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

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.

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.

Home

"You must go home."

His boots sunk softly into the snow with each step, the whirling blizzard around him offering cover for both his body and the shuffling of his armor.

They told me this was home.

Far in the distance, before his eyes could see through the storm, he sensed them, as if something were pressing at the far reaches of his mind.  An internal compass told him their direction, and roughly judged their distance.

"This is not home.  This is a place of rest.  Rest is for the dead."

The lifting of his mace to his shoulder caused his armor to clank loudly in protest at the weight.  He was dimly aware that the sheer size of the weapon made him uncomfortable, but pushed the thought away.

"The mark of the North rests upon you.  The North is a place of war unending."

He broke through the shroud.  The snow that remained on his armor and cloak left his entire visage pale, and all that revealed him was the glowing of his armor against the backdrop of snow behind him.  Here, the storm was thinner.

I will not remain like this.  I am no use to anyone.

Heads turned, already slack jaws opened at the prospect of flesh, and from above the small raised platform, two Scourge necromancers gazed at him with glassy eyes, muttering their dark commands.

This man is dead.  He must go back to the grave.

Forward came the ghouls, wild howls ripping from their throats, claws extended, bandaged feet laboring madly over the snow to reach their prey.

"It was you who let him live on."

He hefted his weapon.  The strike missed, but it mattered not.  The sheer weight of the mace's shaft colliding with two ghouls sent them barreling backwards into a line of their companions.

"As if you could not be you without him."
As their weak bodies caved beneath the weapon's weight, something woke with a jolt within him.  Frost danced over his fingertips, and around he swung, hurling bolt after bolt of ice into the ranks of the oncoming swarm.

Walking in it now, as he once was... This world has no place for him.

He tore through the army of risen dead, leaving behind only brutalized remains.  Bone shattered beneath each strike, flesh melting.  When few remained, he heard a call, and the ghouls backed away.  They fell, reduced to piles of bone, another sound replacing their howls and gurgles.

Daeyn Skysong is dead.  I will let him rest in peace.

From the risen metal altar dropped three Death Knights, freshly risen.  Runeblades of other, fallen champions held tightly in their hands.  By the look in their eyes, he knew their hunger.  He remembered it.  They lashed out.

"Something must take his place. Amidst the bloodstained snow, have you found yourself?"

Three Initiates.  Three schools of magic.  The first struck out, swinging swiftly.  Ice formed in the air around him, spike upon spike of it flying towards his target's body.  The first, whose mace was decorated around ghoul-flesh, drew the ice in around the weapon's head.  As the Disciple of Ice charged, he rose one weapon to parry the imminent mace strike.

I remember a monster.  I remember a murderer of children and of women.  One who broke the minds of fathers and made their daughters consume their flesh.

The first Disciple's blade broke against the weight of ice and mace, the shards of frost splitting and impaling his face.  He fell to the ground as the second approached.

"You are not that monster.  That monster served another."

The second Disciple came foreward, his blade soaked in rot, his pale, almsot greenish flesh giving enough allusion to his skill.  The death knight lunged foreward, aiming for a knee joint, his putrid breath releasing a cloud of plague.

I remember a man.  A guardian, who protected by spilling blood, but a slave to his absolution.

The man who had hunted this altar turned his back to the plague and stepped inwards, using his mace as a counterweight to his momentum.  His right arm swung up, the mace following through.  The sheer force and strike of one of the mace's scythes sent the Unholy Disciple's arm loose from its socket, and flying in another direction.

"You are not a man.  Men live, men die.  You do not walk in the world of the living, though you may love it."

The aggressor's fingers came up, index and middle striking into one of the festering wounds in the second Disciple's torso.  The Disciple's body wretched, and his visage paled more deeply as his plague turned against him, putryifying wounds boiling over with pus as raging disease ate away at his mind.

I will not atone.  I will not offer recompense.  I will not grieve sins that were not mine, and I will not grieve sins commited in their defense.

The third Disciple, a Tauren wielding a double-headed axe, was not so quick to engage.  Foreward he moved, aiming a mighty downward slash towards his target.  The air sang out as it retreaded from the sharp edge of the blade, which met only snow.

I will defend their lives, but the quality of their lives is to them.

The mace-wielder struck out again.  The cost of his contact was a glancing blow from the axe, and from the wound upon his shoulder, he felt blood flow, mixing with the crimson ribbon left behind by the Disciple of Blood's leg wound.

"Who are you?"

The next strike of the axe, a vertical slash, met with a clang against the shaft of Skyshatter.  The mace's wielder forced the blow away, taking hold of the weapon's shaft with both hands and jamming it upwards, into the Tauren's face.  Before the blood could be used, however, he struck out again, crushing the former Shu'halo's bent left knee.

