped to his knees, but as he hit the ground, the noise stopped.
He looked up, and at first saw nothing. Then, upon the back wall, he saw another door that had not been there before; a tremendous double-door made entirely out of stone and otherwise solid rock, save for the seams. It was closed, and over it words in Thalassian shimmered brightly.
"Only the dead may enter here."
The statues, too, were glowing with a bluish hue similar to that which came from Xynrael's eyes, but he took no notice of this until misty tendrils began to twirl from the stone sentinels.
They took form, and in the darkness of the crypt, he could see men and women standing before him, their visages like light dancing upon a fog. Some were done up in noble dress, others in full suits of armor, but one in particular caught his attention.
"Father," he croaked, struggling to stand. "How..."
The Lord Skysong stood in much the same way his armor had in the center of the previous room; back straight, arms out before him, hands folded over the shaft of his hammer.
"A dream. A nightmare. Magic. The closeness of the world of the dead. It matters not." He waved one hand, lifting his hammer and stepping forward to eye his son. "The dead have come to speak to you, and you will hear what we have to say."
"Father, I have fought beside the dead, what more wisdom could they have to share with m-" The blow came swiftly, and was unexpectedly strong, considering that the hammer which landed it was non-corporeal. A heavy clang resounded from Xynrael's armor as he was struck upon the chest, knocked back onto the steps leading to his father's sarcophagus.
"No gods or masters has Xynrael the Frostbane," said another ghostly form, breaking from two that stood apart from the death knight's father. This was one of the Skysong brothers; the eldest behind Xynrael, once Daeyn. "And no wisdom but his own will do."
The sarcastic, mocking tone, as much as the hammer blow, brought a betrayed look to Xynrael's features. Rather than respond, however, he pushed himself to his feet. This attempt was met with similar results to his irreverence; another hammer blow fell, this time sending him sprawling onto his back. He groaned somewhat, but this time only raised himself to a sitting position on the steps.
"You have darkened, son. You were a bastard in life, now you are truly one in death. The Veil shrouds all things, but it does not make false nobility of them." His father reprimanded, the ghost once more laying its hammer against the floor.
"How mean you?" He demanded, expecting another strike, though it did not come. Xynrael was already beginning to understand that more of his father had manifested in him than he might have liked.
"You send messengers to wronged men, carrying lavish gifts and notes of apology," Jaevyn responded. Even as he spoke, the ghostly crowd behind him changed shape and form. The scene was instead himself, standing with the Vanguard's newest informant, a silent re-enactment of his orders that she carry a box of gifts to a man they had nearly killed over a misunderstanding.
"You lead men valiantly into battle, but punish them as a taskmaster." This time, a scene of him striking out at Jaen Peaceroot, one of the Vanguard's soldiers. Though the crime was insubordination and in many cases may have gotten the young man killed, it was overall a harmless case of running mouth. "Men should be punished, but for causing division. This one was merely voicing his frustration."
The mist danced before Xynrael as his father spoke. He wanted to look away, but found his gaze transfixed on the scenes that played out.
"You were once a champion, a protector. Men followed you into battle for your character and your leadership, not for your ability to plan and execute an assault." The image was now a wholesale slaughter; three of the Ebonhawks standing amidst the disintegrating ranks of a marshal's personal guard. The plan had been prepared by another, one Cadros Dawntreader.
The scene continued for the full duration of the battle, ending with Xynrael, Jaen, and Cadros making their scape from the Swamp of Sorrows with the Alliance marashal in tow.
Once again, the image changed.
"Even when other men would do nothing, you would go alone."
Now before him sat Aerather Sunrender, mounted upon the seat of his mechano-hog. A wounded Eriene Duskbane stood to the side of the contraption, speaking with the former Knight-Lord. Xynrael was standing, relative to the scene, where he had been that day.
Suddenly, Aerather lurched to the right, grabbing the female Blood Knight by her undamaged arm and yanking her towards him. At the same moment, the side car of the contraption unfolded, and he dumped her into it. Before she had even fallen into the car, a non-coporeal Xynrael appeared from over his own shoulder, galloping past on a misty deathcharger, which leapt into the air, bearing its rider over Aerather. The ghost-Xynrael dragged Eriene from the sidecar and galloped off, followed by Sunrender.
Rather than outrun him to the gates, Xynrael had stopped at the edge of Murder Row. The guardians watched, unmoving, as the death knight set himself between Sunrender and the former Knight-Lord's quarry. Knight-Master Duskbane commanded that they not draw their weapons, but the Knight-Lord drew his blade and attacked, landing blow after blow for not less than half an hour. During the course of the fight, the Knight-Master had managed to push through her wound sufficiently to return the favor, and surrounded him in a veil of the Light before another potentially mortal blow had landed. Eventually, more Blood Knights had arrived and diffused the situation, though no heed was paid to Aerather's attempted abduction or assault.
