Light in the Darkness

I have been dead for some time now.


It is at least fifteen years since the Elfgates fell.  Fifteen years since I was slain defending my homeland.  Fifteen years since I was reanimated.


I am tempted here to wax poetic, but the simple fact of the matter is that I am immortal.  I have died, and every time returned.  I have consumed the souls of armies, left a trail of destruction in my path, and saved nearly as many lives as I ended, perhaps even more.  Skyshatter swells with souls.  I think more clearly now than ever I did before.  I do not suffer insults, I do not grow weary.  In my idle hours, I only think and plan and learn.

In my time as Dawnbreaker, I came in to possession of one piece of knowledge that no one, not even the Sin'dorei, not even my own undead kin, is ready to accept: The Light is like any other magic.  It is not a god.  It is powerful, yes, but limited like all magic by the vessels that carry it.  It falters.  It breaks.  But, it is not alive.  It obeys the properties that are expected of it, behaving like a benevolent or judgmental god only so long as it is expected to do so.  I have no proof of this fact save for experience, but it is something worth exploring at a later time.

. . .

The world is different now than it was when Eriene and I found eachother in Outland.  It is a place slowly beginning to concern itself with balance.  Yet, the more this occurs, the more it rises up in rebellion against itself.  I believe the winds of change are blowing from Pandaria.  I sense death on the horizon, like a chariot driver carrying the sun across the sky.

I am determined to sit back and watch, and perhaps reap the harvest of souls where such a harvest is in my path.  There are, however, other preparations I must make.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Xynrael Frostbane stood in silence at the edge of the Court of the Sun, his hands folded neatly at his sides.  The eternal spring of Eversong wood brushed his cloak and hood with a soft wind that sent both billowing, but his form, accustomed to stillness, remained otherwise undisturbed by the tiny breeze.

There, from his vantage point, he watched, eyes scanning the crowds: Magisters, hurrying after their way or tarrying to speak to supporters and allies, whether current or prospective.  Blood Knights, marching in pairs, to and from varying destinations, and occasionally a squadron or two on their way to the Isle of Thunder.  These would occasionally look him over one by one as they passed, and dismiss him just as quickly.

Occasionally, a pretty young thing in a revealing outfit, usually far too revealing for her age, would wander past, breasts bouncing and hips swaying.  Some would give him a wide berth, others close distance far too comfortably and remain, attempting in some fashion or another to gain his attention.  Neither one nor the other garnished his attention, and soon, like the Blood Knights, they carried on.

Then, he saw it.  His quarry.  His prey.  A figure in the garb of a priest wandering past, one with the look of an intellectual and radiating the sort of energy he required.  Beneath his hood, Xynrael smiled a faint smile and advanced, clearly but not very loudly addressing the priest in his rumbling, echoing voice.

"Begging your pardon, I am Xynrael Frostbane.  I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something..."

Trapped

Xynrael stared up at the sky, which to him had taken on the qualities of a fishbowl contained inside a plume of smoke.  The entire view of it reminded him of a time when, as a much younger man, he had had far too much bloodthistle.  Things had been more colorful then, of course.

His mind registered a shock of pain as he attempted to roll over to his left, and he began the slow crawl through this strange haze to the place where his memories rested.  They were slow in ambling towards him, but eventually, mind and memory regained eachother.

He was in the realm of Shadow.  The Lich who had once commanded the Tundra Stalkers from afar had attempted to banish him there, and with the last of his strength (so he believed) he had taken both Lich and Stalkers with him, and collapsed the crypt holding the small army he had risen as their leader.  The effort had boiled the flesh of the arm he had used for the channeling, causing the saronite plate to fuse with his skin.

For a few moments, the death knight allowed himself to pursue the curiosity of turning his left arm over and over, flexing the muscles to see how it worked.  After some time at this, he decided the damage could be undone, but he was scarcely in proper form to carry out the endeavor.

There was a sound of a persuasion that mimicked the warped sight of this place behnd him, and Xynrael whirled.  The Lich was floating in to view, and behind the Lich, the Tundra Stalkers were slowly assembling and shaking off their various, dishevelled states.  Out of the haze, small, dark figures began to appear.

Without moving its ghostly face, the Lich spoke.

Always you are frustrating the plans the Master laid out for you.  If that is not enough, you have frustrated His plans for others.

Despite multiple uses of the word "frustrate," the Lich himself did not reveal that particular emotion in his speech.

"I have had enough of the Master, the Scourge, and the plans.  Better I should die, and you with me, than to continue playing these games."  Xynrael shot back, not even bothering to reach for the runeblades that remained strapped to his back.

Games?  No games.  It is the fate of a world you tried to stifle.  All things end in death, no matter how hard you may fight against it.  All things, except for this.  Does it sit well with you, knowing that even if they could save you, your friends, even your enemies, believe you a traitor?  You pushed them away in an attempt to protect them, and now not even those who once wished to see the Dawnbreaker return will attempt to bring you back.  You are trapped in here, with us.

The death knight nodded in response to the Lich every few words, until it was done speaking.

"Aye," he said, lifting his hands to the hilts of his runeblades.  "It was a brilliant plan.  Push them all away so you would believe I was preparing.  Keep you blind until the last possible moment.  Then, you did more than I could have hoped for: You opened the gates of this hell so wide I could drag you in with me.  You are making one critical mistake in reasoning, however."  Xynrael drew his blades, lowering them to his sides and watching as the Tundra Stalkers gathered around him, a small legion of shadows forming at their backs.

Arrogant.  Arrogant.

That single word, repeated, was all the reply the Lich could muster.

Undaunted, Xynrael continued.

"You seem to believe I am trapped in here with you.  That is not quite accurate."  The death knight set his jaw, dragging up his hood over his face.

The Tundra Stalkers shifted uncertainly; they had been severed from him, and the Lich had drained too much of his own power opening the portal to channel them all properly.

You are trapped.  Forever.  No one is coming-

"I do not expect them to.  This all I could have hoped for, but better.  I am not trapped in here with you, you soul-raping -FREAK.-"  Xynrael's voice rose in tone as his hands clenched around the hilts of his blades.  "-You- are trapped in here with -me.-"

With a lunge and a heavy upward slash, he decapitated one of the Tundra Stalkers.

Last Full Measure

The snow cleared.  As the blizzard halted, the remaining Blood Knights could see their fallen brothers, each writhing in an unholy grip.

Before them stood eleven death knights, and, on an altar above the entrance to a large crypt, a Lich.  Directly in front of the altar, but several yards away and apparently unconcious from the strain of striking down the Blood Knights and rendering some of their number inert, was Xynrael the Dawnbreaker.

As they watched, the Dawnbreaker begand forcing himself to his feet, raising initially on his hands and knees.

The death knights dragged the unconcious among their Light-wielding counterparts toward the altar, the Lich hovering forward slightly.  Its chains and robes fluttered as it spoke, giving it an almost grotesquely gleeful appearance.

"Now, my use for you, for all of you, is nearly at an end.  We will allow none of you to escape, but take heart.  A new breed of Scourge will arise from your bones.  However, this necessitates a certain... cleansing.  Spoiled fruit must be taken from the tree."

The Lich extended one bony claw towards the Dawnbreaker, who flew as if struck by a battering ram, landing in the snow.

"You are as impure as the Light-wielders.  You betrayed us once.  But, you have rectified what of your mistakes you could.  Your betrayal will be forgiven.  Your weakness, however..."  The Lich lifted both his hands, once again laying the Blood Kngihts low, and the Dawnbreaker with them.   The Knights struggled to their feet, but the Dawnbreaker only forced himself to his hands and knees.