I am Xynrael...

A final blow.  The Tauren's skull collapsed, split straight down the middle and crushed in by Skyshatter's scythed head.

The Dawnbreaker.

As he mounted the altar, the exhausted necromancers retreated, weakly weaving spells against the approaching Death Knight.

"And where does the Dawnbreaker call home?"
As he drained the feeble remnants of life from the remaining necromancers, sucking their twisted souls into his runemace, he grinned.

The same for all creatures.  Home is where the heart is.  Home...

He turned away, the air before him splitting open in a portal to Acherus.

... Is where the -war- is.

In the Fires of War: Skyshatter

((This is the first installment of "In the Fires of War," a collection of stories about the tests and trials of war, the importance of the weapons used to fight them, and how it all effects the people who wield them.  As usual, these are written from Xynrael's perspective, and about people he knows/weapons he's created or helped create.  The first is about Skyshatter, his runemace.  I hope you enjoy!))



No one can escape the effects of war.  Even the civillian, many miles away, safe behind his city walls, is somehow or another taken prisoner by the rage of battle, though he may not know it.  I do not believe in violence as a solution to everything, for this reason.  It is the -final- solution.  No one can escape it, and it settles all matters permenantly, when used correctly.

Contrary to popular belief, the Lich King did not employ this method exclusively.  In several instances, fear was his primary method of battlefield domination, only using violence to achieve this end.  However, there are certain times when we are forced, in one manner or another, to exercise violence against even those we care about.

The fires of the Forge of War are relentless, and a place where only the strongest can survive, and that which is not strong is often remade.


~From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From the hills beyond Dawnhaven, Xynrael the Dawnbreaker watched the town burn.  The ghouls had, but for a few, gone to join the ranks of the Scourge in Northrend, and the first part of his initial task complete.  From the west, a risen rider had broughten him word of six Paladins of the Silver Hand fast approaching the smoldering wreckage of the Dawnbreaker's first conquest.  Somewhere in the east, the sun was rising, but smoke and ash rising from the town blotted it out.

The day was darkened against the Light, precisely the way he liked it.  With the dismissal of the rider, all the ghouls were gone, and the shadow of the hills hid him well enough for now.

The Dawnbreaker felt their approach before he saw it.  The feeling of tingling, nagging at the back of his mind, alerted him to the presence of the Paladins before the sound of their hootbeats and shouting did.  They had seen the town was abandoned from the road no doubt, and thought the Scourge had moved on.

The entire hillside fell into silence as the Paladins searched the houses, finding signs of the carnage that had ocurred a few hours earlier; snow and streets stained with blood, windows cracked, doors caved in, torn flesh and bone, but no corpses.  The Death Knight moved from his perch on the hills and made his way into the town, cloaking himself in the shadows of the buildings.

In the back of his mind, Xynrael heard a lustful growling.  It grew stronger as he approached the three pairings of Paladins now gathered in the square, discussing what they had found.  By now, they had swept the perimeter of the town and conceeded that what looked to have been an ambush was simply the burning remains of a town the Scourge had used to replenish their numbers.

On the blades and shaft of the Dawnbreaker's mace, six runes shimmered, begging to be filled.

A tug of steelweave over his head, the replacement of his hood, and Xynrael stepped into the street, armor shuffling and scraping slightly as he walked.  The Paladins turned, in ones and twos, to face the newcomer.  At the head of them was one who held a massive mace in one hand, a libram chained to his side, and upon his back, a great-sword that would ordinarily have taken two men to lift.

This man was their leader.  An animal among men.  A zealot, Xynrael could feel, as the light crackled around the Paladin.  His sword was ancient and powerful, most likely a runeblade as well, though not vampiric.

"Your down is gone.  It's inhabitants are dead."  Xynrael proclaimed, lifting his runemace to his shoulder.  "The Light is all but departed, this place is now a house of death."

He could feel their blood pumping, adrenaline rushing through their veins, feel the sweat beginning to run down their flesh as if it was their own.  He could -smell- their fear, as palpable as the ash hanging on the air, all of it clouding their vision and their judgement.  The Dawnbreaker's face remained impassive as all this washed over him, his blue eyes the only thing visible in the shadow of his hood.

Somewhere, through the ash and against the roof of one of the houses, it began to hail.

"What manner of monster are you," asked one of the younger Paladins, his voice cracking as he growled, "that you could do this?"