The reward had been a small, subtle thing. He had placed himself between an innocent person and someone who meant them harm, and she had protected him in turn... And offered him the tiniest glimmer of friendship.
Another shift; this time a memory of Xynrael's first appearance in Silvermoon, as one of the death knights secretly sworn to protect Sunrender- also a memory of the Frostbane's duplicity. He had defeated Sunrender's plans to kidnap Circe Shadewind by betraying the Knight-Lord's trust.
This had gained him allies, in the form of Taleal and her company of agents, who had worked against Sunrender.
"You were never one to shirk the pillars upon which House Skysong has founded. Now your personal distaste for men impairs your judgement- even when it comes to your own kind, who are already pushed aside by the world." The death knight winced at this; he was unsure as to what was coming, but he was quite certain whom it would involve.
Once more, the mist swirled, revealing a small scene that had taken place on the water of Stillwhisper Pond. The events were unimportant, but they focused in on a single face, one that looked far less embittered by time spent in the world, the Cult of the Damned markings accenting eyes that gave a nearly trusting look.
The scene swirled around the face, which hardened somewhat. The view of the pond also shifted, the face and body repositioning to a hill some small distance away. Nikkitah Blightheart stood there, asking his assistance. Xynrael remembered the events only dimly, remembered Treue whispering in his ear, and remembered turning away, convinced that Blightheart's situation was irrelevant to his confession.
The confession itself was one that would have resulted in execution, but was made out of desperation, he knew- he had simply walked away, after knocking Nikkitah unconscious and leaving the younger man for his 'father' to pick up.
Xynrael watched himself walk away, fists clenched tightly at his sides. "Blightheart's loyalties were suspect before this, what bearing ha-" Another hammer blow, like judgement being passed.
"You judged his position without proof. You were by duty and by pursuit of wisdom, at the very least, to explore it. That could have been a turning point in that death knight's afterlife- instead you sent him right back to what he had escaped."
The scene changed again.
He stood, watching years of memories unfold in minutes, and realized with increasing shame how much like the death knight he had originally been he was again becoming.
"Now you send your soldiers to do your work, hold grudges against men for protecting their own, wield the authority of your station like a weapon... Like a politician. A noble and a general you are not, but a leader, and only by your virtues." His father admonished, driving the final nail in Xynrael's metaphorical coffin.
The death knight rose, laying his hand upon his father's sarcophagus to steady himself. The judging eyes of the dead rested upon him, his own scanning the crowd nervously. After a long silence, he asked, "What would you have of me?"
The second of the younger Skysong brothers stepped forward without hesitation. "You must recover your status. Dead or alive, you are a protector. To lose touch with the people you protect, and the reasons you protect them, is unacceptable. There was always a reason, whether it was the sheer evil of that which you fought, the girl, your men... But, you believed in all these reasons, and fought for them earnestly, and not as a noble fights, from a lounge."
Another, this one clothed in fine silks and walking with a finely-engraved cane, stepped forward. Xynrael did not recognize him on a personal level, but remembered seeing a painting of him adorning one wall of his father's study. "You must steel your mind, child, and widen your gaze. The task that lays before you and your Ebonhawks is monumental, but it this manner of war requires no general. Wars fought in shadows need leaders and men clever, focused, and involved." He stuck the ferrule of his cane under Xynrael's nose, then tapped the death knight's chin with it before retreating.
When others had come and gone, at at last the reminiscence was over, Xynrael whispered a sorrowful goodbye to his father and brothers.
He turned to leave, still somewhat shamed by the events, but was stopped by the resting of a wispy hand upon his shoulder. "You are my son, whatever name you might choose. No matter our bents, we are guardians of life, all of us, and I expect nothing less from my eldest boy."
The two traded small smiles.
Again, the screeching noise came. This time, it did not stop for many minutes. When finally it did, and the death knight had unclenched his jaw and opened his eyes from the tremendous sensory invasion, the ghosts were gone, and he was kneeling where he had begun so many hours before, with his elbows resting upon his father's sarcophagus.
Xynrael rose, replaying the conversations in his head for a moment, the echoes of dead voices still whispering in his ear as he left, for the moment unaware that the stone door remained present at the far side of the crypt.
In the Fires of War: Duskbreaker
I am greatly troubled of late. The rage that once burned in the back of my mind, like an angry silithid drone buzzing about, has faded to background noise. It only comes to prominence when I go looking for it, or when it is intensified by something. There has been, these last few days, not even background noise.