His Tundra Stalkers moved forwards, forming a semi-circle in front of the altar, each one kneeling.  From the Stalkers and the intert Blood Knights now stacked in front of the altar, the Lich drew power in streams, visible, possibly tangible, and certainly strong.  The air was thick with the stench of the magical charge, a scent like burning flesh.

"You will be banished, all of you, to the realm of Shadows.  There, torment, rather than final death, awaits you.  You will suffer, and wish death, and He will not hear your call."

The Dawnbreaker, suddenly and violently removed from the Lich's power, shuddered.  He fell to the ground, gripping his head in agony as a familiar sensation enveloped him.

The voices of the Stalkers dissipated.  Their thoughts went from him in a snap like taut string being cut, one by one, until he was alone.  And there, in the loneliness of his mind, he once again found unyielding despair.  For one kind moment, amid all this, the voice of the Lich tore into his mind.
Your Tundra Stalkers gave themselves fully unto Undeath, by first giving themselves to His embrace.  You did not.  You are weak.  Impure.  Surrender yourself, and perhaps in eternal torment, you might be redeemed.

He felt darkness as the Lich's voice departed.  The darkness manifested itself in the form of an enormous portal, dark and murky as a death gate, above the altar. 

In that darkness, as he and the Blood Knights were dragged helplessly towards the gaping maw, Xynrael found something.  If the threads had been clear and distinct, this was jagged and hard as stone.

He clung to it, at first desperately, then angrily.  The grief succumbed, overtaken by rage.

No.

Fuck you.

Despite being dragged through the snow, he rose, digging in his boots against it.

They are all dead and there is nothing I can do about it.

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the Blood Knights, desperately trying to close the portal.  Those among them who still had enough energy, enough faith, called down the Light, but their commands and prayers were spent ineffectually against the Lich's power.  It was like witnessing an anthill attempting to stand against an avalanche.

Remorse won't bring back the dead.

The Lich raised his hands again, icy shrapnel forming in the air.  It soared in vollies forwards, accompanied immediately by bolt after bolt of unholy shadow.  The Dawnbreaker struggled to his feet with all the force of a ragdoll on strings.

But faith can protect the living.

This ends -now.-

The ice and shadow met with a barrier, so thin as to be invisible and intangible, and broke against it.  Xynrael's left hand was outstretched, and could be seen glowing furiously beneath his armor.  He fell to one knee, dragging against the portal's draw as the barrage continued.

The death knight's arm, then his entire body, began to smoke.  He was breaking under the strain.

It is all too familiar.  I have been here before.

He broke, but the shield held.  His flesh began to melt away frome raw runic energy being channeled through his arm, the skin first turning red, then boiling.  The scream of agony reached a pitch reserved for the hearing of dogs, but still he persisted.

"SHINDU FALLAH'NA."  Roared one of the Blood Knights, raising his arms.  The invisible shield glimmered brightly, shattered, and reformed.  A bolt of ice soared past, but nothing else came through.  The other Blood Knights picked up the cry, and the idea, and the shield, previously paper-thin, now held visibly.

But, they were still being pulled forward.

Xynrael fell to his knees in the snow, staring at his arm.  All that remained was the tattoos and burning scars- the heat from the energy he had channeled had melted the saronite of his platemail into his arm.  The pain was so great as to be incomprehensible, he simply sat there, staring at it dumbly.

This has to stop.  Why won't it st-

He glanced upwards.  A moment of clarity seized upon him, and he saw why.

Skyshatter, the enormous runemace that served as the source of his power, was to his right- he was being dragged past it.

He had a moment.  And only a moment.

Xynrael lurched forwards, seizing the mace by its pommel.  He shoved himself to his feet, hurling himself at the portal.  His arm may have been useless, but the mace, with all of its souls, served as all the fuel his legs required.  He moved like a blur, despite the plate armor, runic energy surging around him.

The Tundra Stalkers' blows were swatted aside, their magic running only into a solid wall of runic power.

Xynrael stumbled, dropped the mace.

If I'm going to hell, you're all going with me.

He lept upwards, unholy magic flowing from both hands.  The Death Knight could feel the portal tugging at him through the screen.  It shattered.

The tendrils found their mark.  As they seized, the Blood Knights channeled the last of their collective power, a wave of Light descending on the Lich and Tundra Stalkers.

Blocks from the crypt soared into the portal as the Lich's wavering focus destabilized the magic.

The portal turned in on itself, erupting outwards.

When the dust and chunks of rock settled into the snow, it became obvious that the force of the explosion had caused the crypt to cave in.  As the Blood Knights looked up, they realized they had been thrown clear.  Their inert companions were scattered around the remains of Xynrael's vampiric mace, which lay, cracked, fifty yards away.

The Lich, the Death Knights, the portal, and Xynrael, were gone.

All Good Things

The rage of war claims all men.  If you spend your days dancing upon the edge of a sword, you will inevitably fall upon it.

No story can go on forever, and, in truth, always begins another.  This is not THE end, but it is perhaps the end of the beginning.

There comes a time when every story must close; every life must begin, and every life must end.  Nothing can turn the inevitable tides of life and death.

They care not who dies, who lives, the threads of fate weave back and forth under the machinations of men both good and evil, who see not the pattern that they are making.

Just as no king can rule forever, so can no soldier fight forever.  Duty and responsibility would become repitition and damnation;  honor and love would become burden and pain.  These things, no man can endure, and not even the most evil of men should have to endure them.

The conclusion is inevitable.  As the threads are woven, so eventually must they unwind.  Madness and chaos is the only end, so long as we walk this path.

And so, comes the end of our story, a tragedy in two parts.

The hero does not always slay the beast.

One part is about a man.

One part is about a monster.

* * *

Part I: Sleepwalker

The sky over the Scarlet Enclave was already turning black with ash and smoke.  The fires burned only dimly- it seemed, mused the Dawnbreaker as he walked from street to street, that even the Light itself was abandoning this place.  So much the better.

The death knight's cloak swirled not an inch off the ground as he moved, each step measured and deliberate.  It was towards the Ebon Hold he strode, and in his shadow were twelve other death knights.  All were disguised in Acherus armor and weaponry, but the Dawnbreaker was familiar with each by simple presence.  They were his beloved apprentices, Tundra Stalkers, guardians of Northrend and the ruthless darkness that hunted the Light.

They were his children.

Where they walked, there was only death.  Where their boots tread, no plant flowered, and even the rocks and dirt withered away.  Where their hands touched, crops and hearts froze, and bodies turned brittle.  Where their blades struck, there was only blood to feed the advance of Death.

The steady thumping and clanking amidst the ranks of dying Scarlets was an oddly serene noise.  It had purpose.  It had meaning.  It had function.  The carnage had function, as well, but the Scarlets marred that function with their cries, with their pleas, and with their gasping, gurgling deaths.  The sign of life escaping them was a beautiful thing to behold; it meant another had been risen to an eternal purpose, rather than the individual worthlessness of a personal pursuit for contentment.

"There is no contentment," spoke one of the Tundra Stalkers, his voice an echo of Xynrael's thoughts.

"There is no peace," said another, relieving a wayward Crusader of his intestines and various unnecessary organs.

"There is no pleasure," this, as one of the black apostles smote down a crusader with a strangling bolt of unholy magic.

"There is no love," echoed a fourth.