"I am Xynrael the Dawnbreaker, Death Knight of the Scourge, and I did not do this.  I killed only a handful myself, you see.  After that, I turned them loose upon their own people.  A giant of a man, a lumberjack, one of them.  Though, really, I let his little girl kill him after I cut her open.  Would you like to see?"

As he asked this, the Paladins looked on, momentarily rooted in place as they attempted to evaluate this new threat.  From atop one of the houses, a small thing in a torn dress leaped, landing at Xynrael's feet.  She bounded on all fours, knees bent like an ape, her face contorted and dessicated, but obviously that of a little girl.
The Paladins continued to watch as the Death Knight knelt, placing his hand on the little girl's head.  She fell over almost immediately, the necromancy sustaining her suddenly gone.  Her body struck the floor, and before them was simply the mutilated corpse of a small girl, as it would have looked after several hours of death by bleeding.

"Monster.  The Light bind you!"  One of the Paladins called out, rushing forewards, screaming out a litany of penance for the wicked.  By his language, his rage, and his movement, this man was a novice, newly initiated into the ranks of the Silver Hand.  And by their armor, so were the others, taken out of need more than skill, most likely.

The others followed, but at a distance; the man ahead of them was clearly the fastest of the bunch, and far more impulsive.  On the back of his neck, Xynrael felt the runic ward begin to burn against his flesh, and grinned.  The words fell upon his ears, but he did not understand them.  The ward protected him against all but the Lich King's will, and deafened him to the commands of the Light.

Xynrael backed away as the first Paladin approached, and turned to dart down a side-street, not even made over with cobblestones, but grass and dirt between houses.  The Paladins would have to come at him one at a time here, and sure enough, they did, the first rounding the corner not five steps behind Xynrael.  The Death Knight rounded on his heel to face his first opponent.

The Paladin swung downwards, his hammer surging with the Holy Light.  Xynrael stepped to the left and brought his mace down in an arc.  The Paladin flew backwards as Skyshatter contacted with his stomach, his breastplate caved in, and blood pouring from his mouth.  As the young Paladin hit the ground, the Dawnbreaker could feel the viel of the Light lift like a curtain, revealing the frightened, faithless young man beneath.

He shook only briefly as every blood vessel in his brain erupted.

 By this time, a second Paladin, partner to the first, had reached striking distance of Xynrael.  The second Paladin did not lunge foreward quite so readily, but instead stepped off and swung downwards from over his head.  The blow was met by Xynrael's mace, catching just under the head of the Paladin's hammer.  The Death Knight twisted the pommel of his mace upwards and around, over the shaft of his opponent's weapon, forcing it into the ground before slamming Skyshatter's spiked pommel into the second Paladin's throat.

Another twist of the mace brought one of the weapon's scythes into the Paladin's temple, killing him almost instantly and throwing him aside like a ragdoll.

The third that approached drew a shield from his back, deflecting the oncoming blow of Xynrael's mace and lashing out with a strike of his own.  It glanced off of the slant of the Death Knight's chestplate, at which point the Dawnbreaker drew up his left arm, the runes tattooed into his flesh glowing brightly beneath the armor.  A discharge of runic energy from the Death Knight's left palm seared the Paladin's face.  When the smoke and Xynrael's hand pulled away, a grotesquely burned visage remained.

Xynrael stepped out of the way as the burned Paladin's shield began to glow.  A side-step, twirl, and swing of Skyshatter brought the Paladin to the ground, neck shorn straight through by the weight behind the giant runemace's blades.

Three to the ground, and Xynrael's runemace howled with delight at their blood.  It was a sound he knew only he could hear, but still he could feel the weapon's power grow.  It had feasted on the souls of the innocent, and now it was gorging on the blood of the righteous.  As the runes filled with the corrupted energy of their souls and blood, the Death Knight opened his mind.  Skyshatter still hungered- it needed the power of the cold, and the power of death still, and each had to be achieved by the sundering of mortal flesh.

The size of the hail increased as it spread.

Suddenly, the runic wards on Xynrael's armor began to smoke and glow like sun striking a gem.  Two of the three remaining Paladins had stopped and were reading from their librams, hammers slung back over their shoulders, hands extended, Light flowing from their fingers like a river.

Priests.  Priests who had taken up the mantle of the Silver Hand, but Priests just the same.

Struggling with great difficulty under the weight of their rebuke, the Dawnbreaker raised his left hand.  For the briefest of moments, the hail refocused on the two chanting Paladins, striking them heavily upon their exposed skin.  In his peripheral vision, the Death Knight saw the leader of their party moving foreward with a determined step, as if the fate of the monstrosity before him was certain.

