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.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
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.
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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?"
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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."
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
7. Suns and Daughters
They broke like a wave crashing upon the shore, overwhelming bulwarks of sand and packed earth. The men who stood against them fought the breaking tide like toy soldiers trying to stand against the pull of the water. When all had receeded, Daeyn Skysong found himself with thirty men, where moments before he had had forty-two.
"Check for wounded and clear out the dead!" the Paladin called. He reached up to his chest, where moments before the glaive of an undead soldier had grazed his armor, producing a spark and a sickening noise like a scream. Without looking, he pressed his fingers straight through a rip in the tabard of the Silver Hand that adorned his chest. Nothing for it now- he was surprised the entire thing hadn't been shorn from his body.
Skysong was now a member of a largely Human order, whom had all but deserted their Quel'dorei members... And allies. As he drew his gauntlet away from the rip, he noted with some sense of irony that the glaive had shorn almost perfectly through the middle of the hammer's head at an arc that also cut off the shaft quite cleanly. It was appropriate- the lion's head of the armor he wore shone quite cleanly through the cut.
He ripped the center of the tabard off and threw it by the wayside of the road the Undead Scourge had already begun to cut through Eversong Wood. The call that came over his shoulder distracted him, but did not tear his eyes away as the remnants of the tabard fluttered in the breeze. After slinging his hammer over his back, Daeyn turned, instead drawing the long, runed family blade and shield from his back.
The blade was long and broad, with a single edge- one was all it needed. The sheer weight of it carried it past most armor and even the dull edge was dangerous,and the runes that allowed it to channel the Light in or out of someone's body empowered his magic for anything that COULD stand a blow from the weapon. The kite shield that accompanied it was well over the size of the Paladin's torso and boasted a border of gleaming gold, with blue metalworking of his family's crest- two hawks, facing eachother, one on the left holding a flute and olive wreath in its talons, the other on the right carrying the glaive favored by the Quel'dorei spellbreakers.
Daeyn Skysong was snapped out of his admiration for the shield's handiwork by the call of a junior sergeant in one of the House guards, a young man whom, he presumed, was now his most senior officer among this group of volunteers.
"Lord Skysong," the man bellowed, reminding Daeyn rather painfully of the fact that his father, the previous Lord Skysong, had not returned from attempting to evacuate one of the Blackened Woods' southernmost villages. None of his detachment had. The poor boy's next words were even more unwelcomed than his greeting had been. "House Amil's guard captain is dead. Our own guards now make up about half of the remainder, with three from House Springsun and another handful from House Amil."
The new Lord Skysong rolled his shoulders and stared heavenward. The Blackened Wood had earned its name, now also for the great swath of destruction that ran through it as much as for its distinct lack of light. He could see the sky and the trees all well enough, but no sunlight shone through, despite the fact that they sky was clear.
The guard sergeant droned on, and Daeyn caught only something about the last caravan of evacuees being prepared to leave. The Paladin motioned weakly in the direction of the Waystation he and his volunteers had set themselves to protecting. It was the last functioning one he was aware of; at least, the last functioning one this side of the Elrendar River. Skysong's mind was elsewhere, somewhere across the river, where his wife and two little sisters-in-law resided.
Or so he thought.
Before the head of the caravan began marching through the waystation, Daeyn heard the thunderous crescendo that announced first one, then two, and finally, after several more times, a fifth -incoming- teleport. The captain of the Farstrider squadron that had situated itself back near the hastily-erected palaside proclaimed, quite loudly, "Out of the way! Make way for Lady Kavei Springsun and her priestesses! MAKE WAY!"
Daeyn's brows shot up as he first heard the name of, and then recognized, his wife. She leaned over near one of the Farstriders, who added, again very boisterously, "Bring out your sick and wounded to be checked for the Plague of Undeath! Quickly!"
He wanted to rush to her, but refrained. She had a job to do, as did he. In silence, he watched, leather-covered palm crushing against his shield's handle, as his wife made the rounds about the caravan. Finally, she came to him, shifting uncomfortably in her robes. She seemed to be waiting for something.