"There is no kindness,"

"There is no passion,"

'There is no anger,"

"There is no hatred,"

"There is no lust,"

"There is no pain,"

"There is no suffering,"

"There is no life,"

As the chorus ended, the Dawnbreaker swept his bloodstained blade across the ground, and responded, "There is only Death."

The area around them was silent.  As the Tundra Stalkers had moved, so had they slaughtered.  As they had slaughtered, more servants of the Lich King had been raised in his service.  So far apart had they walked, though still each in his brother's shadow, that they had not been noticed.  They had not parted their lips, yet each had heard the other's voice.  One by one, they slipped away from the dying enclave, and stalked across the scourged battlefields toward Acherus, the Ebon Hold.

Last of them to arrive was the Dawnbreaker himself, who stood a small distance away.  He knew, already, what his business was; he was to observe until the time came, whenever that might be.  Until then, he and the Tundra Stalkers would wreak their havoc upon the battlefield, like true death knights should.

As each Tundra Stalker mounted a Frostbrood Vanquisher on one of Acherus' massive balconies, the Dawnbreaker chuckled.  Death was indeed coming on swift wings for the Scarlet Crusade, and he had to do nothing but sit back and revel in the carnage.

For his part, the Dawnbreaker did not mount one of the mighty beasts, but took to the field on foot, wearing the Acheran armor as if it were light cloth, and swinging the massive runeblade given to most of their knights like it was a toy sword in the hands of a giant.

* * *

The Death Knights, along with column of Scourge, were moving towards their greatest battle.  The ghostly hooves of their chargers and the trudging of the Vrykul left nothing to the imagination- death was on the march, and it came for the last bastion of the Light in the east: Light's Hope Chapel.  A place were mountains of heroes were buried.  A place were the Argent Dawn and its kindred organizations made council.

A place that, like New Avalon, would burn to the ground.

Near the center of the column rode the Dawnbreaker and his Tundra Stalkers, no longer adorned in typical Acheran dress, but wearing their typical armor.  Dawnbreaker himself held the tremendous vampiric runemace, Skyshatter, in his right hand, and in his mind felt the weapon's lust for blood and souls.  As they passed closer to the Chapel, he sensed them pass through something, like the faintest breeze washing its way through a forest.

In the back of his mind, he felt uneasy, but quickly silenced the feeling, lest it spread.

The twelve at his flanks tightened their grips on their weapons, eyes fixing upon an encampment as the column began to fan out.

The encampment surrounded Light's Hope, and the chapel itself was protected by a few hundred members of the Argent Dawn.

The Scourge column, as it fanned out, formed an army of ten thousand.

Highlord Mograine spoke.  The order came.  The Scourge fell upon Light's Hope like a landslide, and through the Argents waded thirteen Death Knights, aiming to get themselves surrounded and leave a trail of bodies on their path out.

The resistance they encountered was surprising, but hardly worrisome.  They did not now aim to make any kills; they were intending to divide the Argents, lure the living towards themselves, and then slaughter all who came.

The twelve and their master broke into the Crusaders' ranks, their undead flesh surging with the power granted by the aura radiating through the Light from Highlord Mograine.  The Argents soon fell upon them, blades and hammers swinging wildly.  The Dawnbreaker's death knights resisted the oncoming press, but very quickly found their streingth fading away as the Scourge forces began to fall.  Among their joined minds, it was the Paladin the Dawnbreaker had first raised to come upon the conclusion.

"They fight upon consecrated ground.  The Light  permeates this place."

Amidst the clashing of blades, there was no pause to achieve consensus.  Once stated, the others gave their acknowledgement, and Dawnbreaker replied, "The Shadow of Death will overcome.  Hold your ground."

"We hold; there is consensus."  The report was instantaneous, and at the exact same moment it came, three Argents fell.  The defenders of the Chapel were beginning to falter, but in the distance, Darion Mograine's faltering calls could be heard.

The battle began to break as the tenacious Scourge and the Light-infused Argents wore eachother down.  Around him, the Dawnbreaker saw other death knights beginning to falter, until finally, Tirion Fordring appeared, and Darion Mograine collapsed before him, the great death knight's runeblade resisting his control.  The call for surrender was almost immediate.

" Traitor!"  Echoed five voices simultaneously, causing the Dawnbreaker to raise his left hand for silence.  The torrent of thoughts came to easily to mind as he plucked at the threads binding him to his death knights, and all were in chaos, giving only a uniting cry for consensus.

Dawnbreaker gave them their consensus as he felt a dark power coming closer, and knelt to the ground to observe what had to be coming.

"Silence," he commanded.  "There are undercurrents here."

The entire conversation came within the space of a moment as consensus was reached, and just as it came, so did the Lich King.  His mocking voice rang out across the battlefield, causing Mograine to charge in a fit of rage.  The Highlord was swatted aside like a rag doll, and sent sprawling to the ground some distance away.  There was more commotion, and the Argents rushed forward.

They never stood a chance.  The power of Frostmourne overwhelmed them, swarmed around them, consumed them.  By the wayside they fell, until the unthinkable happened.

Highlord Mograine rose, and, with the last of his might, threw the Ashbringer across the field to Tirion Fordring.  The head of the Silver Hand raised the corrupted blade, purifying Light radiating outwards as its new master gripped its hilt.

The Dawnbreaker took hold of his mace and rose to strike, then fell back, clawing at his helmet in an attempt to draw it off.  The Lich King stepped backwards, grunting slightly as Highlord Fordring's blow connected.  As the King withdrew, the Dawnbreaker felt a haze fall over his mind, like that caused by waking from a long sleep filled with nightmares.

Suddenly, the Lich King was gone.  Darion Mograine stood afield, pronouncing his capitulation and that of the Death Knights of Acherus, and their intention to cooperate with Highlord Fordring's call for justice.

Suddenly trapped within his own mind, the Dawnbreaker reeled.  Amid the clamor of the dying and the cries for mercy of his victims, he heard a garbled voice demanding orders.

The Lich King had deserted them.  The Scourge had deserted them.  They had been left under a traitor's command.  And yet, the Dawnbreaker heard his Stalkers clamoring for order amid the chaos.  The Lich King's voice was gone, as was the voice of the lich who had commanded the Tundra Stalkers as they moved across Azeroth.

The Dawnbreaker finally succeeded in removing his helmet, which suddenly felt too close around his skull.  To the northeast, he saw the citadel of Acherus.

He could feel the Tundra Stalkers' voices fading.  Too much dissent.  They could not come to a conclusion by themselves.  Some urged to assault both the Highlords, others to return to Acherus and fight.  Still some determined to stay where they were.

As the voices quieted, leaving him alone to the misery brought by the wailing of the deceased, the Dawnbreaker found himself surrounded by guilt.  Without thinking, he took hold of Skyshatter, and willed the souls stored within the great weapon into submission.  The noise stopped, and the death knight restored his helmet.

With the runed focusing crystal atop his helmet restored to his head, the voices returned.

"SILENCE."  Demanded he, jerking his head in the direction of Acherus.  "We have been abandoned.  We have been betrayed.  We return to the Ebon Hold."

The first command was obeyed instantly as the familiar voice of their master silenced his apprentices.  However, silence was all that came immediately; he could feel the gears turning deeper in their minds.  What did this mean?  Abandoned?

Slowly, one by one, the familiarity and safety of obedience overtook each one of the Tundra Stalkers.  Then, like a child playing the piano, came the halting chords of their voices.

"There is consensus."

