((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.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
In the Fires of War: Duskbreaker
I am greatly troubled of late. The rage that once burned in the back of my mind, like an angry silithid drone buzzing about, has faded to background noise. It only comes to prominence when I go looking for it, or when it is intensified by something. There has been, these last few days, not even background noise.
In fact, there has a been a sort of peace as my friend lies here beside me, sleeping fitfully in a fever. The calm is strange, like a peaceful day after a week of rain. I welcome it.
As I write this, the blade that has been the source of my rage lies secluded in a dark corner not eight feet away. Were I to look at it now, I would think its wrappings merely a rolled-up rug or some such. This is not so, of course; I can still feel it. Through this medium, I feel the beat of another's heart. The tumult of her mind and emotions, and the calm of their serenity on far more rare a day are both as familiar things as those that come naturally to me.
I can scarcely remember a time when I lived without them.
- From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane.
* * *
Day One
Xynrael allowed his eyes to fall closed as he listened to the steady pounding of metal on metal, the quiet burning of the runeforges, and the telltale thumping of plated boots on stone floors. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a bubbling noise and the familiar gurgle of some ghoul being commanded to one end or another.
The sounds of Acherus, the Ebon Hold.
The Death Knight allowed himself to fall from his reverie after a moment, but that only took him so far. He forced focus out of the brief calm granted by the Ebon Hold's familiar sights and sounds, and began counting his materials.
Five titansteel bars. Check.
Twenty bars of Saronite. Check.
One shard of a shattered runeblade. Check.
A miniscule grin passed over his lips as two Disciples passed by, the slowing in motion given away by the clanking of their armor and the scrape of their boots on the floor. They halted entirely as he began stripping off his upper armor and took a runed hammer from beside the nearest anvil. As the shaft of the blacksmith's hammer touched his hand, the head caught fire.
From the stockpile, Xynrael grabbed a single bar of saronite and laid it against a moulding. His hammer fell. The Saronite yielded, and began to shape beneath the heat from the hammer itself.
It was forty-two hours before his arms came to rest again.
Day Three
The Death Knight stepped away from the anvil, his hammer already having come to rest atop it. He moved from the forgeworks to the teleporter that sat just beneath the balcony overlooking what was once Lordaeron. A tingling sensationg enveloped the Death Knight's body, then all was dark for but a moment.
When his vision returned, Xynrael was a floor below, in the halls where Disciples sat under instructors of greater power. In the midst of these three training halls was a single, lower platform, from which Highlord Darion Mograine kept a watchful eye on Acherus and the Ebon Blade. A quick salute was Xynrael's only acknowledgement to the Highlord as the lesser-ranked Death Knight passed Mograine by, in search of a book on blood magic.
The book was easily found amidst the small library kept in that part of Acherus, as was another on runeforging and the blades that Death Knights wielded.
The location of the brief passages Xynrael sought took several hours, but the reading mere moments. He shelved the books and returned to work.
As each layer was folded into the blade, he infused it with tiny, empty runes, storehouses to be used for very specific types of energy; to hold and discharge it at the caster's will. The hammer's strikes caused the runes to glow against the already hot saronite and titansteel. As each stroke landed, the glow brightened, then dimmed slightly, then brightened again, until the entire blade was afire with sparks and runic symbols.
Day Six
In his hands, Xynrael gingerly took the blade he had spent the last five days forging. The hilt was not yet finished. That would, by far, be the most difficult part. Various Death Knights had stopped to observe his work, but he told none of them what it was for; let them make their own assumptions.
The blade was alive with fire from the forging, but the runes absorbed the energy, leaving it cool to the touch. He ran his fingertips through a jagged hole intentionally left in the blade, the place where the last shard of the original Skyshatter would lock both blade and hilt together. Beneath the blade, unholy flames danced, their tongues licking up at the weapon, and curling around Xynrael's fingers.
The easier of two tasks done, he set about to the more delicate of the two peices: The hilt. As he set down the blade, he took from a pouch at his belt two crystals, each filled with blood. One of them glowed dimly against the dismal backdrop of the Ebon Hold; the other seemed camouflaged by it. He set the two together, and laid a cylinder made of sanctified Saronite upon the giant anvil before him.
With a flick of his wrists, the two crystals began draining blood into near-invisible grooves in the hilt. The blood flowed upwards, towards the still razor-sharp piece of longsword that remained of Skyshatter. It would be this that channeled the very essence of the wielder. It would be this that would make the runeblade what it was.
The blood drained towards a singular gem just below the piece of blade jutting from the hilt, where it collected, swirled, and stopped.
Satisfied, though with the faintest tingle in the back of his mind, Xynrael once more set to work. The unholy fire below the blade roared to life upon the anvil. As the hammer fell, the cleansing fire mixed with unholy flame, creating small eruptions across the blade. The point where blade and shard met crackled as they heated with opposing energies, then finally stilled. The blood poured from the crystal, leaving it looking dull, as if it were part of the rest of the sword. As it moved, the blood, too, mixed and darted from rune to rune along the sword, the power of the forger's blood magic infusing the weapon as the blood flowed.
The fires quieted.
Xynrael set his hammer upon the anvil, and lifted the sword. It felt familiar, as any blade formed in this manner should. The last of the energy fled the runeblade, which looked comparatively dull.
But, then, the blade had not been bound to him.
He took it up, and moved to the tremendous pit in the center of Acherus, testing the balance of the weapon on row after row of dummies. It felt awkward, the counterweight too high. Which was perfect, considering the person for whom it was designed.
* * *
Over the next few days, Xynrael sharpened the weapon and tested it against armor. It was heavy enough to dent Saronite, strong enough to withstand a blow from his mace, and, as he discovered with his ghouls, powerful enough to cut flesh and bone like butter. When he swung it, it sang. The noise was no sweet music, but the sound of a headman's axe falling upn its victim.
For a finishing touch, he drew out a long-unused litany inscribed on a long, heavy piece of parchment.
In greatest despair, still we must have Faith. Faith in ourselves, that we might be mighty. Faith in others, that we might never be alone. Faith in the Light, that it might guide our path. Faith in the Darkness, that it might shield us from that which we are not prepared to see. Faith in joy, that it might strengthen us. Faith in sadness, that it might teach us of our sin.
The parchment burned even through the leather of his gauntlets, and he was quick to wrap it around the hilt. Around that, he wrapped and tied a sufficient amount of leather to keep the blade from slipping out of its wielder's hands.
The last few hours were spent attaching final counterweights to the hilt, and then the blade was ready. He wrapped it in a long piece of cloth, and was off to Silvermoon.
It was at the forges he delivered it, into the hands of a young woman.
I give you the darkness, to protect you. And I give you the Light, to push back the darkness.
I give you Mael'fallah; the Duskbreaker.
He watched as she took hold, the runes engraved into Titansteel and Saronite suddenly sparking to life. They danced with energy, and turned dark. The blade turned with them, as did her countenance. He felt the power radiating from it, and from her, the darkness. She sheathed Mael'fallah, and wrapped it tightly in its cloth, taking it firmly in her arms.
In fact, there has a been a sort of peace as my friend lies here beside me, sleeping fitfully in a fever. The calm is strange, like a peaceful day after a week of rain. I welcome it.
As I write this, the blade that has been the source of my rage lies secluded in a dark corner not eight feet away. Were I to look at it now, I would think its wrappings merely a rolled-up rug or some such. This is not so, of course; I can still feel it. Through this medium, I feel the beat of another's heart. The tumult of her mind and emotions, and the calm of their serenity on far more rare a day are both as familiar things as those that come naturally to me.
I can scarcely remember a time when I lived without them.
- From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane.
* * *
Day One
Xynrael allowed his eyes to fall closed as he listened to the steady pounding of metal on metal, the quiet burning of the runeforges, and the telltale thumping of plated boots on stone floors. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a bubbling noise and the familiar gurgle of some ghoul being commanded to one end or another.
The sounds of Acherus, the Ebon Hold.
The Death Knight allowed himself to fall from his reverie after a moment, but that only took him so far. He forced focus out of the brief calm granted by the Ebon Hold's familiar sights and sounds, and began counting his materials.
Five titansteel bars. Check.
Twenty bars of Saronite. Check.
One shard of a shattered runeblade. Check.
A miniscule grin passed over his lips as two Disciples passed by, the slowing in motion given away by the clanking of their armor and the scrape of their boots on the floor. They halted entirely as he began stripping off his upper armor and took a runed hammer from beside the nearest anvil. As the shaft of the blacksmith's hammer touched his hand, the head caught fire.
From the stockpile, Xynrael grabbed a single bar of saronite and laid it against a moulding. His hammer fell. The Saronite yielded, and began to shape beneath the heat from the hammer itself.
It was forty-two hours before his arms came to rest again.
Day Three
The Death Knight stepped away from the anvil, his hammer already having come to rest atop it. He moved from the forgeworks to the teleporter that sat just beneath the balcony overlooking what was once Lordaeron. A tingling sensationg enveloped the Death Knight's body, then all was dark for but a moment.
When his vision returned, Xynrael was a floor below, in the halls where Disciples sat under instructors of greater power. In the midst of these three training halls was a single, lower platform, from which Highlord Darion Mograine kept a watchful eye on Acherus and the Ebon Blade. A quick salute was Xynrael's only acknowledgement to the Highlord as the lesser-ranked Death Knight passed Mograine by, in search of a book on blood magic.
The book was easily found amidst the small library kept in that part of Acherus, as was another on runeforging and the blades that Death Knights wielded.
The location of the brief passages Xynrael sought took several hours, but the reading mere moments. He shelved the books and returned to work.
As each layer was folded into the blade, he infused it with tiny, empty runes, storehouses to be used for very specific types of energy; to hold and discharge it at the caster's will. The hammer's strikes caused the runes to glow against the already hot saronite and titansteel. As each stroke landed, the glow brightened, then dimmed slightly, then brightened again, until the entire blade was afire with sparks and runic symbols.
Day Six
In his hands, Xynrael gingerly took the blade he had spent the last five days forging. The hilt was not yet finished. That would, by far, be the most difficult part. Various Death Knights had stopped to observe his work, but he told none of them what it was for; let them make their own assumptions.
The blade was alive with fire from the forging, but the runes absorbed the energy, leaving it cool to the touch. He ran his fingertips through a jagged hole intentionally left in the blade, the place where the last shard of the original Skyshatter would lock both blade and hilt together. Beneath the blade, unholy flames danced, their tongues licking up at the weapon, and curling around Xynrael's fingers.
The easier of two tasks done, he set about to the more delicate of the two peices: The hilt. As he set down the blade, he took from a pouch at his belt two crystals, each filled with blood. One of them glowed dimly against the dismal backdrop of the Ebon Hold; the other seemed camouflaged by it. He set the two together, and laid a cylinder made of sanctified Saronite upon the giant anvil before him.