Then the Death Knight felt it.  The chanting let up, for only a moment.  The concentration of the former Priests broken, Xynrael reached out, swelling the blood in their throats and freezing that which ran through the veins in their heads.

They fell to the ground, spilling blood from ears, nostrils, and eye sockets onto the snow.

Finally, they were alone.  The power of the other Paladins paled in comparison to the one that stood before the Dawnbreaker now, and it was visible.  The giant hammer and runeblade this Paladin wielded glowed with the Light, and even the countenance of this living monstrosity seemed brighter.  Though the ground at his feet was desecrated with innocent blood, the snow seemed to shake away.

Here was someone who could strike fear into the unbeating hearts of the fearmongers.  A man to frighten death itself away.

Still the Paladin kept his steady pace, right hand tensing around his hammer's shaft.  "I am Diomidus the Bright, I undo all that is unholy and bring the Light's justice to dark places.  The blood of the innocent cries out to me; you have slain many good men, and I am their vengeance."

The aura around Diomidus grew as his foosteps thundered against the ground, boots leaving a dim glow of the Light in his path.  His hammer appeared to crack, as if it were about to break apart, but the cracks filled with the Light and shined all the more brightly.  His tremendous left paw drew up his libram, and Diomidus began to read.

"We who walk in darkness fear neither the shadow, nor the death, nor the evil that surrounds us..."  The space between the cobblestones on the street began to glow as the Light filled them.

"We who go out among evil men shall fear not their forked tongues and wicked ways..."

The stones themselves took on the hue of molten steel as Diomidus chanted, glowing brightly beneath the ash and hail of Dawnhaven.

"And we, who are thine blade and thine shield and thine word of comfort, who slay the wicked, and protect the innocent, and heal the sick, shall not fear nor be turned astray from our path, for where we go the Light walks with us, illuminating before us and guarding behind us, banishing all evil from our way."  The Paladin slammed his libram shut, the ground within the limits of Dawnhaven catching alight as it was purified and consecrated

The wards on Xynrael's armor shined brightly, even the tattoos carved and inked into his flesh smoking as they absorbed the Light.  The Death Knight watched, an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he unstrapped the helmet from his left side and placed it firmly on his head.  The single, ice-blue gem at the top of the helmet's center spike shimmered when he lifted his mace, and the smoking of his armor stopped.

"You are very powerful, Paladin.  Your faith is strong indeed.  It will be good to see you break."  He challenged, setting his mace onto his shoulder.

"Not even if it could bring back the dead, bastard."  Diomidus charged foreward with inhuman speed, raining blows the the swipes of a bear down upon his quarry.

Xynrael matched him, each time catching Skyshatter's shaft below or aside the head of the Paladin's hammer.  Each time the Death Knight threw off the blow and prepared to counter, another blow came, forcing him to parry or duck aside instead.  For some minutes, the exchange of blow-parry-blow continued, until finally Xynrael was forced to take a step back to balance himself.  The Paladin pressed his advantage and took the sword from his back, this time holding his hammer firmly against Xynrael's mace.

Protective though it was, the Death Knight's armor could not defend against the sheer force of the blow, and it sent him flying through the door of the nearest house, which splintered and fell in under his weight.

Diomidus growled with satisfaction and moved to enter the house.  Before he could, a dim glow of eyes, helmet-gem, and shoulderplates burst from the door.  Though he held with both weapons, the raw, unrelenting power of Undeath was not something to be parried endlessly.  He stepped off after each attack landed, backing away and backing away until, finally, he was caught off-balance.

"By the Light!"  Diomidus cried out as the head of Skyshatter fell upon him.  The Light answered.  Beneath the mace's head erupted a bright, thunderous shield, blooming over the Paladin's chest, where the killing strike would have landed.  The Death Knight growled and pressed against the shield for only a moment longer, until Diomidus threw him off.

From the Paladin's runeblade erupted with the fire of the Holy Light, and again he swung, the power of his left arm sending Xynrael soaring back into the house from which he assault had begun.

He went through a wall this time, and did not return.

Diomidus charged blindly through the breach, only to find another, this one far more methodically smashed in, leading out the other side.  He caught sight of the Death Knight's cloak disappearing into an alleyway, and gave chase, roaring like the bear he was when standing among men.

The pair erupted with a great crash and shower of splintered wood at the other side of Dawnhaven, where the Dawnbreaker vanished into the stalks of a wheat field.  Diomidus' charge did neither halt nor slow, and he barreled on through until he came to a clearing in the field.

He stopped in his tracks, falling to one knee to keep from skidding foreward any further in the dirt.