* * *

The records of Ebon Blade show that the Dawnbreaker and his soldiers did indeed return to the Ebon Hold, and aided in the destruction of the Scourge remnants located in the citadel..  Detailed reports indicate that not only did they fight in Acherus, but immediately afterwards disappeared into the Plaguelands for six weeks.  They were tracked by Forsaken scouts as moving through the forests of Lordaeron, culling or turning a legion of Scourge forces.  This, of course, made only a slight dent in the presence of the Undead there.

Their leader disappeared after the six-week period elapsed, and the Tundra Stalkers dispersed.  As time went on, they resurfaced in twos and threes, not fighting for the Ebon Blade, the Horde, or the Alliance, or even for the Scourge, but instead following the last instinct left to each of them.

As they passed through Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms, each of the Dawnbreaker's apprentices began slaughtering all in his path, and raising their victims as undead servants.

It was during this time that the Dawnbreaker re-appeared.  Individually, he sought out and subjugated his apprentices.  What became of them and their servants is unknown, though his recorded orders from Acherus indicate that all of the Tundra Stalkers were killed.

The final report indicates that the Dawnbreaker had taken a post as an Ebon Blade Peacekeeper, with vague orders to take up a posting in Silvermoon City as a liaison to Knight-Lord Sunrender.

* * *

Part II: New Dawn


As he slumped back against the edge of the bed, watching her walk out, a look of absolute terror froze upon his face.  The Sign on her back was the last thing his waking eyes perceived, his body giving way to violent spasms, then freezing in the conscious death of paralysis.

11:11 P.M.

The sound of roaring cheers deafened all other sounds as the gates of the Orgrimmar Arena flew upwards.  Above the din came howls more powerful than Northrend's strongest gale, the wind of their voices carrying down the crowd's name for the Death Knight whom they had paid so little to produce a service he might otherwise gladly have rendered for free.

"FROST-BANE, FROST-BANE, FROST-BANE!" They roared, each syllable chanted with pumping fists and pounding boots.  High on a well-appointed platform above the dusty arena say some regional lord or another; his status was irrelevant.  He came to witness blood and carnage, like the others, and he would get it, regardless of whether or not his prodigious backside was seated upon a cushion.

Xynrael the Frostbane had made himself a crowd favorite.  He had given himself no fighting name, and answered as readily to the one the crowd at his first match had set upon him, when he impaled a master of elemental magics with a spear made from the master's own bolts of ice.

The Death Knight this time wielded only a net as his weapon, and for armor wore only a leather harness, rugged breeches of the same material, and a single metal shoulderpad upon his left arm.  The warrior whom he was facing, however, presented quite a different image.

An Orc with heavy, spiked platemail, designed with edges so jagged the armor itself might be used as a weapon, opposed the Frostbane.  Strapped to his back, the Orc wielded a heavy axe with two viciously curved blades.  The weapon was clearly designed to defeat the opponents of its wielder with sheer reach and size alone, this fact reinforced by the massive reach the Orc proved as he took the weapon in both hands and offered a roar so vicious it nearly overpowered the sounds of the chanting crowd.

While the crowd itself had bet largely on the Frostbane, there had been enough money placed on the Orc to grant even odds.  This, the death knight deduced simply by the odds; two to one against him, and yet he had not been defeated.  Then again, the Orc had also yet to be bested.

Frostbane needed only look over the Orc's equipment to realize he had made the right choice.  The horn sounded above the crowd, eliciting a fresh wave of bloodthirsty screams as the two charged.  The Orc approached at a breakneck pace, but Frostbane barely a sprint.

Despite lasting might longer, the fight itself was over less than fifteen seconds in.

The Orc swung horizontally at Xynrael's waist, and the death knight, noting the Orc's early posture, stepped into the air.  The calculation had been flawless, the execution nearly so.  Surprised, the greenskin had faltered slightly, making Frostbane misstep as he lifted his left leg to plant that boot upon the Orc's shoulder, bringing the other up to strike his opponent in the face.

The death knight went down on the other side of the Orc, rolling, but leaving his net behind.  Suddenly, there was dead silence, save the vicious thrashing of the Orc as the spikes and bars of his armor became more and more entangled in the net.

What followed was a great spectacle, even for the Orgrimmar arena.  Frostbane, secure in his opponent's inability to escape the heavy weights after having entangled both himself and his armor, lifted his boot and struck the Orc several times square in the forehead.  When the latter's thrashing descended into properly delirious squirms, the death knight slipped both his hands into the Orc's mouth, and began to tug outwards.

The crowd roared.  The Frostbane would later hear of the displeasure of the patron in the elevated seat, who had bet a great deal on the greenskin, and see the etchings of said displeasure on the noble's face.  For now, however, he focused solely on the task at hand.

For an agonizing two minutes, amidst the gnashing and twisting of the greenskin, the Frostbane yanked.  Suddenly, with a sickening crack and a rip of flesh and muscle, the Orc's jaw came loose.  He proceeded to drive the former Felblood's own great tusks into its temple, then threw his defeated opponent's jaw into the stands.

He was still unsure, as he left, whether or not the fight had been a deathmatch.

11:26 P.M.

Zujibaba, the caretaker of the gladiators who dwelled in the Pits below the arena, shook his head at Xynrael the Frostbane as the blue-eyed Sin'dorei appeared in the arena's entranceway.  Behind the death knight came a makeshift stretcher, on which the naked body of a female Orc lay, all but one shoulderplate stripped off, her body broken, cut, and bruised.  Upon her face, Zuji noted a look that suggested the death knight had made good on his promise.

The Orc woman had strutted about the Pits, where violence was forbidden amongst their number, and bragged that no man could touch her or harm her, here or on the field.

It was then that Zuji had witnessed the Frostbane corner the woman, who stared at him defiantly.  He had spoken to her pride, of her arrogance, about her lack of self-respect, and complete absence of sense of proportion.  Then, before all the gladiators there, he had promised to rape her, and destroy her pride.  Not by spreading her thighs there, against her will (and he had noted quite accurately that that would have only validated the weakness she claimed the men of the Pits possessed), but by laying her bare in the arena, which was all that truly mattered.

He had gone three rounds with her.  In the first, he had broken her weapon, then danced around her like a madman performing a ballet.  In the second, he had ripped off her armor by its leather straps, but not laid a single scratch upon her flesh.

In the third, he had discarded his weapon, and beat her to within an inch of her life.

All this, Zuji gathered from the talking of the gladiators who had seen the match.  Many stared at the woman with a look of near-sympathy; others, however, stared instead at the Frostbane and noted that not a single furrow had appeared on his flesh.

The death knight retreated to the dark corner that housed his hammock, and laid down, closing his eyes.  The other gladiators left him to his own devices; he had not been bothered since his first fight, made no attempts to interact with anyone save the one encounter with the woman, and left his corner only to fight.

Zuji approached silently, and without looking up, the Frostbane asked, "What can I do for you?"  in a surprisingly cordial tone.

The troll came to rest upon his voodoo-skull-adorned staff, and stared down at the death knight.  "De question be, mon, what can Zuji do fah you?"

This caused the death knight to raise his brows, and offer up the faintest, most bitter precursors of a smile.  "That is a question I haven't heard in awhile," replied he, in a voice that suggested his words felt unfamiliar on his own tongue.