With a flick of his wrists, the two crystals began draining blood into near-invisible grooves in the hilt. The blood flowed upwards, towards the still razor-sharp piece of longsword that remained of Skyshatter. It would be this that channeled the very essence of the wielder. It would be this that would make the runeblade what it was.
The blood drained towards a singular gem just below the piece of blade jutting from the hilt, where it collected, swirled, and stopped.
Satisfied, though with the faintest tingle in the back of his mind, Xynrael once more set to work. The unholy fire below the blade roared to life upon the anvil. As the hammer fell, the cleansing fire mixed with unholy flame, creating small eruptions across the blade. The point where blade and shard met crackled as they heated with opposing energies, then finally stilled. The blood poured from the crystal, leaving it looking dull, as if it were part of the rest of the sword. As it moved, the blood, too, mixed and darted from rune to rune along the sword, the power of the forger's blood magic infusing the weapon as the blood flowed.
The fires quieted.
Xynrael set his hammer upon the anvil, and lifted the sword. It felt familiar, as any blade formed in this manner should. The last of the energy fled the runeblade, which looked comparatively dull.
But, then, the blade had not been bound to him.
He took it up, and moved to the tremendous pit in the center of Acherus, testing the balance of the weapon on row after row of dummies. It felt awkward, the counterweight too high. Which was perfect, considering the person for whom it was designed.
* * *
Over the next few days, Xynrael sharpened the weapon and tested it against armor. It was heavy enough to dent Saronite, strong enough to withstand a blow from his mace, and, as he discovered with his ghouls, powerful enough to cut flesh and bone like butter. When he swung it, it sang. The noise was no sweet music, but the sound of a headman's axe falling upn its victim.
For a finishing touch, he drew out a long-unused litany inscribed on a long, heavy piece of parchment.
In greatest despair, still we must have Faith. Faith in ourselves, that we might be mighty. Faith in others, that we might never be alone. Faith in the Light, that it might guide our path. Faith in the Darkness, that it might shield us from that which we are not prepared to see. Faith in joy, that it might strengthen us. Faith in sadness, that it might teach us of our sin.
The parchment burned even through the leather of his gauntlets, and he was quick to wrap it around the hilt. Around that, he wrapped and tied a sufficient amount of leather to keep the blade from slipping out of its wielder's hands.
The last few hours were spent attaching final counterweights to the hilt, and then the blade was ready. He wrapped it in a long piece of cloth, and was off to Silvermoon.
It was at the forges he delivered it, into the hands of a young woman.
I give you the darkness, to protect you. And I give you the Light, to push back the darkness.
I give you Mael'fallah; the Duskbreaker.
He watched as she took hold, the runes engraved into Titansteel and Saronite suddenly sparking to life. They danced with energy, and turned dark. The blade turned with them, as did her countenance. He felt the power radiating from it, and from her, the darkness. She sheathed Mael'fallah, and wrapped it tightly in its cloth, taking it firmly in her arms.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
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
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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.
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
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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.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Marriage, Pirates, and Other Important Topics
I have lost track of how long I've been married, though I could easily recall the date- I prefer not to. Some balked at the idea- after all, I am more than somewhat deceased, presenting both a legal and religious obstacle to marriage.
However, my decision to marry was not taken in light of the desire for "holy matrimony" or the equal ownership of property... It was more as a contract, an acknowledgment, between myself and my wife. I told Knight-Master Duskbane that, in spite of all things, my wife and I accepted each other as we are; she with her "eccentricities," and me with my notable lack of pulse. This is, in retrospect, what makes our relationship function, and it is something I treasure.
Very recently, my sense of duty and her stubborn behavior clashed over the topic of her previous service as a Farstrider, resulting in her execution, resurrection, and disguise while efforts were made to clear her name. This, as can be imagined, had put quite a strain on our relationship. Until, one evening, she decided we should take a vacation.
~From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane
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The sun shone brightly over the horizon, its early-morning rays crossing the southerly heading of the Floating Treasure as the Goblin-owned luxury ship passed out of visual distance of Booty Bay. The shining of the sun caused the Death Knight standing on the starboard railing of the ship to shield his eyes.
The motion left him oblivious to the source of a distinct "clack" on the deck behind him- oblivious, that is, until a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, long, powerful fingers interlocking on his chest, over the flesh his loose shirt left bare. He smiled a little at the familiar touch in these unfamiliar surroundings, knowing that she was only likely comfortable with the show of affection because most of the crew was still asleep.
Xynrael turned, noting a rope dangling all the way down from the crow's nest, where his wife had likely been enjoying the literal bird's-eye-view of Stranglethorn as they left it behind the horizon.
"Morning, love." Muttered Iliae Duskryder, as she lay her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her for a moment, leaving them about her waist where they had come to rest, until she lifted herself from him and began to walk the deck. He followed in silence, his eyes focused not on the sparkling ocean, but instead seeking out his wife's form, looking her over with a surprisingly lust-less appreciation.
The Death Knight had to remind himself that his wife's comparatively small and wiry body contained a surprising amount of strength and speed, the deception thereof perfect for a Ranger, and even better in a wife. When the two paused in their walk, he took a moment to reflect that although a small part of him enjoyed playing soldier at home, he didn't often have to worry about Iliae.
As she moved again, he started to follow, nearly slamming into her and knocking the Ranger over.
Iliae tapped him on the shoulder as she had during the few occasions where they had gone hunting together, indicating she had noticed something he was either oblivious to, or simply in a bad position to spot. Her finger led over the gently rolling sea, towards the horizon.
There, with the morning sun's rays as its shield, sailed a medium-sized vessel, probably easily capable of running circles around the Floating Treasure. At that distance, Xynrael could just barely make out the rapid lowering of a black flag, and found himself surprised his wife had noticed it at all. What replaced it was a larger Alliance flag, looking weather-worn and tired, with small holes and tears through it, by the unsteady way it flapped in the wind.
"That better not be what I think it is," Iliae growled, as if taking personal offense to this possible interruption to their vacation. Her hands fell to her daggers in the easy way they usually did when anticipating a threat.
Like a tiger about to flash its claws, Xynrael thought, somewhat amused. Aloud, he replied, "It looks like it. I'll go wake up the captain. Feel like going down to the powder room and loading up a few rifles?"
The Ranger shot him a glare that quite clearly said "No, and I want them to go away." Despite this, she voiced no reply, and instead disappeared down a staircase, towards the crew quarters.
As soon as Iliae left, Xynrael ran in the opposite direction, making for the captain's quarters. He pounded heavily on the door, attracting the attention of the present skeleton crew. They made for him, but not before a loud, nasally call of "WHAT" came from within.
"Pirates!" The Death Knight replied, eliciting some swearing and a small explosion from within the room.
The captain emerged a moment later, still tugging on his shirt. The little goblin darted out, his body breezing past with speed that Xynrael believed was disproportionate to the little man's legs.
Captain Boltplank immediately rushed to the port side of the ship, unfolding his spyglass to search the waters. "I don't see a DAMN thing!" He barked, after a moment.
The crew looked around as well, apparently quite puzzled at the alarm. By now, two or three more crew members had arrived on the deck and were gathering around to hear Captain Boltplank yelling at one of his guests about interrupting "private time."
Finally tiring of the so-called discussion, the larger of the pair simply leaned down, picked the captain up by his underarms, and turned him to face the starboard side of the vessel. By this time, the "Alliance" ship was in plain sight, though still some distance away. The captain seemed to consider the vessel for a moment, before waving a hand dismissively.
"It's an Alliance trading ship. We've got mixed passengers on-board; they'll leave us alone, friend. Don't wake me up again."
"That so? Then why are their broadsides opening?" Xynrael inquired, pointing towards the ship. The captain raised both brows, sticking his spyglass under one of them.
There was some commotion in the minutes that followed, including the rousing of the crew and the hurrying of all the passengers to the center of the ship. When finally the foreign craft approached, the captain thereof hailed quite loudly, and in a deceptively friendly manner.
"Ahoy!" Boltplank responded, after receiving word that food, supplies, and gold had been safely stowed away. "Whaddya want?"
"Food and fine goods! We're sailing from Stormwind to trade in the Bay, and thought ya might have somethin' to sell, master goblin!" The captain of the other ship, a middle-aged human in clothes only slightly less becoming those of a true merchant vessel's commanding officer. He removed his hat, a tattered, three-pointed affair, and held it to his chest, bowing slightly. "I'm Captain Armand, of the Stormwind Virtue, by way of name. Have ya anything to sell?"
"No! Go aw- Err... "
Xynrael could see the look of greed in the goblin's eyes as he spoke, and through the open hatches in the side of the vessel, he could also see cannons lurking, and hear the commotion from belowdecks. As the two captains continued their back-and-forth, the Death Knight closed his eyes. Beyond the salty air, the calling, and the creaking of ships, he could feel smaller life as it ran back and forth belowdecks on the other ship.
Powder boys.
It was then that Xynrael realized the ship upon which he was standing was a target of opportunity- they hadn't been prepared, and were likely coming back from another raid. There was a window, a very small one, where he might be able to shift the course of the encounter.
As if summoned, his wife appeared in the stairwell, holding several single-shot powder rifles, apparently loaded and ready to go. Iliae pressed her back against the doorway leading belowdecks, and tossed all but three of the rifles down half a flight to the landing. One she rested against the door, the other she lifted into her own hands, her eyes giving the Death Knight a questioning look.
A small jerk of the head was his response.
In that one instant, as it became clear that the two captains were getting nowhere, Iliae threw the rifle she was holding to Xynrael, then scooped one up for herself. Her husband reached for his belt, producing the dueling pistol that could usually be found hiding behind his cape. With one arm crossed under his shooting hand for balance, the Death Knight fired, striking Captain Armand in the left shoulder. At almost exactly the same time, another shot rang out from the doorway, striking the opposing ship's helmsman, whose throat exploded in a spray of blood.
"HOIST THE COLORS!" Someone called.
The entire process took south of two seconds, and Xynrael snatched the rifle Iliae had thrown him out of the air, dropping his pistol in the same moment. Both raised their firearms as the crew scurried to the stairwell to secure more rifles and powder. Two more shots rang out, followed immediately by the thundering of a broadside from the pirate vessel.
The decks of both ships lit up with gunfire as planks descended. From the Stormwind Virtue came a roar distinct from the cannons and gunfire- the roar of men preparing to charge.
"Over the side, boys! BOARD THEM!" Called Captain Armand, still shooting from where he was leaning, bleeding to death, against the upper deck of his vessel.
Sure enough, the raiders came, brandishing cutlass and pistol with wild abandon. In spite of the boarding, the cannons continued, this time from both sides, a single tremendous hole ripping out of the Virtue. Iliae had come out from her place in the stairwell, and knocked the first pirate she could find off of his gangplank. Rather than continue fighting, however, Xynrael watched as she ducked aside. It took him a moment to comprehend, but when he finally figured out her plan, he dove away as well.