In fact, there has a been a sort of peace as my friend lies here beside me, sleeping fitfully in a fever. The calm is strange, like a peaceful day after a week of rain. I welcome it.
As I write this, the blade that has been the source of my rage lies secluded in a dark corner not eight feet away. Were I to look at it now, I would think its wrappings merely a rolled-up rug or some such. This is not so, of course; I can still feel it. Through this medium, I feel the beat of another's heart. The tumult of her mind and emotions, and the calm of their serenity on far more rare a day are both as familiar things as those that come naturally to me.
I can scarcely remember a time when I lived without them.
- From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane.
* * *
Day One
Xynrael allowed his eyes to fall closed as he listened to the steady pounding of metal on metal, the quiet burning of the runeforges, and the telltale thumping of plated boots on stone floors. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a bubbling noise and the familiar gurgle of some ghoul being commanded to one end or another.
The sounds of Acherus, the Ebon Hold.
The Death Knight allowed himself to fall from his reverie after a moment, but that only took him so far. He forced focus out of the brief calm granted by the Ebon Hold's familiar sights and sounds, and began counting his materials.
Five titansteel bars. Check.
Twenty bars of Saronite. Check.
One shard of a shattered runeblade. Check.
A miniscule grin passed over his lips as two Disciples passed by, the slowing in motion given away by the clanking of their armor and the scrape of their boots on the floor. They halted entirely as he began stripping off his upper armor and took a runed hammer from beside the nearest anvil. As the shaft of the blacksmith's hammer touched his hand, the head caught fire.
From the stockpile, Xynrael grabbed a single bar of saronite and laid it against a moulding. His hammer fell. The Saronite yielded, and began to shape beneath the heat from the hammer itself.
It was forty-two hours before his arms came to rest again.
Day Three
The Death Knight stepped away from the anvil, his hammer already having come to rest atop it. He moved from the forgeworks to the teleporter that sat just beneath the balcony overlooking what was once Lordaeron. A tingling sensationg enveloped the Death Knight's body, then all was dark for but a moment.
When his vision returned, Xynrael was a floor below, in the halls where Disciples sat under instructors of greater power. In the midst of these three training halls was a single, lower platform, from which Highlord Darion Mograine kept a watchful eye on Acherus and the Ebon Blade. A quick salute was Xynrael's only acknowledgement to the Highlord as the lesser-ranked Death Knight passed Mograine by, in search of a book on blood magic.
The book was easily found amidst the small library kept in that part of Acherus, as was another on runeforging and the blades that Death Knights wielded.
The location of the brief passages Xynrael sought took several hours, but the reading mere moments. He shelved the books and returned to work.
As each layer was folded into the blade, he infused it with tiny, empty runes, storehouses to be used for very specific types of energy; to hold and discharge it at the caster's will. The hammer's strikes caused the runes to glow against the already hot saronite and titansteel. As each stroke landed, the glow brightened, then dimmed slightly, then brightened again, until the entire blade was afire with sparks and runic symbols.
Day Six
In his hands, Xynrael gingerly took the blade he had spent the last five days forging. The hilt was not yet finished. That would, by far, be the most difficult part. Various Death Knights had stopped to observe his work, but he told none of them what it was for; let them make their own assumptions.
The blade was alive with fire from the forging, but the runes absorbed the energy, leaving it cool to the touch. He ran his fingertips through a jagged hole intentionally left in the blade, the place where the last shard of the original Skyshatter would lock both blade and hilt together. Beneath the blade, unholy flames danced, their tongues licking up at the weapon, and curling around Xynrael's fingers.
The easier of two tasks done, he set about to the more delicate of the two peices: The hilt. As he set down the blade, he took from a pouch at his belt two crystals, each filled with blood. One of them glowed dimly against the dismal backdrop of the Ebon Hold; the other seemed camouflaged by it. He set the two together, and laid a cylinder made of sanctified Saronite upon the giant anvil before him.
With a flick of his wrists, the two crystals began draining blood into near-invisible grooves in the hilt. The blood flowed upwards, towards the still razor-sharp piece of longsword that remained of Skyshatter. It would be this that channeled the very essence of the wielder. It would be this that would make the runeblade what it was.
The blood drained towards a singular gem just below the piece of blade jutting from the hilt, where it collected, swirled, and stopped.