Zujibaba allowed his eyes to drift half closed as he watched the death knight, the troll slowly leaning right and left like a metronome, using his staff to balance.  "Hm-hm-hmmm... Mmmm... Zuji meny tings, mon.  Be seein' twelve omans.  Dey be cold an' dahk.  Be seein' a army ah dalls be-hine dem.  Meneh strings, and tinkin' you be havin' sometin' tah do wit it.  Dey tell me deh be meny peopal disappearin' to da west ah' 'ere, mon."

The death knight seemed thoroughly nonplussed by the information, keeping one arm over his face and remaining almost perfectly still as he replied.  "Let the others deal with it," said he.  "I have no cause to want to save any of this."

"Zuji be sensin' hate witin' ya, mon.  Deh be no hate wit'out love, an' sometin' tah lose."

In a flash, the Frostbane was on his feet, staring the troll in the eyes.  "What do you know of my hatred?"  He demanded.

"Ah know dat its' name be Kavei."  Zuji replied, ceasing his rocking back-and-forth.

11:49 P.M.

The blizzard was so thick that it seemed like it should have been consuming half of Northrend.  Not only did Xynrael Frostbane's boots struggle against the snow, but his arms and legs rebelled against the torrent of slush swirling around him.  Behind him, the death knight felt a hunched back press up against his own, and heard a slightly agitated mumbling.

The whirling ice that surrounded Zujibaba and Xynrael parted and dispersed, forming an eye as the storm persisted against the troll's entreaties to the elements.

Xynrael's eyes fell shut, and amidst the blizzard, he reached out with his consciousness, feeling for the last of his apprentices.  He and Zujibaba had struck down three upon the cliffside where they now did battle, saronite spikes resting in their chests.  The fourth and final of this group of the Tundra Stalkers was hiding in the blizzard, moving with the flurries around them.

There.

He lashed outwards as Zujibaba parted the snow, revealing the target.  Xynrael lunged, following through with his initial forward swing, which had missed by inches.  He collided with his target, sending them both rolling down a slope in the opposite direction from the cliffs.  Amidst the chaos, saronite and spikes of ice flashed, three blows connected, and at the bottom, Xynrael arose.  The death knight's armor was pierced in two places by bolts of ice, but his former apprentice's bore only one scar.  It needed only one.

Skyshatter had struck solidly, and the spike in the mace's pommel had connected with the Tundra Stalker's chest.

Presently, Zujibaba came sliding down the slope, holding his staff pointed at the fallen of the pair of death knights.

"Ya done gud, mon," remarked the shaman, lowering his weapon after poking the apparently dead human death knight once or twice.  "Now, we be takin' dem to da tomb.  Ya must quickleh be off."

"Off?"  Questioned Xynrael, turning to lift off his helmet and eye the shaman.  "And where is it your spirits believe there is trouble now, Zuji?  My Tundra Stalkers are no more."

"Ya know bettah den dat, mon.  Someone immortahl be havin' a looong destiny, 'less he be dyin' soon."  The shaman spared a tusky grin.  "We be sendin' ya back to da city.  Da signs be showin' dere be sometin' awaitin' ya dere.  Da Ebon Blade be callin' fah ya soon, too."

Xynrael sighed, then nodded gamely, glancing about at the rapidly-appearing landscape.  The blizzard was fading; a good sign.  "Very well.  What am I looking for?"

Zujibaba produced a small sketch from amidst his fetishes and trinkets.  He handed it to Xynrael, his grin fading slightly.  "Ya be lookin' fah her."

12:01 A.M.

 He had been laid down on a pink bed with far too many flowery decorations.  His head swam with the anguished cries of the dead, and when he dared look with his waking eyes, the room itself was a ghastly display of bodies.  Tentacles writhed from flesh long sucked dry of its blood, and faceless beasts danced madly in the swimming lights.

He perceived with these eyes two faces, at the same time familiar and twisted into horrid visages.  There was Allasticus, with the left half of his face sheared off, yet somehow still speaking through the nonsensical mass of flesh that had replaced it.  There was also Jaen Peaceroot, who had one arm and two fingers replaced with tentacles, and wore the pallor of the San'layn.

Rather than continue to witness this, the death knight blocked out his vision, welcoming in to the blackness a whole new host of horrors.  Before his sight, children danced in circles at whirling speeds, arms joined.

"Puppets born anee-eew
Eeeeyes a-glowing bluu-uueee,
Run quick or else they just might
Make you a puppet tooo-oo."

The death knight found himself drawn along in their absurd swirling, and saw not the faces of children, but broke, desiccated heads of young men and women, half-shattered jaws with split tongues producing the tune.  Their high, childish voices rose towards the ceiling of whatever strange hell had taken hold of him, and disappeared.

The whirling stopped abruptly, and Xynrael experienced the sensation of falling.  He fell for an age, jerking to a halt occasionally as invisible hands seized at his limbs, his armor, and his hair.  During the entire trip downwards, he felt a sense of guilt pressing upon his chest, then slowly closing in around him, like claustrophobia made manifest.  It crushed at his lungs and clawed at the edges of his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.

He allowed himself to see with his waking eyes, and for the briefest of moments, seized upon some part of himself not hunted after by the gods of the slain; a part that suffered neither guilt nor remorse, nor any other emotion.

With that cold, unfeeling thing, he dug his way from the dark mist, and emerged into his own consciousness as if he were crawling from a cave.

6:02 A.M.

He arose in the bed of one of the guardsmen who had found him,  and looked about the room.  The colors, previously bright and vibrant, were now dull an uninteresting.  The room itself felt too warm, the sheets too soft.

However, at the far end of the room, near the door, there was something that felt familiar.  Flesh.  Surging with blood, and with the throbbing beat of life hiding beneath the breast.

And the face of a beast.

The death knight leaped from the bed and lunged.

The moment of confusion that followed resulted in the death knight removing himself from Jaen Peaceroot as the poison's more immediate effects began to fade.  He took hold of his runemace, but resigned himself to being locked in the guardsman's room until he could be properly evaluated.

Resigned, at least, for the time being.

The death knight rose, staring at the fairly attractive, but somewhat time-worn face that greeted him in the mirror.  After a moment, he removed his shirt, and ran his fingers over his flesh, feeling the odd sensation of a beating heart in his chest.

The sensation did not last long; the unnecessary illusion began to fade.  His hair became limp and so light a black it almost looked gray.  His skin took on an unnatural pallor, stretching back over his face and form.  Soft, thin lips became cracked and lined, drawing upwards into a sneer.  The scars on his upper body deepened, and the lichfire in his eyes turned from a flicker to a blaze.

The sunlight began to peek over the ruins of Silvermoon.  He could feel its warmth pervading the place, despite the lack of windows.  As the transformation completed, the Dawnbreaker eyed himself in the mirror, reflecting on how ironically appropriate the timing of all this was.

He gave an approving nod, followed immediately by a pleased laugh.

"Good morning, sunshine."  He said, turning and tearing open a portal to the Ebon Hold.

Unstoppable and Immovable

((During our time on Wyrmrest, Hylaudius and I noticed a disconcerting trend among raid guilds.  They only recruited people who had done the content they were doing, which essentially meant that raid guilds were recruiting people out of other raid guilds, and no one else was gaining the experience necessary to see content.  Being possibly two of the only unguilded raiders who had actually seen progression at that point, we set ourselves to a task: Find eight other people who had never done this stuff before, and walk them right up through the first four bosses.