A small explosion ripped off the railing of the Treasure in the area immediately around one plank, also knocking another off of its bearing. Several men hopped from the plank either back or forwards, onto the ships, but most on both planks fell into the sea.
Iliae rose, spewing throwing daggers with unnatural speed. Three found their mark, and three pirates likewise fell. Beside her, Xynrael drew the rapier at his left hip. A rather long-haired, ruddy sort of dwarf launched itself at him, and was immediately impaled, flung aside, and replaced by an orc- clearly, Captain Armand made no distinction of race when hiring his crew.
Amid all the commotion, the Death Knight heard a bloodcurdling yell from behind him. As he turned, he saw the head of a bald human erupt in a spray of red and gray, round shot piercing the man's skull and scattering bits of brain everywhere.
To the left of this scene, Iliae lowered her rifle, grinning at her husband before turning and flipping the weapon in her hands to use it like a staff. She struck a troll once between the eyes with the stock of the firearm, then once in the crotch, and used the whole of it to shove him over the edge of the ship.
From her position above the fresh hole, the Ranger could see the barrel of an un-manned cannon. An earlier broadside had apparently killed the men using it; one of them was presently hanging over the side of the ship, conspicuously absent an arm. In a fit of inspiration, Iliae Duskryder looked from the crew-less weapon, to her husband, whose veins were bulging a deep red with frozen blood. She watched as he picked one pirate up by the hand that held the very cutlass the man had been attempting to swing with, and then hurled him over the side of the ship. Iliae grinned as Xynrael took a glancing blow from another blade, turned, and ran the wielder of said blade through without flinching.
The Death Knight looked up, saw the grin on his companion's face, saw where she was standing, and raised a hand, even as he struck down another pirate.
"No," he proclaimed, quite loudly. "We are NOT doing that!"
"Get in the damn cannon!" Iliae called, already heading down the stairs.
Xynrael made a great deal of loud protesting, swearing, and cursing of the powers-that-be as he swung down through the hole in the deck, sliding easily into the already-loaded cannon. Sort of easily, anyway. He wedged a little on the way down, then gathered a thick coating of ice around himself. The sound of water trickling into the fuse surprised him, but in the darkness of the cannon's barrel, he grinned.
Iliae Duskryder was not as crazy as some thought.
The ice slicked enough to allow the Death Knight to exit with a resounding BOOM a moment later. One layer of ice shattered, splintering into the Virtue . Another cracked as he crashed through the solid wood hull of the pirate vessel, jarring him, but leaving him unharmed in his makeshift shell casing. As he passed through something like an improvised secondary hull, all the ice shattered, allowing him to land at a breakneck roll.
The pirates manning the Virtue's guns looked vaguely surprised, and one of them seemed offended that a projectile made out of Death Knight had landed on top of him. This last was promptly relieved of his nose, the cartilage and bone of which was sent crashing into his brain by the heel of Xynrael's boot.
Xynrael took up the man's cutlass and made for the powder room. Another volley tore through the Virtue's hull, and was responded to in kind, leaving the air thick with powder and the smell of burning flesh- the Goblin captain had fired an incendiary volley through his opponent's hull, and it was doing its job admirably.
Only four or so met the intruder as he moved for the powder room- the others were too focused on tearing the Treasure to ribbons to bother with a lone boarder. One , a human large enough to be a tauren, ran at Xynrael and attempted outright to tackle him. He was met with the edge of a cutlass, his entrails redecorating the room as Xynrael flung the man over his back.
The second and third met similar fates, one impaled, the other shot by his newly-skewered mate's pistol.
The fourth was a powder boy, who, having dropped his powder keg, drew something like a longknife, though certainly a sword to his hands. The gunpowder spilled across the floor, soaking through in a matter of moments from the spray of the ocean and the rocking of the ships as they traded fire. The boy was clearly scared, but determined to get in the way.
With a quick sweep of the blade and an upward twist, Xynrael disarmed the child, then knocked him to the floor and scooped him up by the collar, against a great deal of protesting, kicking, and biting. With one boot, the Death Knight rolled the powder keg the boy had dropped to the door of the powder room. As he kicked the door in, others began to turn and take notice, but not before he could nudge the barrel in and set a spark of unholy flame to the explosive trail left behind.
With powder monkey in tow, Xynrael made his way up the stairs, shoving and cutting his way on to the deck.
He threw the boy into a longboat and cut the ropes holding it in place with two quick slices. The deck was deserted of all but a few gunners and men at their cannons- the fire in the hold took precedence over all else, including the man who had set it, but he knew the fire would not be so easily doused with water.
Iliae was standing on the deck of the Treasure. She locked eyes with her husband, then pointed upwards. He immediately began to scramble up the ropeway leading towards the mast, needing no further indication of what his Ranger companion had planned.
Halfway up, Xynrael heard frantic yelling from below, signaling that he was out of time. Iliae was already walking along the mast of the Treasure, a rope in her hands. As the first explosion tore through the Virtue's hull, she broke into a run with balance perhaps only a cat or a monkey could match, swinging the rope around her head as she ran.
A second explosion shook the Virtue as it began to sink into the ocean, the Death Knight barely managing to hurl himself up onto the mast of the heaving vessel. A third explosion was imminent, he knew, and this one meant death if he wasn't clear. The Treasure was already pulling away.
He ran, blindly, for the edge of the mast, and swan-dove off the side.
Iliae threw, and the rope met his hands. From the corner of his eyes, he saw her hop down towards the deck he himself was headed for. Despite his superior physiology, the fall would kill him, and the rope was far too long.
For a moment.
Iliae still held one end of the rope, loosely draped over the Treasure's mast. As she fell, her momentum slowed him, until they balanced, and she began to rise again under his weight. She straightened, and landed atop the mast, boots planted firmly, the rope still entwined around her arms.
Her husband let out a frightful yell as he swung around the mast twice, then let go, sailing towards the helm and landing with a terrible crash.
When he awoke briefly, Iliae was standing over him, grinning.
He mustered enough energy to swear at her before the light of consciousness departed again.
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The Salty Sailor was winding down, as much as it could. The tavern was relatively empty- a few tavern wenches still sat comfortably in the laps of drunken sea-dogs, the latter of which appeared to be predominantly dog, rather than man.
In a darker corner of the bar, Xynrael held a mug of ale to the left side of his head, which had taken the end of his landing somewhat more violently than the rest of him.
Iliae was still grinning, though a bit less. She leaned forward, and drew the mug away from his head. "It does more to dull the pain if you drink it," the Ranger intoned, leaning across the table to steal a kiss. As soon as their lips had parted, she left the table, headed to the bar for another flask of Caraway Burnwine.
From her place at the bar, she could hear a new voice above the din, rising in coquettish laughter from what she judged to be relatively far away.
Iliae's fingers twitched slightly as she turned back towards her table, the polite but distant smile on her husband's face giving away the barmaid's intentions almost better than her recent attempt to seat herself in his lap and place her arms around his neck. This last he had replied to by simply lifting her up with one hand and placing her on the floor, which seemed only to encourage her. She sat instead in the chair opposite of him, and began speaking in a more hushed tone, her fingers batting gently at his arm.
The distance between Iliae and her husband disappeared quickly beneath thumping leather boots. A growl cut off in her throat as she heard her husband laugh in the polite, practiced tone usually reserved for politicians, followed immediately by another, more vocal reply, "... But, honestly, I'm not interested, and you had best leave."
The human woman leaned forwards, displaying an immodestly (and really, not at all) covered amount of cleavage, a soft grin passing over her lips. "Are you sure about that?" She asked.
Her head jerked forward suddenly, a small trickle of blood dotting the table where her nose had struck. Iliae removed her hand from the whore's hair and slipped foreward into the darkness in which her husband sat. An innocent grin tugged at lips as she sat down in Xynrael's arms.
After a moment of the privacy the shadows granted, she withdrew, and headed up the stairs, leaving her burnwine untouched.
Xynrael shook his head and followed her up to their rooms, pausing only to feel the pulse of the woman his wife had knocked out.
However, my decision to marry was not taken in light of the desire for "holy matrimony" or the equal ownership of property... It was more as a contract, an acknowledgment, between myself and my wife. I told Knight-Master Duskbane that, in spite of all things, my wife and I accepted each other as we are; she with her "eccentricities," and me with my notable lack of pulse. This is, in retrospect, what makes our relationship function, and it is something I treasure.
Very recently, my sense of duty and her stubborn behavior clashed over the topic of her previous service as a Farstrider, resulting in her execution, resurrection, and disguise while efforts were made to clear her name. This, as can be imagined, had put quite a strain on our relationship. Until, one evening, she decided we should take a vacation.
~From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane
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The sun shone brightly over the horizon, its early-morning rays crossing the southerly heading of the Floating Treasure as the Goblin-owned luxury ship passed out of visual distance of Booty Bay. The shining of the sun caused the Death Knight standing on the starboard railing of the ship to shield his eyes.
The motion left him oblivious to the source of a distinct "clack" on the deck behind him- oblivious, that is, until a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, long, powerful fingers interlocking on his chest, over the flesh his loose shirt left bare. He smiled a little at the familiar touch in these unfamiliar surroundings, knowing that she was only likely comfortable with the show of affection because most of the crew was still asleep.
Xynrael turned, noting a rope dangling all the way down from the crow's nest, where his wife had likely been enjoying the literal bird's-eye-view of Stranglethorn as they left it behind the horizon.
"Morning, love." Muttered Iliae Duskryder, as she lay her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her for a moment, leaving them about her waist where they had come to rest, until she lifted herself from him and began to walk the deck. He followed in silence, his eyes focused not on the sparkling ocean, but instead seeking out his wife's form, looking her over with a surprisingly lust-less appreciation.
The Death Knight had to remind himself that his wife's comparatively small and wiry body contained a surprising amount of strength and speed, the deception thereof perfect for a Ranger, and even better in a wife. When the two paused in their walk, he took a moment to reflect that although a small part of him enjoyed playing soldier at home, he didn't often have to worry about Iliae.
As she moved again, he started to follow, nearly slamming into her and knocking the Ranger over.
Iliae tapped him on the shoulder as she had during the few occasions where they had gone hunting together, indicating she had noticed something he was either oblivious to, or simply in a bad position to spot. Her finger led over the gently rolling sea, towards the horizon.
There, with the morning sun's rays as its shield, sailed a medium-sized vessel, probably easily capable of running circles around the Floating Treasure. At that distance, Xynrael could just barely make out the rapid lowering of a black flag, and found himself surprised his wife had noticed it at all. What replaced it was a larger Alliance flag, looking weather-worn and tired, with small holes and tears through it, by the unsteady way it flapped in the wind.
"That better not be what I think it is," Iliae growled, as if taking personal offense to this possible interruption to their vacation. Her hands fell to her daggers in the easy way they usually did when anticipating a threat.
Like a tiger about to flash its claws, Xynrael thought, somewhat amused. Aloud, he replied, "It looks like it. I'll go wake up the captain. Feel like going down to the powder room and loading up a few rifles?"