Satisfied, though with the faintest tingle in the back of his mind, Xynrael once more set to work. The unholy fire below the blade roared to life upon the anvil. As the hammer fell, the cleansing fire mixed with unholy flame, creating small eruptions across the blade. The point where blade and shard met crackled as they heated with opposing energies, then finally stilled. The blood poured from the crystal, leaving it looking dull, as if it were part of the rest of the sword. As it moved, the blood, too, mixed and darted from rune to rune along the sword, the power of the forger's blood magic infusing the weapon as the blood flowed.
The fires quieted.
Xynrael set his hammer upon the anvil, and lifted the sword. It felt familiar, as any blade formed in this manner should. The last of the energy fled the runeblade, which looked comparatively dull.
But, then, the blade had not been bound to him.
He took it up, and moved to the tremendous pit in the center of Acherus, testing the balance of the weapon on row after row of dummies. It felt awkward, the counterweight too high. Which was perfect, considering the person for whom it was designed.
* * *
Over the next few days, Xynrael sharpened the weapon and tested it against armor. It was heavy enough to dent Saronite, strong enough to withstand a blow from his mace, and, as he discovered with his ghouls, powerful enough to cut flesh and bone like butter. When he swung it, it sang. The noise was no sweet music, but the sound of a headman's axe falling upn its victim.
For a finishing touch, he drew out a long-unused litany inscribed on a long, heavy piece of parchment.
In greatest despair, still we must have Faith. Faith in ourselves, that we might be mighty. Faith in others, that we might never be alone. Faith in the Light, that it might guide our path. Faith in the Darkness, that it might shield us from that which we are not prepared to see. Faith in joy, that it might strengthen us. Faith in sadness, that it might teach us of our sin.
The parchment burned even through the leather of his gauntlets, and he was quick to wrap it around the hilt. Around that, he wrapped and tied a sufficient amount of leather to keep the blade from slipping out of its wielder's hands.
The last few hours were spent attaching final counterweights to the hilt, and then the blade was ready. He wrapped it in a long piece of cloth, and was off to Silvermoon.
It was at the forges he delivered it, into the hands of a young woman.
I give you the darkness, to protect you. And I give you the Light, to push back the darkness.
I give you Mael'fallah; the Duskbreaker.
He watched as she took hold, the runes engraved into Titansteel and Saronite suddenly sparking to life. They danced with energy, and turned dark. The blade turned with them, as did her countenance. He felt the power radiating from it, and from her, the darkness. She sheathed Mael'fallah, and wrapped it tightly in its cloth, taking it firmly in her arms.
In fact, there has a been a sort of peace as my friend lies here beside me, sleeping fitfully in a fever. The calm is strange, like a peaceful day after a week of rain. I welcome it.
As I write this, the blade that has been the source of my rage lies secluded in a dark corner not eight feet away. Were I to look at it now, I would think its wrappings merely a rolled-up rug or some such. This is not so, of course; I can still feel it. Through this medium, I feel the beat of another's heart. The tumult of her mind and emotions, and the calm of their serenity on far more rare a day are both as familiar things as those that come naturally to me.
I can scarcely remember a time when I lived without them.
- From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane.
* * *
Day One
Xynrael allowed his eyes to fall closed as he listened to the steady pounding of metal on metal, the quiet burning of the runeforges, and the telltale thumping of plated boots on stone floors. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a bubbling noise and the familiar gurgle of some ghoul being commanded to one end or another.
The sounds of Acherus, the Ebon Hold.
The Death Knight allowed himself to fall from his reverie after a moment, but that only took him so far. He forced focus out of the brief calm granted by the Ebon Hold's familiar sights and sounds, and began counting his materials.
Five titansteel bars. Check.
Twenty bars of Saronite. Check.
One shard of a shattered runeblade. Check.
A miniscule grin passed over his lips as two Disciples passed by, the slowing in motion given away by the clanking of their armor and the scrape of their boots on the floor. They halted entirely as he began stripping off his upper armor and took a runed hammer from beside the nearest anvil. As the shaft of the blacksmith's hammer touched his hand, the head caught fire.
From the stockpile, Xynrael grabbed a single bar of saronite and laid it against a moulding. His hammer fell. The Saronite yielded, and began to shape beneath the heat from the hammer itself.
It was forty-two hours before his arms came to rest again.
Day Three
The Death Knight stepped away from the anvil, his hammer already having come to rest atop it. He moved from the forgeworks to the teleporter that sat just beneath the balcony overlooking what was once Lordaeron. A tingling sensationg enveloped the Death Knight's body, then all was dark for but a moment.
When his vision returned, Xynrael was a floor below, in the halls where Disciples sat under instructors of greater power. In the midst of these three training halls was a single, lower platform, from which Highlord Darion Mograine kept a watchful eye on Acherus and the Ebon Blade. A quick salute was Xynrael's only acknowledgement to the Highlord as the lesser-ranked Death Knight passed Mograine by, in search of a book on blood magic.