We usually one-shot them with people who had never done them before, quite an achievement on Wyrmrest Accord in those days.  Many of our raiders later went on to join raiding guilds, and Hylaudius and I were recruited into the newly-reformed Stormrise Warband as main tanks, where we earned the join title Unstoppable and Immovable.  This is an IC recount of one of our initial clears with a raider named Chichi-something, who disconnected and pulled an entire trash group by autorunning into them on accident, to the massive vent cry of "Chichi?  Chichi?!  CHICHI, NOOOOOO!"  While everyone else ran for their lives, Hylaudius and I did... This.))


You cannot help how you meet someone.  When the inevitable course of all actions and reactions, "fate," as some call it, leads your path to intertwine with that of another, then you must accept it.

One such meeting was a man whom I consider more brother-in-arms than a friend.  His armor is his skin, forged from his own sweat and blood.  His weapons are more like his hands- a part of his body, forged into his second skin.  He is a terror to behold, more alarming than any Scourge abomination I have ever seen.  I am convinced that he is seeking out Death, so that he might strike it down.

His name is Hylaudius Dorennen.

* * *

Side by side at Ashen Verdict forges stood Xynrael Frostbane and Hylaudius Dorennen, their hammers each pounding steadily.  They had been working for two days with no rest, and thus far, Hylaudius had shown no sign of stopping.  Xynrael was fairly impressed- this man was the first mortal to show such discipline.  From one of the Knights of the Ebon Blade serving with the Verdict, he expected such dedication, but Hylaudius had matched him swing for swing, and paused not a moment.  They had been repairing bladed and broken armor for the last week, and of the two, the living Sin'dorei's craft was proving better.

Strangely enough, just as Xynrael had, Hylaudius had kept his armor while working.  The cause was obvious- the two were plying their trade in the Crusade camp that held the gate of the Citadel itself.  However, the other smiths tended to rest or remove their armor and rely more heavily upon the guards for protection.

The two had met the months prior, during the initial incursion and the establishing of the camp inside the gate itself.  An especially heavy push by the Scourge ran the risk of overruning Light's Hammer, and so a few brave soldiers had waded into it, the ranks of skeletal warriors and Nerubian spiderlings breaking around them like a rushing river around a few stones set in its path.  When the assault has withdrawn, only Xynrael and Hylaudius remained.

They had said nothing afterwards save to exchange names, and from that point on had been working together.  No pointless conversation.  No awkward silence- though it certainly seemed to frighten the other men and women of the Argent Crusade, and even unsettle a few Death Knights that these two stalked about the Citadel, not speaking and unflinching at the sounds of battle and death coming from deeper inside the structure.

And always they were at the forges, hammering away.  Their two day marathon extended to three, and it was on the third day that they received orders to escort another set of reinforcements deeper into the Citadel.  The invaders had unlocked the teleporter leading to the nexus of the Citadel- the Halls.

Xynrael laid down his hammer and waited a moment.  Hylaudius lost no time- he needed fuel and knew it.  Without much ceremony, though also without indignity, the Paladin produced some bread, cheese, dried fruit, salted pork, and began to eat, balancing his meal on one arm, while using the other to tug his horned helmet into place.  The living Sin'dorei also began strapping on his weaponry, finishing his meal by tossing the rag that had contained it into the forge's fire.

The Paladin showed little concern for his companion as he moved towards the gates of the Citadel- Xynrael's nourishment would come from battle, he knew.

They lost no time in making their way inside, finding a small group of Crusaders and Knights of the Ebon Blade awaiting them.

* * *

The disorientation from the teleporter faded quickly after it deposited the men upon the balcony of Icecrown Citadel's upper spire, a place where, not long before, Saurfang the Younger had been slain.

Beside him, Xynrael could see Hylaudius forcing away the last of the dizziness from the teleporter.  Though the other man was standing perfectly still, his hesitance indicated the agitation caused by the magical displacement.  This was replaced quickly by determination, as Hylaudius called over his shoulder, "Move!"

Xynrael fell in beside him as they headed through the gates leading deeper in.  Rather than walk, however, Dorennen set the pace at a brisk run.

The Crusaders and Knights kept up as best they could, however, one broke pace and ran ahead; an impetuous young ranger whom Xynrael knew was affectionately referred to by his comrades as "Chichi."

The pair gave it no heed, but as they rounded the corner and entered the Citadel itself, bypassing a non-functional transporter, they could see "Chichi" getting too far ahead.  Hylaudius was the first to notice the geists crawling along the underside of the walkways leading to the great center teleporter.

"Chichi, no!  Stop!"  Hylaudius commanded.

"Hold, everyone hold!"  Xynrael called out, the group grinding to a halt just as a swarm of geists erupted from beneath the walkways.  "Chichi" was immediately enveloped and dragged over the edge, his head ripped from his shoulders and falling separately from his body.  The site was gruesome, but not nearly as worrisome as that which spread out from the Plague quarter to greet them.

Hylaudius  eyed the geists, then the pair of abominations and several plagued monstrosities that were rapidly advancing towards the group.  He looked at Xynrael, then back at them, as if balancing something in his mind.

Xynrael already knew what the result would be.  "On to the Hall of Blood!  The champions of the Crusade will meet you there."  He snapped this in an instant, and the Crusaders and Knights moved onwards, producing a tremendous clattering as they ran across the catwalks.

The two stood abreast, Hylaudius's armor creaking as he relaxed in preparation for the coming onslaught.  Without glancing at his companion, he asked, "Geists, or abominations?"  The question was impassive; likened to an inquiry as to an inquiry as to whether one wanted cream or sugar with their tea.

"Half and half," Xynrael replied, lifting Skyshatter up towards his chest.

The paladin nodded and ran forward setting his shield upon his back and coming to a sudden halt by dropping to one knee and sliding the rest of the way, producing an insufferable grinding noise and sending sparks flying as the metal of his armor connected with the walkway.

Xynrael was close on his heels, but kept going.  Just as Hylaudius planted his palm to the ground, the death knight's boot connected with Hylaudius' back, providing him with leverage to leap over the geists and land deeper into their ranks. 

The paladin rose, restoring his shield to its rightful place just as the first of the geists came in range to jump towards Hylaudius.  For its efforts, it recieved a light-charged bash to the face.  The entire effort had taken less than a second,, executed in one fluid motion, and when Hylaudius lowered his shield, he saw Xynrael had cleared the stairs upon which they had been elevated, and landed on another geist, crushing it to death.  Had he had time, the paladin might have grinned.

Instead, Hylaudius made his way down the stairs, no battle cry accompanying him.  An aura of burning light surrounded the paladin as he cut and smashed his way through the geists with axe and shield, every connecting blow from him leaving a light-charged burn or eruption on his targets.  Every strike landing on his armor produced no effect but a reactive jolt from the aura about him, sending his opponents sprawling.  He was making his way towards one of the pair of abominations, which was wading its way through the falling geists, one swollen eye fixed on Hylaudius.

Xynrael swung his weapon like a wrecking ball, every geist that leaped upon him soaring backwards into its compatriots.  Hylaudius' method had gone well; sending the death knight flying into their ranks had disrupted the Scourge's assault, forcing their troops to divide and focus on both at once, or be slaughtered from one side.  The geists did not last long, the size of the walkways having required them to clamber forwards in a wave, rather than split up and swarm their targets.

Hylaudius' abomination was drawing closer, obscuring the paladin's vision of the havoc being wreaked by his companion; a potentially deadly inconvenience if something went wrong.  The abomination roared and hollered, swinging the massive meathook held to its left arm by a chain.  Rather than prepare to defend himself, Hylaudius raised his axe.

The abomination drew its arm back to send the meathook flying.

Hylaudius released.