The Ranger shot him a glare that quite clearly said "No, and I want them to go away." Despite this, she voiced no reply, and instead disappeared down a staircase, towards the crew quarters.
As soon as Iliae left, Xynrael ran in the opposite direction, making for the captain's quarters. He pounded heavily on the door, attracting the attention of the present skeleton crew. They made for him, but not before a loud, nasally call of "WHAT" came from within.
"Pirates!" The Death Knight replied, eliciting some swearing and a small explosion from within the room.
The captain emerged a moment later, still tugging on his shirt. The little goblin darted out, his body breezing past with speed that Xynrael believed was disproportionate to the little man's legs.
Captain Boltplank immediately rushed to the port side of the ship, unfolding his spyglass to search the waters. "I don't see a DAMN thing!" He barked, after a moment.
The crew looked around as well, apparently quite puzzled at the alarm. By now, two or three more crew members had arrived on the deck and were gathering around to hear Captain Boltplank yelling at one of his guests about interrupting "private time."
Finally tiring of the so-called discussion, the larger of the pair simply leaned down, picked the captain up by his underarms, and turned him to face the starboard side of the vessel. By this time, the "Alliance" ship was in plain sight, though still some distance away. The captain seemed to consider the vessel for a moment, before waving a hand dismissively.
"It's an Alliance trading ship. We've got mixed passengers on-board; they'll leave us alone, friend. Don't wake me up again."
"That so? Then why are their broadsides opening?" Xynrael inquired, pointing towards the ship. The captain raised both brows, sticking his spyglass under one of them.
There was some commotion in the minutes that followed, including the rousing of the crew and the hurrying of all the passengers to the center of the ship. When finally the foreign craft approached, the captain thereof hailed quite loudly, and in a deceptively friendly manner.
"Ahoy!" Boltplank responded, after receiving word that food, supplies, and gold had been safely stowed away. "Whaddya want?"
"Food and fine goods! We're sailing from Stormwind to trade in the Bay, and thought ya might have somethin' to sell, master goblin!" The captain of the other ship, a middle-aged human in clothes only slightly less becoming those of a true merchant vessel's commanding officer. He removed his hat, a tattered, three-pointed affair, and held it to his chest, bowing slightly. "I'm Captain Armand, of the Stormwind Virtue, by way of name. Have ya anything to sell?"
"No! Go aw- Err... "
Xynrael could see the look of greed in the goblin's eyes as he spoke, and through the open hatches in the side of the vessel, he could also see cannons lurking, and hear the commotion from belowdecks. As the two captains continued their back-and-forth, the Death Knight closed his eyes. Beyond the salty air, the calling, and the creaking of ships, he could feel smaller life as it ran back and forth belowdecks on the other ship.
Powder boys.
It was then that Xynrael realized the ship upon which he was standing was a target of opportunity- they hadn't been prepared, and were likely coming back from another raid. There was a window, a very small one, where he might be able to shift the course of the encounter.
As if summoned, his wife appeared in the stairwell, holding several single-shot powder rifles, apparently loaded and ready to go. Iliae pressed her back against the doorway leading belowdecks, and tossed all but three of the rifles down half a flight to the landing. One she rested against the door, the other she lifted into her own hands, her eyes giving the Death Knight a questioning look.
A small jerk of the head was his response.
In that one instant, as it became clear that the two captains were getting nowhere, Iliae threw the rifle she was holding to Xynrael, then scooped one up for herself. Her husband reached for his belt, producing the dueling pistol that could usually be found hiding behind his cape. With one arm crossed under his shooting hand for balance, the Death Knight fired, striking Captain Armand in the left shoulder. At almost exactly the same time, another shot rang out from the doorway, striking the opposing ship's helmsman, whose throat exploded in a spray of blood.
"HOIST THE COLORS!" Someone called.
The entire process took south of two seconds, and Xynrael snatched the rifle Iliae had thrown him out of the air, dropping his pistol in the same moment. Both raised their firearms as the crew scurried to the stairwell to secure more rifles and powder. Two more shots rang out, followed immediately by the thundering of a broadside from the pirate vessel.
The decks of both ships lit up with gunfire as planks descended. From the Stormwind Virtue came a roar distinct from the cannons and gunfire- the roar of men preparing to charge.
"Over the side, boys! BOARD THEM!" Called Captain Armand, still shooting from where he was leaning, bleeding to death, against the upper deck of his vessel.
Sure enough, the raiders came, brandishing cutlass and pistol with wild abandon. In spite of the boarding, the cannons continued, this time from both sides, a single tremendous hole ripping out of the Virtue. Iliae had come out from her place in the stairwell, and knocked the first pirate she could find off of his gangplank. Rather than continue fighting, however, Xynrael watched as she ducked aside. It took him a moment to comprehend, but when he finally figured out her plan, he dove away as well.
A small explosion ripped off the railing of the Treasure in the area immediately around one plank, also knocking another off of its bearing. Several men hopped from the plank either back or forwards, onto the ships, but most on both planks fell into the sea.
Iliae rose, spewing throwing daggers with unnatural speed. Three found their mark, and three pirates likewise fell. Beside her, Xynrael drew the rapier at his left hip. A rather long-haired, ruddy sort of dwarf launched itself at him, and was immediately impaled, flung aside, and replaced by an orc- clearly, Captain Armand made no distinction of race when hiring his crew.
Amid all the commotion, the Death Knight heard a bloodcurdling yell from behind him. As he turned, he saw the head of a bald human erupt in a spray of red and gray, round shot piercing the man's skull and scattering bits of brain everywhere.
To the left of this scene, Iliae lowered her rifle, grinning at her husband before turning and flipping the weapon in her hands to use it like a staff. She struck a troll once between the eyes with the stock of the firearm, then once in the crotch, and used the whole of it to shove him over the edge of the ship.
From her position above the fresh hole, the Ranger could see the barrel of an un-manned cannon. An earlier broadside had apparently killed the men using it; one of them was presently hanging over the side of the ship, conspicuously absent an arm. In a fit of inspiration, Iliae Duskryder looked from the crew-less weapon, to her husband, whose veins were bulging a deep red with frozen blood. She watched as he picked one pirate up by the hand that held the very cutlass the man had been attempting to swing with, and then hurled him over the side of the ship. Iliae grinned as Xynrael took a glancing blow from another blade, turned, and ran the wielder of said blade through without flinching.
The Death Knight looked up, saw the grin on his companion's face, saw where she was standing, and raised a hand, even as he struck down another pirate.
"No," he proclaimed, quite loudly. "We are NOT doing that!"
"Get in the damn cannon!" Iliae called, already heading down the stairs.
Xynrael made a great deal of loud protesting, swearing, and cursing of the powers-that-be as he swung down through the hole in the deck, sliding easily into the already-loaded cannon. Sort of easily, anyway. He wedged a little on the way down, then gathered a thick coating of ice around himself. The sound of water trickling into the fuse surprised him, but in the darkness of the cannon's barrel, he grinned.
Iliae Duskryder was not as crazy as some thought.
The ice slicked enough to allow the Death Knight to exit with a resounding BOOM a moment later. One layer of ice shattered, splintering into the Virtue . Another cracked as he crashed through the solid wood hull of the pirate vessel, jarring him, but leaving him unharmed in his makeshift shell casing. As he passed through something like an improvised secondary hull, all the ice shattered, allowing him to land at a breakneck roll.
The pirates manning the Virtue's guns looked vaguely surprised, and one of them seemed offended that a projectile made out of Death Knight had landed on top of him. This last was promptly relieved of his nose, the cartilage and bone of which was sent crashing into his brain by the heel of Xynrael's boot.
Xynrael took up the man's cutlass and made for the powder room. Another volley tore through the Virtue's hull, and was responded to in kind, leaving the air thick with powder and the smell of burning flesh- the Goblin captain had fired an incendiary volley through his opponent's hull, and it was doing its job admirably.
Only four or so met the intruder as he moved for the powder room- the others were too focused on tearing the Treasure to ribbons to bother with a lone boarder. One , a human large enough to be a tauren, ran at Xynrael and attempted outright to tackle him. He was met with the edge of a cutlass, his entrails redecorating the room as Xynrael flung the man over his back.
The second and third met similar fates, one impaled, the other shot by his newly-skewered mate's pistol.
The fourth was a powder boy, who, having dropped his powder keg, drew something like a longknife, though certainly a sword to his hands. The gunpowder spilled across the floor, soaking through in a matter of moments from the spray of the ocean and the rocking of the ships as they traded fire. The boy was clearly scared, but determined to get in the way.
With a quick sweep of the blade and an upward twist, Xynrael disarmed the child, then knocked him to the floor and scooped him up by the collar, against a great deal of protesting, kicking, and biting. With one boot, the Death Knight rolled the powder keg the boy had dropped to the door of the powder room. As he kicked the door in, others began to turn and take notice, but not before he could nudge the barrel in and set a spark of unholy flame to the explosive trail left behind.
With powder monkey in tow, Xynrael made his way up the stairs, shoving and cutting his way on to the deck.
He threw the boy into a longboat and cut the ropes holding it in place with two quick slices. The deck was deserted of all but a few gunners and men at their cannons- the fire in the hold took precedence over all else, including the man who had set it, but he knew the fire would not be so easily doused with water.
Iliae was standing on the deck of the Treasure. She locked eyes with her husband, then pointed upwards. He immediately began to scramble up the ropeway leading towards the mast, needing no further indication of what his Ranger companion had planned.
Halfway up, Xynrael heard frantic yelling from below, signaling that he was out of time. Iliae was already walking along the mast of the Treasure, a rope in her hands. As the first explosion tore through the Virtue's hull, she broke into a run with balance perhaps only a cat or a monkey could match, swinging the rope around her head as she ran.
A second explosion shook the Virtue as it began to sink into the ocean, the Death Knight barely managing to hurl himself up onto the mast of the heaving vessel. A third explosion was imminent, he knew, and this one meant death if he wasn't clear. The Treasure was already pulling away.
He ran, blindly, for the edge of the mast, and swan-dove off the side.
Iliae threw, and the rope met his hands. From the corner of his eyes, he saw her hop down towards the deck he himself was headed for. Despite his superior physiology, the fall would kill him, and the rope was far too long.
For a moment.
Iliae still held one end of the rope, loosely draped over the Treasure's mast. As she fell, her momentum slowed him, until they balanced, and she began to rise again under his weight. She straightened, and landed atop the mast, boots planted firmly, the rope still entwined around her arms.
Her husband let out a frightful yell as he swung around the mast twice, then let go, sailing towards the helm and landing with a terrible crash.
When he awoke briefly, Iliae was standing over him, grinning.
He mustered enough energy to swear at her before the light of consciousness departed again.
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The Salty Sailor was winding down, as much as it could. The tavern was relatively empty- a few tavern wenches still sat comfortably in the laps of drunken sea-dogs, the latter of which appeared to be predominantly dog, rather than man.