The book was easily found amidst the small library kept in that part of Acherus, as was another on runeforging and the blades that Death Knights wielded.
The location of the brief passages Xynrael sought took several hours, but the reading mere moments. He shelved the books and returned to work.
As each layer was folded into the blade, he infused it with tiny, empty runes, storehouses to be used for very specific types of energy; to hold and discharge it at the caster's will. The hammer's strikes caused the runes to glow against the already hot saronite and titansteel. As each stroke landed, the glow brightened, then dimmed slightly, then brightened again, until the entire blade was afire with sparks and runic symbols.
Day Six
In his hands, Xynrael gingerly took the blade he had spent the last five days forging. The hilt was not yet finished. That would, by far, be the most difficult part. Various Death Knights had stopped to observe his work, but he told none of them what it was for; let them make their own assumptions.
The blade was alive with fire from the forging, but the runes absorbed the energy, leaving it cool to the touch. He ran his fingertips through a jagged hole intentionally left in the blade, the place where the last shard of the original Skyshatter would lock both blade and hilt together. Beneath the blade, unholy flames danced, their tongues licking up at the weapon, and curling around Xynrael's fingers.
The easier of two tasks done, he set about to the more delicate of the two peices: The hilt. As he set down the blade, he took from a pouch at his belt two crystals, each filled with blood. One of them glowed dimly against the dismal backdrop of the Ebon Hold; the other seemed camouflaged by it. He set the two together, and laid a cylinder made of sanctified Saronite upon the giant anvil before him.
With a flick of his wrists, the two crystals began draining blood into near-invisible grooves in the hilt. The blood flowed upwards, towards the still razor-sharp piece of longsword that remained of Skyshatter. It would be this that channeled the very essence of the wielder. It would be this that would make the runeblade what it was.
The blood drained towards a singular gem just below the piece of blade jutting from the hilt, where it collected, swirled, and stopped.
Satisfied, though with the faintest tingle in the back of his mind, Xynrael once more set to work. The unholy fire below the blade roared to life upon the anvil. As the hammer fell, the cleansing fire mixed with unholy flame, creating small eruptions across the blade. The point where blade and shard met crackled as they heated with opposing energies, then finally stilled. The blood poured from the crystal, leaving it looking dull, as if it were part of the rest of the sword. As it moved, the blood, too, mixed and darted from rune to rune along the sword, the power of the forger's blood magic infusing the weapon as the blood flowed.
The fires quieted.
Xynrael set his hammer upon the anvil, and lifted the sword. It felt familiar, as any blade formed in this manner should. The last of the energy fled the runeblade, which looked comparatively dull.
But, then, the blade had not been bound to him.
He took it up, and moved to the tremendous pit in the center of Acherus, testing the balance of the weapon on row after row of dummies. It felt awkward, the counterweight too high. Which was perfect, considering the person for whom it was designed.
* * *
Over the next few days, Xynrael sharpened the weapon and tested it against armor. It was heavy enough to dent Saronite, strong enough to withstand a blow from his mace, and, as he discovered with his ghouls, powerful enough to cut flesh and bone like butter. When he swung it, it sang. The noise was no sweet music, but the sound of a headman's axe falling upn its victim.
For a finishing touch, he drew out a long-unused litany inscribed on a long, heavy piece of parchment.
In greatest despair, still we must have Faith. Faith in ourselves, that we might be mighty. Faith in others, that we might never be alone. Faith in the Light, that it might guide our path. Faith in the Darkness, that it might shield us from that which we are not prepared to see. Faith in joy, that it might strengthen us. Faith in sadness, that it might teach us of our sin.
The parchment burned even through the leather of his gauntlets, and he was quick to wrap it around the hilt. Around that, he wrapped and tied a sufficient amount of leather to keep the blade from slipping out of its wielder's hands.
The last few hours were spent attaching final counterweights to the hilt, and then the blade was ready. He wrapped it in a long piece of cloth, and was off to Silvermoon.
It was at the forges he delivered it, into the hands of a young woman.
I give you the darkness, to protect you. And I give you the Light, to push back the darkness.
I give you Mael'fallah; the Duskbreaker.
He watched as she took hold, the runes engraved into Titansteel and Saronite suddenly sparking to life. They danced with energy, and turned dark. The blade turned with them, as did her countenance. He felt the power radiating from it, and from her, the darkness. She sheathed Mael'fallah, and wrapped it tightly in its cloth, taking it firmly in her arms.
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