The axe connected first, landing squarely in the center of the abomination's head just as the fleshbeast lunged forward.  Rather than throw the meathook, however, it stumbled a few feet and crashed to the ground, its grotesque head landing directly in front of Hylaudius' left boot.  The paladin retrieved his axe and immediately stomped his way over the abomination's head, heading straight for Xynrael.

The death knight seemed to be toying with his fleshy construct, content to smash in each of the abomination's various arms as it swung at him.  Hylaudius watched for a moment as the scene had unfolded, but ceased to be amused when Xynrael had disabled all five limbs.

"We must go, Frostbane!"  Hylaudius reminded, moving forward to assist.

The abomination writhed and twisted as it fell to the ground, broken limbs flailing.  Xynrael moved around the creature, ducking one swing of an arm that was twisted at even more awkward an angle than it had initially been.  Hylaudius paused his advance as the death knight jammed one hand into the patchwork creature's eye, producing a gurgling howl, then silence.

When Xynrael withdrew, a bloody mess of what had probably once been brains, blood vessels, and nerve endings came out in his palm.  "Sorry, took me a bit longer.  No axe."  He said, hurling the mass over the edge of the walkway and down towards the Forge of Souls.

"We'll have to fix that," Hylaudius replied, as they left the carnage behind them, heading for the teleporter.

Over the Edge

The sound of heavy footfalls on the stone floor brought Xynrael's attention out of his documents and back to the world, however, he did not snap up to look.  Instead, he listened for a moment.  The boots themselves were leather, covered by platemail.  The light shuffling indicated that the armor itself was not very bulky, and the telltale "clank, clank" indicated a longsword held at the hip.

The even pace suggested no immediately aggressive intent, causing the death knight to gradually look up from the lounge on which he had seated himself.

The Blood Knight Laehym Adrastus stood before Xynrael, a small folder in one hand, the other resting easily on the pommel of his blade.  The two regarded eachother for a brief time, then Laehym extended his hand, offering Xynrael the document.

"We found him," he stated easily, as if the words explained it all.

Silence reigned again as Xynrael looked over the file, his brows knitting together in great concentration.  Laehym simply stood, hands folded over his weapon's hilt, as the death knight read deeper and deeper into the file.  Eventually, he reached the end, and, folding the document shut, stared down at it as if in disbelief.

"Shadowmoon," he muttered, "with an army of whores.  I should have known.  The information is current?"

Laehym nodded in reply.

Xynrael rose immediately, lifting his mace onto his back and offering both his own folder and the one Laehym had given him back to the Blood Knight.  "You'll be certain these get to where they need to go?"  He asked, quickly pulling up his hood.

"Aye," Laehym responded, calling after Xynrael.  "And be careful!"

The heavy sound of plate thumping and scraping barely kept up with Xynrael's bleak visage as he fled the inn.

* * *

Xynrael's fingers tensed around Ironheart's reins  as the drake rapidly approached the Dark Portal.  The flapping of its wings on the winds gave just enough background noise that he could turn silently introspective.  The Portal came quickly into view as the death knight's thoughts descended into memory, memories of the man he was heading to Outland to slay- a job three years in the making now.  Something he should have done before.

"But how, Xynrael?  How do I protect them without becoming the monster everyone thinks I am?"

As the conversation in his head grew louder, Xynrael's fingers tensed further, holding the reins so tightly the leather of his gloves was digging into itself and chafing against the skin of his palms.

"Sometimes you can't.  But, you must, above all other things, pledge your loyalty to the people.  The flag doesn't matter, Aerather.  The popularity contest doesn't matter.  But, you must keep them safe.  Collateral damage isn't acceptable- one innocent life for ten still means you sacrificed one innocent life.  It means you failed."

The sight of the old fortifications only served as a backdrop for Xynrael's memory, and failed to jar him from his reverie.

"I'm going to burn this city to the ground.  These people aren't worth protecting.  They never were.  They never will be."

"That may be, Aerather.  But, I still have a place here.  I won't help you if you and your Felbloods come for them."
"And what place is that?"

"Right here.  Between you and those gates."

The drake passed through.  The portal swirled and enveloped both drake and rider, and on the other side produced them.  The great metal beast lost no momentum as it soared through the broken sky of Outland, turning south from the Hellfire Peninsula towards Shadowmoon Valley.  A stretch of the Twisting  Nether was all that lay below them, and still the death knight was unseeing, his eyes clouded over with images from the past.

"Stop this!  Do not draw your weapons!"

The sharp song of metal cutting through the air rang out, Xynrael stepping between Eriene and Aerather.  His crossed arms caught and held Silithrim, Aerather's longsword, between them, stopping it cold against his armguards.  Aerather simply swung around, heaving another blow, this one sending a hammer of pure Light towards the death knight's face.

A barrier of runic energy met the hammer, which crashed against it and shattered.  Aerather resumed his assault, this time bringing Silithrim up in diagonal swing, which met Xynrael's left legplate, causing the death knight to shift balance.
As the drake touched down at the northeast end of Shadowmoon Valley, Xynrael finally awoke, jarred from his recollection of his last fight with the man he was about to attempt to kill.  He tugged his hood up further a bit, so that it fell forward nearly over his eyes, and moved forward into the Valley's starlit mountains, seeking the compound he knew was tucked away within.

* * *

Aerather Sunrender leaned back on a massive, purple lounge, dismissing the two women who had been kneeling before him with a wave of his hand.  For but a moment, he allowed himself the fleeting, now-fading pleasure of surveying the den of decadence and fel-corruption that surrounded him, and fueled his attempts to ascend to a fully fel-possessed creature.

The touch of corruption no longer disturbed him by way of sight or feeling, and had long since lost its novelty.  As he once again donned his armor, he reflected that what he had become would shock any ordinary man, and perhaps many not-so-ordinary men.  The veins in his blood pulsed green with his heartbeat, his eyes were aglow in such a way as to rival most death knights', and his muscles and flesh had long since begun to turn purple.  The locks of black hair which had once been kept in a neat ponytail now swirled around a set of demonic horns.

So thorough was the corruption to which he had subjected himself that his bodily fluids would likely be lethal to non-corrupted creatures in large enough a dose, which is why he was fortunate that the harem surrounding him was quite thoroughly fel-tainted themselves.  This was reinforced in his mind as he watched the two most recently used languish in front of a demonic crystal, siphoning the fel magic from it as if they were drinking from a spout.

As Aerather reached out to consume a crystal himself, there was a great commotion and a metallic rattling at the top of the stairs leading down into his compound.

Two women, once guards and now corpses, came sailing down the stairs.  One of them struck the stairwell with her head and bent backwards, and audible crack resounding as the entirety of her neck snapped.  Another one was already dead, her chest both crushed inward and cleaved ope, and somehow already seeping with maggots.

Aerather's eyes narrowed; he recognized the tell-tale mark, but only just.  The weapon that caused the mark was largely unfamiliar to him.

The savagery, however...

There was more noise as the women of his harem rushed to the walls, pulling down weapons rom racks and preparing to defend their benefactor.  Their movements and density would likely have obscured anyone else, but the death knight that crouched slightly to enter the room was unmistakable, even with his hood casting shadows on his face.

"Xynrael," Aerather intoned, brows raising slightly.  "What an unpleasant surprise."

The women hesitated as the death knight lifted his runemace onto his shoulder.  "Spare me the banter, Aerather."  He snapped in reply, the echo of his voice carrying the harshness of his words to every corner of the lounging area.  The two addressed eachother over the heads of Aerather's harem; there was little other way to do it.  The women were too many in number to speak otherwise.