In a darker corner of the bar, Xynrael held a mug of ale to the left side of his head, which had taken the end of his landing somewhat more violently than the rest of him.
Iliae was still grinning, though a bit less. She leaned forward, and drew the mug away from his head. "It does more to dull the pain if you drink it," the Ranger intoned, leaning across the table to steal a kiss. As soon as their lips had parted, she left the table, headed to the bar for another flask of Caraway Burnwine.
From her place at the bar, she could hear a new voice above the din, rising in coquettish laughter from what she judged to be relatively far away.
Iliae's fingers twitched slightly as she turned back towards her table, the polite but distant smile on her husband's face giving away the barmaid's intentions almost better than her recent attempt to seat herself in his lap and place her arms around his neck. This last he had replied to by simply lifting her up with one hand and placing her on the floor, which seemed only to encourage her. She sat instead in the chair opposite of him, and began speaking in a more hushed tone, her fingers batting gently at his arm.
The distance between Iliae and her husband disappeared quickly beneath thumping leather boots. A growl cut off in her throat as she heard her husband laugh in the polite, practiced tone usually reserved for politicians, followed immediately by another, more vocal reply, "... But, honestly, I'm not interested, and you had best leave."
The human woman leaned forwards, displaying an immodestly (and really, not at all) covered amount of cleavage, a soft grin passing over her lips. "Are you sure about that?" She asked.
Her head jerked forward suddenly, a small trickle of blood dotting the table where her nose had struck. Iliae removed her hand from the whore's hair and slipped foreward into the darkness in which her husband sat. An innocent grin tugged at lips as she sat down in Xynrael's arms.
After a moment of the privacy the shadows granted, she withdrew, and headed up the stairs, leaving her burnwine untouched.
Xynrael shook his head and followed her up to their rooms, pausing only to feel the pulse of the woman his wife had knocked out.
Monday, July 4, 2011
[Image]The Bane Theory
((So, this picture requires some explanation. My friend Jessie, who is a very talented artist, does a sort of cartoony, Disney-style art that I absolutely love. We met through Warcraft about two years ago, thanks to a theory we affectionately nicknamed "The Bane Magnet." How it works is this: Blood Elf names in Warcraft, generally speaking, have a noun-adjective combination, typically suited to the character by their creator. Sometimes there's a story behind it, and other naming conventions are used.
So, some two years ago, we were staring at eachothers' roleplay addons from across the Bazaar in Silvermoon City, and, upon realizing we had eachother targeted, her character, Eriene Duskbane, proceeded to demand of mine (whose name is Xynrael Frostbane), "Is there something I can DO for you, Death Knight?" As most people shouldn't have at the time, considering the game's story to date, she didn't particularly ENJOY the company of Death Knights, or anything else Undead. The reason for this initiation of RP?
Rather than make an ass of himself like most Death Knights tend to, Xynrael proceeded to be fairly polite and cordial, with just a hint of sarcasm. Eriene took this as an opportunity to verbally beat him with a brick stick. After the RP took place, Jessie sent me a private message out-of-character, rather hurriedly explaining that "I'M REALLY NOT THIS MEAN OUT OF CHARACTER I PROMISE." Rather than pursue that, I laughed it off and asked what made her decide to initiate RP with me. After a moment of silence, she gave the literary equivalent of a shrug and replied "IDK. Her name is Duskbane. His is Frostbane. I just had to."
Thus began one of the most interesting friendships I've ever had with anyone, and a VERY strange one for our characters. Some of the details are revealed here in my blog some we keep to ourselves. However, for my birthday, Jessie drew me a picture that very well exemplifies their attitudes towards eachother- a hesitant closeness with a lot of glaring.
Easily one of the best birthday gifts I've ever gotten. I hope you all enjoy this image as much as I do.))
Saturday, June 18, 2011
((This story completed to "This is War" by 30 Seconds to Mars- the theme for Seana Aesire, now Seana Shadestalker, and "You're Going Down" - Sick Puppies, which was playing in my head while I was envisioning the fight scene. Welcome to Wyrmrest, Seana!))
There is a time during every friendship, every association, every alliance, every relationship, where we come dangerously close to rage or even violence with those on the other side of it. It is very seldom that any of these START in such a way and end up as any of the aforementioned peaceful relationships.
I was recently re-acquainted with a former Knight-Lord for whom I harbor great respect. She has reminded me of the ever-changing nature of our world by accepting me not only as I am now, but as I was. Or, at the very least, acknowledging each in its own light. She is an oddity- a former Blood Knight with a sense of duty and honor.
Her name is Seana Shadestalker.
~ From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane
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A single pair of plate-covered leather boots stalked through the streets of Stratholme, the sound hidden by the roar of the ever-burning flame and the groaning of the Undead. The young Blood Knight initiate to whom the boots belonged clutched tightly at his ranseur, his fingers drumming nervously over the weapon's shaft as if to assure himself of both his grip and the presence of his armament.
Thus far, the Scourge had made no attempt to impede his path. In fact, not a one of them had even stood directly before him since he entered the city. The Blood Knight reflected on this as he neared his objective: A small chapel where Uther the Lightbringer had been blessed as the first Paladin.
Well, he thought, blessed is a subjective term.
The young man snickered as he approached the door of the church, straightening up. He had reached his objective and now-
The sound of a pair of heavy boots on the cobblestone street behind him made him freeze. The shifting crunch of plate armor scraping and settling, however, broke the Blood Knight out of his shock. With ranseur raised, he turned, the weapon's point coming to rest against the chest of a rather large man in frightening blue plate.
Runes danced on the mace held over the man's armor, and beneath his hood, a pair of rime-laced blue eyes poured their unholy glow. What of this man's face was not covered by his hood was curved in a lopsided, arrogant smirk. He also seemed not to be breathing, his pale skin not retracting or twitching in the slightest, nose unmoving, lips held loosely together, but still completely shut.
It took several moments for the Blood Knight to put all of this together, and when he did, it didn't quite come out right. "D...D..ea... You're a..." he began, sputtering and taking several steps back, his hands wringing tensely over the shaft of his polearm, choking up on it
"Death Knight," the man responded, smirk spreading. "So? What're you supposed to be?" He asked, swatting the Blood Knight's ranseur aside with a sweep of his left arm and taking an all-too-easy step foreward.
The Sin'dorei backpedaled a ways towards the chapel's entrance, but straightened up. "I am Tadrian Kal'dar, Blood Knight of Silvermoon," he declared, far more bravely than he felt. "And I am here to complete my initiation as a Knight-Master by def-"
The Death Knight cut him off with another wave of the hand. "I don't rightly give a damn why you think you're here. The Light is strange about you, boy. There is no faith- it waxes and wanes the faster your heart beats. I had the way cleared for you so that you could explain this; I've been stalking you since the Thalassian Pass."
With a panicked gaze, the Blood Knight realized the implications of his Undead opposite's words. The Undead had begun closing in around him, and the streets were once again flooded by their number. Creatures that looked like some sick combination of spiders, ants, and perhaps a praying mantis for a grandfather had come skittering down from the buildings. He was completely surrounded, and suddenly not at ALL certain of himself.
As he opened his mouth, Knight-Adept Kal'dar's burning aura began to wane. "We... We do not beg the Light to come and let it desert us where it wills," he stammered, raising his weapon again. "We command it to come. We choke it out. We are not weak like the Paladins of the Silver Hand, like Uther and Arthas. We dominate it by our will and our might."
The Death Knight inclined his head in something of a respectful nod. "Fair enough," he asserted, eliciting a surprised stare from the Blood Knight. "You're free to go if you can answer this question, then."
Tadrian's brows raised practically to the sky, though he felt his whole body tense. "Al... right... What?" As the words left his lips, the Adept felt his breath begin to come short. His grip tightened further, terrified at the thought of losing his weapon to a panic attack.
A single, red-fringed rune on the Death Knight's mace glimmered, his grin turning feral as his left hand lifted, fingers closing as if he were strangling someone or perhaps crushing a small mammal in his grip.
"How strong is your will, Tadrian Kal'dar... And where is your Light now?"
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The sound of hoofbeats on worn stone gave stoic report of the red-and-black clad Knights who were riding through what was once the easternmost extension of the kingdom of Lordaeron. At the center of the group of three, astride a great Thalassian charger, sat Knight-Master Seana Aesire. In her left hand, she held the beast's reins, and in her left, an ichor-caked axe. She and the two assigned to ride with her had just cut a swath of holy fire through the Western half of the Plaguelands, and were now riding east to the burning ruins of Stratholme.
"Remind me again why we're out here?" The Knight-Adept on her left, called Aestas Elurial, shouted over the din of thumping hooves and shifting plate.
Aesire shot back, "Because Knight-Lord Bloodvalor commanded it, Adept!" Her tone was sharp, cold... As if the answer should have been obvious to an infant, much more so to a Knight-Adept. The companion on her left fell silent.
The man on her right, however, called out to her in turn. "I think he means that if Tad was the third adept to go missing in the Plaguelands this week, why is Bloodvalor only sending the three of us? It seems a little redund-"
"YOU are being redundant, adept! The answer remains the same. Our brothers were lost, we know where one might be, and we're going to retreive him." Mentally, she added, "Or his corpse." Rather than add this aloud, however, she cast her eyes foreward.
The path before Knight-Master Aesire and the accompanying Adepts was clear by comparison of the road behind them; only plagued ground and giant mushrooms oozing spores decorated the road ahead. Seana reigned in her charger, brow furrowing as she caught sight of smoke rising from the ever-burning city. "This is too easy," she muttered, under her breath.
The Adepts came to a halt a little behind but otherwise directly beside her, looking around. She noted silently that the pair were at least experienced enough to get their bearings and notice that something was out of place. In a land inhabited by the Scourge, there should at least be ghouls, and possibly other monsters. Ahead of them, on the road to Stratholme, was nothing. Around them, all was eerily still.
"I don't like this." Elurial remarked, illiciting a nervous snicker from Relion Tarsus, whom flanked Seana on the right.
"You never like anything... But, it is quiet. I wonder where they went?" Tarsus asked, reaching for a loaded crossbow that sat in a sling behind his saddle.
Aesire, snapped fully out of her reverie by their commentary, hefted her axe and urged her charger foreward at a trot. The others followed suit as she barked at them. "You complain that we're sent here, then complain when the task before us becomes significantly easier. We go. Now, while the road is clear." With a heavy kick, she urged her beast into a mad dash.
The other two had to shout their chargers on to convince them to keep up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The gates of Stratholme were completely clear of Undead, much as the road leading up to them had been. As Seana reigned her charger in, she reached back for her axe, and swung out of the saddle, her feet hitting the ground just as the warhorse's hooves came to a complete start. She straightened up, armor shuffling in protest.
Always a step behind, the Knight-Adepts planted their boots on the road leading to the city gates, and crossed the thin line that signaled the beginning of Stratholme's bridge.