The Paladin could see nothing beyond the horror of it all, his own rage and revulsion filling his vision with a red miasma like a veil of blood, his stomach swimming with bile.

In the clearing, still squirming and moaning and crying out ,were the twisted, broken, bloody forms of a hundred villagers, their flesh mounted upon metal spikes, arms and legs twisted around wooden crosses with bones protruding, jaws broken and dislocated to accomodate great stones that had been jammed into their mouths and were covered with blood from severed tongues.

The display was arranged in what from above would have looked like the form of a rune of death, and very slowly, down the spikes and crosses, blood dripped into a small trench that connected their mountings and formed the shape proper.

At the center of it all stood Xynrael the Dawnbreaker, mace point-down in the ground, drawing power from their blood.  The second strike from Diomidus' sword had left neither dent nor gash, but a searing yellow streak of the Light, and that was now fading rapidly.

Beneath horror and disgust, doubt began to creep into the mind of Diomidus the Bright, and like a dagger in the night, it struck silently at his faith, though the rest of the fortress that was his mind remained unaware of it.

The Dawnbreaker, however, knew it well, and what little of his face could be seen beneath his helmet twisted upwards into a grin.  It was not a friendly, pleasant thing, but the grin of a madman, a murderer, a rapist who has laid the perfect trap, and is now watching as his sickly artful creation snare its first victim.

That was enough to make Diomidus find his fury.  Again he charged, drawing up both weapons over his head.

The Dawnbreaker remained impassive safe for the infuriating smirk.  He spread his boots to shoulder-length and tensed his fingers around his mace, waiting as the Paladin closed distance, rushing forewards like a man possessed.

Then the base of the giant death rune rose up, a thousand hands of the other dead villagers, the company Xynrael had turned to help him destroy the down, even the arm of Long-John Leman, all grabbing and tearing at Diomidus' legs, ankles, and feet.  It was inevitable that one would find purchase, And Diomidus fell just as he passed into the center of the rune, writhing and twisting and smashing against the ground to force the grasping arms of the dead from him.

Skyshatter fell upon his chest, and Diomidus the Bright was no more.

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Xynrael the Dawnbreaker stood alone amongst the dead and soon-to-be dead in the Dawnhaven fields.  He could feel their heartbeats ceasing, and finally stopping one by one as the last drops of blood passed from their broken, twisted bodies.  The souls and blood drained into Skyshatter, the souls drawn from the corpses and the blood from the ditch that formed the line connecing each point on the giant rune.  The ditch ended in a pool under Diomidus' corpse, and from that pool the mace gorged itself on the power of blood and flesh and passing life.

Soon the mace would be full, and soon the Dawnbreaker would not be alone in the field.

He felt the last of the runes charge fully, and lifted his helmet from his head, placing it once more at his left hip.  Then, satisfied that all was in order, he raised his left hand as if clutching something in it.  Dark tendrils snapped from his fingertips and palms, seizing to the body of the Paladin, causing it to writhe and twist grotesquely in the sanguine pool beneath it.

"Diomidus the Bright," Xynrael called, as he felt the last of the bodies submit to the veil of death, "Rise, and hereafter known as Diomidus the Blight, Death Knight of the Scourge, servant of the Lich King.  Rise, and be reborn!"

Diomidus jerked again, and placed his hands in the pool.  He attempted to force himself up once, failed, and attempted again, coughing up blood and bile and flesh, and letting out a mighty roar.  The pool turned dark as the former Paladin's blood mixed with it, and indeed, the ditch and river of blood still swirling within turned, as well.

Soon the unholy essence of the plague had crept up the crosses and spikes, corrupting dead flesh and giving it a sick, twisted version of new life.

As Diomidus rose, he took in his hands his blade and is libram, leaving the hammer beside the pool.  As the plagued blood soaked into the libram, it changed.  The words reformed as they were corrupted, the very make of the book turning into a giant patchwork of skin bound with bone.

His runeblade turned from a blade of gold to a far darker metal, and upon the hilt, gnashing teeth made of metal formed.  He could feel its hunger deep within himself, a painful lust burning in his belly.

Then, last of all, from the cavity in his chest, new flesh grew.  Pustules and twists od bone and masses of muscle erupted from the place where Skyshatter had struck, covering over his armor, splitting and entwining with old flesh to make new muscles and organs; the final culmination of the corruption of Diomidus' holy power, his former faith now twisted and forcing his body to mimick his new fervent passion.

The last and mightiest of Xynrael's runes filled as Diomidus was reborn.  Runes of death.

Diomidus knelt before the Dawnbreaker and breathed his allegiance, plague pouring from the edges of his breath.

The Dawnbreaker grinned.