"I believe I've earned a few words with a man who was once like a brother to me.  I'm shocked you haven't come to join me, what with how all those precious people you wanted to protect have been treating you.  Tell me, how IS Eriene?  Nikkitah?  Oh, and what about the men and women who wear your colors?"  Aerather shot back, once more dropping into his loung chair, shield laid over his lap, Silithrim resting point-down against the floor and held upright by his right hand.

"Getting on fine without you," Xynrael answered, moving forwards, causing a rippling shift in the mass of women before him.

"I'm sure.  Without someone to pin their disparate bickering on, they've probably descended into chaos.  Face it, Xynrael, Silvermoon was a better place with me.  At least they had one enemy.  But, I got tired of thanklessly bearing their burdens.  How is it treating YOU, oh great protector?"

"Let me show you."  Xynrael's first swing shattered weapons and skulls, knocking back a wave of the women who were now pressing in around him.  Aerather turned and withdrew, but did not flee.  He departed the carnage, heading for an altar that extended out of the side of the Valley itself, out over the Twisting Nether.

For his part, the death knight began wading through wave after wave of the women.  Though drunk and empowered by fel energies, they broke around him, most of their strikes only scoring hits against his armor.

Their numbers worked to his advantage, each death and spray of blood fueling his ability to fight on, as Aerather suspected they would.  The former Knight-Lord took a knee before the altar, not to worship, but to brace himself, and immediately extended both hands.  From the massive crystal at its center, he drew in wave after wave of demonic magic, his body heaving and buckling with the ecstacy of devouring so much power at once.

The ranks began to thin; with each swing, each spent rune, each spray of blood, and each death, Skyshatter struck all the harder, the runic discharge from the mace's blows leaving the room stinking of burnt flesh.

By the time Xynrael had waded through to the hallway, most of Aerather's harem was dead, dying, or sufficiently injured to feign it and attempt to escape death.  The women possessed little combative skill, and none could have been very effective in a mob that thick; the room itself and his sheer size forced them to engage him only a few at a time, an advantage for which the death knight was grateful in retrospect.  This, especially because the women were unarmored, so Skyshatter tossed their weapons aside like twigs, and destroyed their flesh as an ogre might crush a rabbit by stepping on it.

The result of this was that Xynrael was drenched in blood from his hood to his boots as he marched down the hallway towards Aerather's altar.

"Look at you, Xynrael!"  Aerather roared as he rose, his body still soaking in the fel magic.  He turned to face the death knight, felfire burning in his hands, his veins alight as if glowbugs were surging through them.  "Bathed in the blood of innocent women!  Why couldn't you have done that before?  It is exactly what I did: Taking a few lives to get the important things done!"

"No, Aerather."  Xynrael said, lifting Skyshatter in both hands, but not quite striking.   It would be over quickly, one way or another.  The two men could spare a moment to speak.  "It is not the same.  I slew the irrevocably corrupt to reach the irrevocably corrupt.  They knew what you were, and still protected you.  Others protected you because they did not know.  They thought you were a savior."

"I would have been their savior!  But, instead, they- YOU- tossed me aside and pinned all your sins, all of Avanda's sins, on me!"  Aerather replied, drawing Silithrim from his side.  "I united Silvermoon.  I contained Avanda, I even kept Nikkitah and that gang of rabid dogs in check!  And -YOU- tried to protect them."

Xynrael exhaled slowly, and thought a moment.  Finally, fixing the piercing blue of his eyes on Aerather's own corrupt visage, he responded, "And it was you that beat them and whipped them until they learned to bite at every passing stranger.  It was you who would have had me turn Nikkitah into a killing machine.  Probably so you would have had one to rival me in case I ever decided to simply gut you."

Aerather's lips twisted into a sadistic grin.  He opened his mouth to speak.

Xynrael charged.

Skyshatter met with Aerather's shield.  Aerather staggered backwards and swung, Silithrim's blade igniting with felfire.

The death knight was no longer there to be struck.  The slaughter earlier had empowered him much as Aerather's own fel consumption had.  The two were evenly matched, which, for trained killers, meant it could not go on long.

Aerather swung around, bringing Silithrim around with him in a horizontal slice.  It met Skyshatter's shaft, held vertically in Xynrael's hands.

The death knight used the temporary halt in Aerather's momentum to slam his former compatriot backwards.  Aerather lost ground, but recovered, and bashed his shield forward against Xynrael's body.

He drew back.  Xynrael aimed a blow with Skyshatter's pommel straight for Aerather's gut.

Xynrael's blow connected, and so did Aerather's.

The death knight staggered slightly as Silithrim's blade pierced his gut, the blade's tip having found purchase against his armor rather than simply sliding off.

Aerather locked eyes with Xynrael, exhaling slowly, with a combination of relief and sadness pervading his voice as he spoke.  "It's over, brother."  He said, as the felfire singed around Xynrael's stomach.

The death knight nodded slightly, then reached up, slamming his mace's shaft against Aerather's chin.  "Yes, it is.  That's for Blightheart."  He said, twisting his mace to slam the pommel into Aerather's left arm, causing the fel-touched Sin'dorei to drop his shield as the armor caved in over his forearm.

Aerather snarled in pain, attempting to wrench Silithrim from Xynrael's gut, all the while attempting to summon up enough magical prowess to drive the death knight back.  He could not, however, speak the words necessary- his veins were expanding in his throat, making it impossible to breathe.

Any other time, against any other foe, Aerather's blow would have been fatal.  The bloodbath before, however, sustained Xynrael despite the felfire coursing into his body through the wound.

Another strike, this time the death knight's knee to the former Knight Lord's crotch.  "That's for Eriene," he said, as Aerather staggered back, gasping for breath.  The impact had jarred him despite his armor, and he was forced to release Silithrim's hilt as Xynrael hooked one of Skyshatter's scythes around Aerather's right wrist, twisting the mace to force the other man aside.

Aerather was now staring into the abyss below.  He turned, hurling one final strike towards Xynrael's chest.  The blow connected, a fel-formed hammer similar to a Paladin's strike.  It sent Xynrael backwards, but his reach was still sufficient.

Xynrael fell with his back against the altar, braced his arms against it, and kicked outward, sending Aerather tumbling back over the railing.

The living of the pair made no attempt to plead for his life as he gripped the edge of the platform, and Xynrael gave no parting words.  He slammed Skyshatter down on Aerather's gauntlet, and Aerather Sunrender fell out of view.

Xynrael slumped to the ground almost immediately, his energy spent on the final exertion needed to send Aerather falling towards the Nether.  He did not know if there was anything nearby to stop the plummet, he did not know if Aerather could possibly have survived the fall, and he did not care.  The shock to his system forbade him from caring.

He wondered briefly if the felfire surging through his veins would kill him, then passed into unconsciousness as he felt the beating of his drake's wing stirring the air around him.

"I am done with them and their petty struggles, Xynrael.  If they will not have peace by choice, they will have peace by force."

"Then, my brother, when next we meet, we shall see whose peace is stronger."

As the blackness overtook him, Xynrael's last thought was that he could hear Aerather laughing as he tumbled over into the abyss.

He could hear it even in the veil of his dreams, chasing him all the way to Netherstorm.

Cold Fire

A Xynrael picture drawn by a good friend of mine, who described his attitude as having a particular "Burn."  After attempting to find out just what the heck she meant by that, she said it was something like looking at 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