Despite herself, the female Blood Knight let out a miniscule shudder. As the ash and smoke trickled into her nostrils, she pressed back the urge to sneeze, instead satisfying the desire by rubbing her index finger under her nose. The sneeze came out anyway, and much to her embarassment, but it wasn't the indignity of it that mortified her.
In the moment where she leaned her head foreward and her eyes slammed shut, Knight-Master Aesire felt something cold standing on the fringe of her senses, as if a strange wind had suddenly blown against her skin through her armor. The chill was accompanied by a single, distinct voice, and an echoing call of "Light bless you!"
Seana looked up, vaguely surprised. Her eyes searched 'round and 'round, but found nothing. Finally, a tap on her shoulder, accompanied by a red-and-black-clad arm pointing up to the top of the city gates directed her attention to the speaker.
On top of Stratholme, one boot lifted, knee bent and perched upon the battlements, stood a Death Knight in heavy saronite plate. A cruel-looking mace sat over his shoulder, and he was looking down on the group of Blood Knights from beneath the shadow of a large cowl, one Seana Aesire was all too familiar with. In theory, at least. The Death Knight tossed off a sarcastic-looking salute with two fingers.
Seana could -feel- her eyes narrow as she stared up at him. Still, despite her blood already beginning to boil with anger, she had to be sure. "You are the Dawnbreaker!" She declared. It had been meant as a question, but in her rage, it came out as a blatantly obvious statement. The Blood Knight's fingers curled around the shaft of her axe, almost hard enough to crack the polished wood. Light crackled around the weapon's head, and she found herself wishing he were just a few feet closer.
"Ten gold pieces for reaching the obvious conclusion faster than all the other Blood Knights, but minus several million for ignoring the little feeling in your gut saying this was a trap," the Dawnbreaker replied, half-turning and reaching behind himself for something.
As their harasser turned away, one of Seana's companions (her frustration deafened her as to which) whispered "What the hell do we do now?"
For a moment, she wanted to bite his head right off, but this moment ended as a body impaled on a spear sailed through the air and landed with a metallic scrape on the ground before them. The two Knight-Adepts recoiled, but Seana stepped foreward. It was a far lesser manifestation of her desire to lunge at the Death Knight despite the distance between them.
"By the Sunwell," one of the Adepts muttered. "It's Tadrian."
"I KNOW WHO IT IS." Seana bellowed in reply.
"SHE KNOWS WHO IT IS." The Death Knight roared, the unnatural echo of his voice carrying the statement much further. An arrogant smirk tugged at his lips, the infuriating grin the only thing besides his eyes clearly visible beneath the shadow of his hood.
"Come down here and mock me, coward." Seana whispered this under her breath. To the two Knight-Adepts, however, she gave a clear order: "Retrieve the body."
The Death Knight shifted his runemace, and lifted his other boot onto the battlements. "Leaving so soon?" He asked, motioning to the body. "I'd just properly set your friend to be roasted."
Knight-Master Aesire opened her mouth to reply, but the words left her as she noticed the -manner- in which Tadrian Kal'dan's body had been impaled; the spear's head stuffed directly into his intestinal tract, and out the top of his head. "...Get that thing out of him," she ordered, upon seeing the spear's placement.
With both eyes fixed on the Death Knight, the two adepts advanced in unison. He moved to neither blink nor breathe until they were fifteen steps or so from the body that had landed on the bridge. The moment their boots crossed that invisible line, he lept into the air, armor glimmering with a fresh coast of frost.
At the sound of rustling plate and their new opponent's cloak fluttering against the momentum, the Blood Knights drew their weapons. There was a brief confusion as the Dawnbreaker landed and the layer of ice protecting him shattered, but when the confusion ended, the Undead had parried two blows and was standing between the group of Blood Knights and their fallen companion.
The two Adepts backed away, Elurial rolling his left shoulder. The force of the counter-attack had caused him no small amount of discomfort, and through gritten teeth, he asked, "What do we do?"
Seana stepped foreward, an aura of burning Light enveloping her as she lifted her axe. "Retrieve. The. Body." She repeated.
Tarsus swung out his crossbow to loose a bolt at the Death Knight, but their quarry raised his left hand just as quickly. The bolt froze in place, and the bowstring snapped under its own tension. Rather than stare dumbfoundedly at the weapon, the Blood Knight tossed it aside and reached for his mace and shield.
Elurial and Tarsus raced forewards, their own bodies erupting with the Light. In face of Seana's command, they were clearly attempting to cover their fear in zeal, and it worked.
Too well.
Knight-Adept Aestas Elurial raised his massive broadsword over his head to make an exaggerated, but potentially deadly downward strike aimed directly for their opponent's head. Despite Seana's attempt to shout him down, the Blood Knight carried foreward, and was struck immediately in the stomach.
The Dawnbreaker shifted his mace forewards, not even lifting it from his shoulder. Rather, he dipped his right shoulder forewards and brought the enormous, spiked pommel of the mace down into the Adept's stomach. The spike stabbed straight through the Knight's tabard, pierced and caved his plate armor inwards, and punctured his kidney. Aestas' sword fell backwards, and as the Death Knight removed the spike, the other man staggered and fell forewards.
From Xynrael's left, Relion Tarsus let out a mighty cry, and brought his own, smaller mace down on the Death Knight. Knight-Master Aesire rushed forewards, attempting to close distance and take advantage of the momentary disruption as the Dawnbreaker lifted his mace to defend against the blow. Tarsus rammed his shield foreward, but failed to disrupt his opponent, who quickly stood.
Apparently unimpressed by the shorter man's blow, Xynrael shoved himself to his feet, hood falling back from the jerking leap he had taken to get himself upright. Along the now-revealed skin, Seana could see that the Death Knight's veins were turning a sort of cobalt blue. While she wasn't entirely certain what it meant, he seemed immune to any attempt to displace or shake him. This fact was accented as Elurial made one last attempt to aid his comrades- a hammer of light formed above the Death Knight's head, fell, and was shrugged off as if it were a pebble.
Tarsus spun away, the blow from his shield deflected, and aimed instead to strike Xynrael with his mace. Seana brought her axe down, but her target had moved forewards more quickly than she had expected, and shoved his boot against Knight-Adept Tarsus' back as the man spun.
The Adept fell foreward into the pool of his friend's blood. Seana turned to strike again, but the blow halted in mid-air. She cringed at the demonic screech and spray of blood that spread into the air as the scythes that rimmed the Dawnbreaker's mace cleaved into Tarsus' back and shred his armor. He cried out as Xynrael attempted to shake him from the mace. Rather than yank it out, however, the Death Knight lifted the weapon with its most recent sheath still attached, and flung the man over his shoulder as if he were a ragdoll.
The Adept flew back onto the floor, leaving a streak of blood behind him as he skidded to a halt. His abdomen was nearly split from the force of the strike, and he had left splashes of blood all over the bridge as he soared to his new resting place.
Seana now stood between Xynrael and the initial corpse. Her hands stll held tightly to the hilt of her axe, which was the only thing besides air between her and the Death Knight. He turned slowly, lifting his brows at her. She took a step backwards, partially out of a sense of self-preservation, but also to another end. Silently, the Knight-Master prayed that he would believe her actions to be entirely out of fear. She made no attempt to interrupt as he started to speak.
"You Blood Knights... You're not even Paladins properly, are you?" He asked, lifting his bloodied mace back onto his shoulder. She noted, still in silence, that the frost wisping from his eyes had grown brighter since he made the kills of her comrades.
"There is no blind faith protecting you- the moment you start to fear, your strength wanes. You tried to take the Light, like adolescents throwing a tantrum so you wouldn't have to subject yourself to anything but your own rules. It's cute, but as you can see, useless. Your Light is weak. Frail." He smirked that infuriating smirk, fingers drumming on the shaft of his mace. "Run home, little girl, and beg forgiveness from the Light you've tried to- GRAH."
Seana was right. He hadn't seen what she was moving for. As he spoke, she had slowly backed away. In one fluid motion, just as she sensed his speech about to end, the Blood Knight took hold of her dead brother's spear, ripped it from his flesh, and flung it at her tormentor. There was little force behind the blow, but the Dawnbreaker was close enough that dodging it would have been a minor miracle. Instead, it landeded just below his right pauldron and stuck. She charged, her weapon crackling with the Light, and gave a blind swing as she closed the distance.
The blow of her axe met with the shaft of the Death Knight's mace, held in both hands. Clearly, the ranseur's head had not buried as deeply as she'd hoped.
Rather than back down, Seana slid her left hand up on the axe's shaft and, with her right, grabbed the ranseur's pommel and shoved. Her efforts were rewarded with a deep growl, followed immediately by a heavy kick to the stomach. The Blood Knight stumbled backwards- the blow had hurt, even through the armor. There was a moment of relative calm between them as the Dawkbreaker tore the spear from his flesh and his living opponent recovered.
They stood at odds, regarding eachother. This time, it was Seana's turn to talk.
"You are an abomination, Dawnbreaker," he began, glancing over him. Her eyes flicked back and forth beneath the veil of their Felfire glow, searching him up and down for any weak spot in his armor or his stance. "The Scourge have no place in this world."
"So, what are you going to do?" He replied, hefting his mace back onto his shoulder. "Purge us with fire?"
"Yes." The Knight-Master rushed forewards again, seperating her left palm from her axe's shaft. Light crackled and seared the air around her hand as the glow surged towards her tormentor.
The Light washed over him as it struck, and the blade of Seana's axe followed quickly after, announcing its upwards cut with a single note of violent song.
Only, the Dawnbreaker wasn't there. He had stepped aside. Seana kept moving; he was either going to counterattack, or do nothing and continue to mock her, but either way, she didn't intend to sit still for it. As she spun to face him, her eyes caught the last of the glow washing away, a sickly green color following in its wake.
Eight feet now stood between them, fingers of the Death Knight's right gauntlet drumming idly on the shaft of the mace that rested upon his shoulder. On his face lay an amused-looking grin. It was there, in that moment of observation, that she realized the hopelessness of her situation. She was standing alone, shoulder-deep in the Plaguelands, surrounded by nothing but empty space and a forest that the Undead knew far better than she knew it. And he was toying with her.
With a groan, she rolled her left shoulder, reaching up to place her hand directly over the clasp that held her cloak in place. As she moved, the Blood Knight noticed a distinct, dull ache in her ribcage from the initial assault. No time to heal it now- would take too much time, too much focus. Instead, Seana kept her focus on the Death Knight, and on buying time.
In the moment she made her decision, the tension holding them apart broke like a string. Each Knight charged foreward. Seana's axe camp up, the Dawnbreaker's mace came down. There was a brief, sickening scream of metal scraping metal. They seperated, met, and seperated again. Seana whirled. Dawnbreaker's left hand came up. The Light surged and thundered around the Blood Knight, and fell short against a runic barrier.
Then, something happened she did not expect. Around her opponent, a sickly yellow glow erupted, then surged foreward. From his outstretched palm shot a bolt of the Light. It solidified in the form of a hammer, much as she attempted to do to him before it had been deflected. The hammer connected solidly with her chest, picking the Knight-Master up off her feet and sending her backwards. She landed on her back and rolled twice, pressing herself up to her feet almost immediately. In the excitement, Seana had not relinquished her axe.
"How..." She coughed, as she rose, lifting her axe to prepare for the inevitable attempt at a finishing blow.
The Dawnbreaker smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent at the sound of blaring horns from the treeline.
Seana heard the call only a moment before he did.
"FOR THE ARGENT DAWN! FOR LORDAERON!"
Through the trees came a group of soldiers at least twenty strong, all bearing tabards of the Argent Dawn.
In spite of the sudden change of circumstances, the Dawnbreaker again surprised Seana by broadening his grin. "You are a tricky one, Blood Knight. But you still have much to learn. I will leave you be to learn it." He called to her, as the Argents closed distance.
As he turned away, the three dead Knight-Adepts rose to their feet. Elurial clawed his way from most of his own armor, then his skin, then some of his muscle tissue. Seana's reinforcements were nearly upon her by the time the freshly-born ghouls had charged. With a single sweep of her axe, she dispatched the Undead, and set herself ahead of the white-clad soldiers.
Knight-Master Aesire's eyes stuck dead ahead, focused on the departing Death Knight. nother bolt of Light tore from her as she ran at him, this time from the head of her axe, and aimed itself straight for her quarry. She could hear him grunt as he staggered and set himself to a jog towards the gates. Seana raised her axe.
Her furious downswing at the Dawnbreaker's back met instead with the falling iron gates of Stratholme. The Blood Knight staggered backwards, roaring above the fire and clamor of boots and shuffling armor, "AND YOU HAVE MUCH TO ANSWER FOR."
Seana slammed her fist against the insult of the gate as the Dawnbreaker disappeared into the city.
Under her breath, the Knight-Master growled, "We will meet again. And we will see whose faith is stronger."
There is a time during every friendship, every association, every alliance, every relationship, where we come dangerously close to rage or even violence with those on the other side of it. It is very seldom that any of these START in such a way and end up as any of the aforementioned peaceful relationships.
I was recently re-acquainted with a former Knight-Lord for whom I harbor great respect. She has reminded me of the ever-changing nature of our world by accepting me not only as I am now, but as I was. Or, at the very least, acknowledging each in its own light. She is an oddity- a former Blood Knight with a sense of duty and honor.
Her name is Seana Shadestalker.
~ From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane
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A single pair of plate-covered leather boots stalked through the streets of Stratholme, the sound hidden by the roar of the ever-burning flame and the groaning of the Undead. The young Blood Knight initiate to whom the boots belonged clutched tightly at his ranseur, his fingers drumming nervously over the weapon's shaft as if to assure himself of both his grip and the presence of his armament.
Thus far, the Scourge had made no attempt to impede his path. In fact, not a one of them had even stood directly before him since he entered the city. The Blood Knight reflected on this as he neared his objective: A small chapel where Uther the Lightbringer had been blessed as the first Paladin.
Well, he thought, blessed is a subjective term.
The young man snickered as he approached the door of the church, straightening up. He had reached his objective and now-
The sound of a pair of heavy boots on the cobblestone street behind him made him freeze. The shifting crunch of plate armor scraping and settling, however, broke the Blood Knight out of his shock. With ranseur raised, he turned, the weapon's point coming to rest against the chest of a rather large man in frightening blue plate.
Runes danced on the mace held over the man's armor, and beneath his hood, a pair of rime-laced blue eyes poured their unholy glow. What of this man's face was not covered by his hood was curved in a lopsided, arrogant smirk. He also seemed not to be breathing, his pale skin not retracting or twitching in the slightest, nose unmoving, lips held loosely together, but still completely shut.
It took several moments for the Blood Knight to put all of this together, and when he did, it didn't quite come out right. "D...D..ea... You're a..." he began, sputtering and taking several steps back, his hands wringing tensely over the shaft of his polearm, choking up on it
"Death Knight," the man responded, smirk spreading. "So? What're you supposed to be?" He asked, swatting the Blood Knight's ranseur aside with a sweep of his left arm and taking an all-too-easy step foreward.
The Sin'dorei backpedaled a ways towards the chapel's entrance, but straightened up. "I am Tadrian Kal'dar, Blood Knight of Silvermoon," he declared, far more bravely than he felt. "And I am here to complete my initiation as a Knight-Master by def-"
The Death Knight cut him off with another wave of the hand. "I don't rightly give a damn why you think you're here. The Light is strange about you, boy. There is no faith- it waxes and wanes the faster your heart beats. I had the way cleared for you so that you could explain this; I've been stalking you since the Thalassian Pass."
With a panicked gaze, the Blood Knight realized the implications of his Undead opposite's words. The Undead had begun closing in around him, and the streets were once again flooded by their number. Creatures that looked like some sick combination of spiders, ants, and perhaps a praying mantis for a grandfather had come skittering down from the buildings. He was completely surrounded, and suddenly not at ALL certain of himself.
As he opened his mouth, Knight-Adept Kal'dar's burning aura began to wane. "We... We do not beg the Light to come and let it desert us where it wills," he stammered, raising his weapon again. "We command it to come. We choke it out. We are not weak like the Paladins of the Silver Hand, like Uther and Arthas. We dominate it by our will and our might."
The Death Knight inclined his head in something of a respectful nod. "Fair enough," he asserted, eliciting a surprised stare from the Blood Knight. "You're free to go if you can answer this question, then."
Tadrian's brows raised practically to the sky, though he felt his whole body tense. "Al... right... What?" As the words left his lips, the Adept felt his breath begin to come short. His grip tightened further, terrified at the thought of losing his weapon to a panic attack.
A single, red-fringed rune on the Death Knight's mace glimmered, his grin turning feral as his left hand lifted, fingers closing as if he were strangling someone or perhaps crushing a small mammal in his grip.
"How strong is your will, Tadrian Kal'dar... And where is your Light now?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sound of hoofbeats on worn stone gave stoic report of the red-and-black clad Knights who were riding through what was once the easternmost extension of the kingdom of Lordaeron. At the center of the group of three, astride a great Thalassian charger, sat Knight-Master Seana Aesire. In her left hand, she held the beast's reins, and in her left, an ichor-caked axe. She and the two assigned to ride with her had just cut a swath of holy fire through the Western half of the Plaguelands, and were now riding east to the burning ruins of Stratholme.
"Remind me again why we're out here?" The Knight-Adept on her left, called Aestas Elurial, shouted over the din of thumping hooves and shifting plate.
Aesire shot back, "Because Knight-Lord Bloodvalor commanded it, Adept!" Her tone was sharp, cold... As if the answer should have been obvious to an infant, much more so to a Knight-Adept. The companion on her left fell silent.
The man on her right, however, called out to her in turn. "I think he means that if Tad was the third adept to go missing in the Plaguelands this week, why is Bloodvalor only sending the three of us? It seems a little redund-"
"YOU are being redundant, adept! The answer remains the same. Our brothers were lost, we know where one might be, and we're going to retreive him." Mentally, she added, "Or his corpse." Rather than add this aloud, however, she cast her eyes foreward.
The path before Knight-Master Aesire and the accompanying Adepts was clear by comparison of the road behind them; only plagued ground and giant mushrooms oozing spores decorated the road ahead. Seana reigned in her charger, brow furrowing as she caught sight of smoke rising from the ever-burning city. "This is too easy," she muttered, under her breath.
The Adepts came to a halt a little behind but otherwise directly beside her, looking around. She noted silently that the pair were at least experienced enough to get their bearings and notice that something was out of place. In a land inhabited by the Scourge, there should at least be ghouls, and possibly other monsters. Ahead of them, on the road to Stratholme, was nothing. Around them, all was eerily still.
"I don't like this." Elurial remarked, illiciting a nervous snicker from Relion Tarsus, whom flanked Seana on the right.
"You never like anything... But, it is quiet. I wonder where they went?" Tarsus asked, reaching for a loaded crossbow that sat in a sling behind his saddle.
Aesire, snapped fully out of her reverie by their commentary, hefted her axe and urged her charger foreward at a trot. The others followed suit as she barked at them. "You complain that we're sent here, then complain when the task before us becomes significantly easier. We go. Now, while the road is clear." With a heavy kick, she urged her beast into a mad dash.
The other two had to shout their chargers on to convince them to keep up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The gates of Stratholme were completely clear of Undead, much as the road leading up to them had been. As Seana reigned her charger in, she reached back for her axe, and swung out of the saddle, her feet hitting the ground just as the warhorse's hooves came to a complete start. She straightened up, armor shuffling in protest.
Always a step behind, the Knight-Adepts planted their boots on the road leading to the city gates, and crossed the thin line that signaled the beginning of Stratholme's bridge.
Despite herself, the female Blood Knight let out a miniscule shudder. As the ash and smoke trickled into her nostrils, she pressed back the urge to sneeze, instead satisfying the desire by rubbing her index finger under her nose. The sneeze came out anyway, and much to her embarassment, but it wasn't the indignity of it that mortified her.
In the moment where she leaned her head foreward and her eyes slammed shut, Knight-Master Aesire felt something cold standing on the fringe of her senses, as if a strange wind had suddenly blown against her skin through her armor. The chill was accompanied by a single, distinct voice, and an echoing call of "Light bless you!"
Seana looked up, vaguely surprised. Her eyes searched 'round and 'round, but found nothing. Finally, a tap on her shoulder, accompanied by a red-and-black-clad arm pointing up to the top of the city gates directed her attention to the speaker.
On top of Stratholme, one boot lifted, knee bent and perched upon the battlements, stood a Death Knight in heavy saronite plate. A cruel-looking mace sat over his shoulder, and he was looking down on the group of Blood Knights from beneath the shadow of a large cowl, one Seana Aesire was all too familiar with. In theory, at least. The Death Knight tossed off a sarcastic-looking salute with two fingers.
Seana could -feel- her eyes narrow as she stared up at him. Still, despite her blood already beginning to boil with anger, she had to be sure. "You are the Dawnbreaker!" She declared. It had been meant as a question, but in her rage, it came out as a blatantly obvious statement. The Blood Knight's fingers curled around the shaft of her axe, almost hard enough to crack the polished wood. Light crackled around the weapon's head, and she found herself wishing he were just a few feet closer.
"Ten gold pieces for reaching the obvious conclusion faster than all the other Blood Knights, but minus several million for ignoring the little feeling in your gut saying this was a trap," the Dawnbreaker replied, half-turning and reaching behind himself for something.
As their harasser turned away, one of Seana's companions (her frustration deafened her as to which) whispered "What the hell do we do now?"
For a moment, she wanted to bite his head right off, but this moment ended as a body impaled on a spear sailed through the air and landed with a metallic scrape on the ground before them. The two Knight-Adepts recoiled, but Seana stepped foreward. It was a far lesser manifestation of her desire to lunge at the Death Knight despite the distance between them.
"By the Sunwell," one of the Adepts muttered. "It's Tadrian."
"I KNOW WHO IT IS." Seana bellowed in reply.
"SHE KNOWS WHO IT IS." The Death Knight roared, the unnatural echo of his voice carrying the statement much further. An arrogant smirk tugged at his lips, the infuriating grin the only thing besides his eyes clearly visible beneath the shadow of his hood.
"Come down here and mock me, coward." Seana whispered this under her breath. To the two Knight-Adepts, however, she gave a clear order: "Retrieve the body."
The Death Knight shifted his runemace, and lifted his other boot onto the battlements. "Leaving so soon?" He asked, motioning to the body. "I'd just properly set your friend to be roasted."
Knight-Master Aesire opened her mouth to reply, but the words left her as she noticed the -manner- in which Tadrian Kal'dan's body had been impaled; the spear's head stuffed directly into his intestinal tract, and out the top of his head. "...Get that thing out of him," she ordered, upon seeing the spear's placement.
With both eyes fixed on the Death Knight, the two adepts advanced in unison. He moved to neither blink nor breathe until they were fifteen steps or so from the body that had landed on the bridge. The moment their boots crossed that invisible line, he lept into the air, armor glimmering with a fresh coast of frost.
At the sound of rustling plate and their new opponent's cloak fluttering against the momentum, the Blood Knights drew their weapons. There was a brief confusion as the Dawnbreaker landed and the layer of ice protecting him shattered, but when the confusion ended, the Undead had parried two blows and was standing between the group of Blood Knights and their fallen companion.
The two Adepts backed away, Elurial rolling his left shoulder. The force of the counter-attack had caused him no small amount of discomfort, and through gritten teeth, he asked, "What do we do?"
Seana stepped foreward, an aura of burning Light enveloping her as she lifted her axe. "Retrieve. The. Body." She repeated.
Tarsus swung out his crossbow to loose a bolt at the Death Knight, but their quarry raised his left hand just as quickly. The bolt froze in place, and the bowstring snapped under its own tension. Rather than stare dumbfoundedly at the weapon, the Blood Knight tossed it aside and reached for his mace and shield.
Elurial and Tarsus raced forewards, their own bodies erupting with the Light. In face of Seana's command, they were clearly attempting to cover their fear in zeal, and it worked.
Too well.
Knight-Adept Aestas Elurial raised his massive broadsword over his head to make an exaggerated, but potentially deadly downward strike aimed directly for their opponent's head. Despite Seana's attempt to shout him down, the Blood Knight carried foreward, and was struck immediately in the stomach.
The Dawnbreaker shifted his mace forewards, not even lifting it from his shoulder. Rather, he dipped his right shoulder forewards and brought the enormous, spiked pommel of the mace down into the Adept's stomach. The spike stabbed straight through the Knight's tabard, pierced and caved his plate armor inwards, and punctured his kidney. Aestas' sword fell backwards, and as the Death Knight removed the spike, the other man staggered and fell forewards.
From Xynrael's left, Relion Tarsus let out a mighty cry, and brought his own, smaller mace down on the Death Knight. Knight-Master Aesire rushed forewards, attempting to close distance and take advantage of the momentary disruption as the Dawnbreaker lifted his mace to defend against the blow. Tarsus rammed his shield foreward, but failed to disrupt his opponent, who quickly stood.
Apparently unimpressed by the shorter man's blow, Xynrael shoved himself to his feet, hood falling back from the jerking leap he had taken to get himself upright. Along the now-revealed skin, Seana could see that the Death Knight's veins were turning a sort of cobalt blue. While she wasn't entirely certain what it meant, he seemed immune to any attempt to displace or shake him. This fact was accented as Elurial made one last attempt to aid his comrades- a hammer of light formed above the Death Knight's head, fell, and was shrugged off as if it were a pebble.
Tarsus spun away, the blow from his shield deflected, and aimed instead to strike Xynrael with his mace. Seana brought her axe down, but her target had moved forewards more quickly than she had expected, and shoved his boot against Knight-Adept Tarsus' back as the man spun.
The Adept fell foreward into the pool of his friend's blood. Seana turned to strike again, but the blow halted in mid-air. She cringed at the demonic screech and spray of blood that spread into the air as the scythes that rimmed the Dawnbreaker's mace cleaved into Tarsus' back and shred his armor. He cried out as Xynrael attempted to shake him from the mace. Rather than yank it out, however, the Death Knight lifted the weapon with its most recent sheath still attached, and flung the man over his shoulder as if he were a ragdoll.
The Adept flew back onto the floor, leaving a streak of blood behind him as he skidded to a halt. His abdomen was nearly split from the force of the strike, and he had left splashes of blood all over the bridge as he soared to his new resting place.
Seana now stood between Xynrael and the initial corpse. Her hands stll held tightly to the hilt of her axe, which was the only thing besides air between her and the Death Knight. He turned slowly, lifting his brows at her. She took a step backwards, partially out of a sense of self-preservation, but also to another end. Silently, the Knight-Master prayed that he would believe her actions to be entirely out of fear. She made no attempt to interrupt as he started to speak.
"You Blood Knights... You're not even Paladins properly, are you?" He asked, lifting his bloodied mace back onto his shoulder. She noted, still in silence, that the frost wisping from his eyes had grown brighter since he made the kills of her comrades.
"There is no blind faith protecting you- the moment you start to fear, your strength wanes. You tried to take the Light, like adolescents throwing a tantrum so you wouldn't have to subject yourself to anything but your own rules. It's cute, but as you can see, useless. Your Light is weak. Frail." He smirked that infuriating smirk, fingers drumming on the shaft of his mace. "Run home, little girl, and beg forgiveness from the Light you've tried to- GRAH."
Seana was right. He hadn't seen what she was moving for. As he spoke, she had slowly backed away. In one fluid motion, just as she sensed his speech about to end, the Blood Knight took hold of her dead brother's spear, ripped it from his flesh, and flung it at her tormentor. There was little force behind the blow, but the Dawnbreaker was close enough that dodging it would have been a minor miracle. Instead, it landeded just below his right pauldron and stuck. She charged, her weapon crackling with the Light, and gave a blind swing as she closed the distance.
The blow of her axe met with the shaft of the Death Knight's mace, held in both hands. Clearly, the ranseur's head had not buried as deeply as she'd hoped.
Rather than back down, Seana slid her left hand up on the axe's shaft and, with her right, grabbed the ranseur's pommel and shoved. Her efforts were rewarded with a deep growl, followed immediately by a heavy kick to the stomach. The Blood Knight stumbled backwards- the blow had hurt, even through the armor. There was a moment of relative calm between them as the Dawkbreaker tore the spear from his flesh and his living opponent recovered.
They stood at odds, regarding eachother. This time, it was Seana's turn to talk.
"You are an abomination, Dawnbreaker," he began, glancing over him. Her eyes flicked back and forth beneath the veil of their Felfire glow, searching him up and down for any weak spot in his armor or his stance. "The Scourge have no place in this world."
"So, what are you going to do?" He replied, hefting his mace back onto his shoulder. "Purge us with fire?"
"Yes." The Knight-Master rushed forewards again, seperating her left palm from her axe's shaft. Light crackled and seared the air around her hand as the glow surged towards her tormentor.
The Light washed over him as it struck, and the blade of Seana's axe followed quickly after, announcing its upwards cut with a single note of violent song.
Only, the Dawnbreaker wasn't there. He had stepped aside. Seana kept moving; he was either going to counterattack, or do nothing and continue to mock her, but either way, she didn't intend to sit still for it. As she spun to face him, her eyes caught the last of the glow washing away, a sickly green color following in its wake.
Eight feet now stood between them, fingers of the Death Knight's right gauntlet drumming idly on the shaft of the mace that rested upon his shoulder. On his face lay an amused-looking grin. It was there, in that moment of observation, that she realized the hopelessness of her situation. She was standing alone, shoulder-deep in the Plaguelands, surrounded by nothing but empty space and a forest that the Undead knew far better than she knew it. And he was toying with her.
With a groan, she rolled her left shoulder, reaching up to place her hand directly over the clasp that held her cloak in place. As she moved, the Blood Knight noticed a distinct, dull ache in her ribcage from the initial assault. No time to heal it now- would take too much time, too much focus. Instead, Seana kept her focus on the Death Knight, and on buying time.
In the moment she made her decision, the tension holding them apart broke like a string. Each Knight charged foreward. Seana's axe camp up, the Dawnbreaker's mace came down. There was a brief, sickening scream of metal scraping metal. They seperated, met, and seperated again. Seana whirled. Dawnbreaker's left hand came up. The Light surged and thundered around the Blood Knight, and fell short against a runic barrier.
Then, something happened she did not expect. Around her opponent, a sickly yellow glow erupted, then surged foreward. From his outstretched palm shot a bolt of the Light. It solidified in the form of a hammer, much as she attempted to do to him before it had been deflected. The hammer connected solidly with her chest, picking the Knight-Master up off her feet and sending her backwards. She landed on her back and rolled twice, pressing herself up to her feet almost immediately. In the excitement, Seana had not relinquished her axe.
"How..." She coughed, as she rose, lifting her axe to prepare for the inevitable attempt at a finishing blow.
The Dawnbreaker smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent at the sound of blaring horns from the treeline.
Seana heard the call only a moment before he did.
"FOR THE ARGENT DAWN! FOR LORDAERON!"
Through the trees came a group of soldiers at least twenty strong, all bearing tabards of the Argent Dawn.
In spite of the sudden change of circumstances, the Dawnbreaker again surprised Seana by broadening his grin. "You are a tricky one, Blood Knight. But you still have much to learn. I will leave you be to learn it." He called to her, as the Argents closed distance.
As he turned away, the three dead Knight-Adepts rose to their feet. Elurial clawed his way from most of his own armor, then his skin, then some of his muscle tissue. Seana's reinforcements were nearly upon her by the time the freshly-born ghouls had charged. With a single sweep of her axe, she dispatched the Undead, and set herself ahead of the white-clad soldiers.
Knight-Master Aesire's eyes stuck dead ahead, focused on the departing Death Knight. nother bolt of Light tore from her as she ran at him, this time from the head of her axe, and aimed itself straight for her quarry. She could hear him grunt as he staggered and set himself to a jog towards the gates. Seana raised her axe.
Her furious downswing at the Dawnbreaker's back met instead with the falling iron gates of Stratholme. The Blood Knight staggered backwards, roaring above the fire and clamor of boots and shuffling armor, "AND YOU HAVE MUCH TO ANSWER FOR."
Seana slammed her fist against the insult of the gate as the Dawnbreaker disappeared into the city.
Under her breath, the Knight-Master growled, "We will meet again. And we will see whose faith is stronger."
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