With an embarassed chuckle, Daeyn lifted his sword and shield away from his body, opening his arms to her in a way that wouldn't keep her out of reach or impaled, unlike his previous posture would have. Kavei flung her arms around his waist and leaned up to kiss him. It was a brief, soft gesture, but as she pulled away, he felt refreshed and somewhat more secure in her presence. For a moment, he breathed easily.
But, only for a moment. Kavei introduced her priestesses, those who could be gathered with enough haste to lend aid to the mixed unit of House guards, deserted Farstriders, and civillian militia. Of all of them, Daeyn would later remember only one name, both because he had seen her before, and because that name would later become of great importance to him.
"...And this," Kavei said, as her husband offered a nod to the last priestess, "is Marilla Duskbane." The priestess offered a nod in reply, and Daeyn chuckled.
"Perhaps you'll bring us luck, my lady. Darkness is certainly what we're facing here. Even the light of the sun has deserted us." He muttered, waving his shield broadly in the direction of the sky.
The priestess Duskbane merely offered him a small, friendly grin. Kavei replanted her staff in the ground, and turned her eyes down the Scar that cut through the Blackened Wood. In her eyes, her husband saw a look he did not recognize- one he hadn't seen before, and would never see again.
Some years later, when he re-thought the gaze she cast the evacuees immediately after averting her eyes, he realized the look was resignation. She had known their fate before he had, but in that moment, h knew only that the Scourge must be fought back, and survivors of their onslaught protected.
Just as the last of the caravan passed through the gate, Daeyn's ears perked. The sound of more hissing, moaning, and pounding feet could be heard in the distance. To one of the Farstriders, who had perched himself high in the nearest tree, off to the left of the troop of volunteers, the Paladin called "Do you see anyone else coming?"
"No!" The reply came just as quickly as the man had finished scanning through the forest with his spyglass.
Daeyn set his eyes upong the Waygate, and thought for a moment about giving the order to retreat. But, if they did, the Scourge would gain still more ground, and a crossing point to the river that now impeded their path.
He turned back to his men, and called out "Form ranks! Two deep, Farstriders take the right flank, and keep your glaives ready, they'll close distance fast! Explosive shots on the first wave!" Lord Skysong flipped his sword vertically in his hand, and moved to stand in front of the rows of tower shields and glaives that were forming behind what palasides remained.
Through the darkness of the forest, he could just make out the first pair of glowing eyes break from the treeline. Behind a wall of fetid corpses and skeletons, a row of spiders reared up, already spewing venom into the air. The House guards raised their shields reflexively, and found themselves encircled by protective barriers of the Light. Daeyn spared Kavei a knowing smirk, then set his eyes upon their rapidly-advancing foe.
"My turn," he muttered under his breath.
Then, more loudly, "FIRE!"
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It was another seven years after that day before I saw my beloved Kavei again. What happened to her, I dare not put to pen. I miss her terribly.
The young sergeat-at-arms I encountered, and fought at least twice thereafter- I know not if it was the Scourge invasion, or the destruction of our city, but in my personal opinion, the cause is irrelevent. He was driven mad. May his name be a a curse upon the earth for the things he plotted and the evil he did.
Marilla Duskbane I never saw again, and it was to be nine years after the invasion that I fully understood the impact her life had on mine. She died on the Scar, and was buried between waves of Arthas' onslaught. We buried her and the other Priestesses beneath the tree on which that young man stood, and consecrated the ground there, that they might not be raised in the service of the Lich King.
That morning, I started out with fifty of Silvermoon's finest sons and daughters under my command. Only three survived to see the city burn.
For whomever reads this, understand.. the Light of the Sun did not forsake us that day. It gave strength to the young men and women who died to save the lives of their fellow Quel'dorei. Their faith remains unshaken, and death is their reward.
May it forever be so.
-From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane
"Check for wounded and clear out the dead!" the Paladin called. He reached up to his chest, where moments before the glaive of an undead soldier had grazed his armor, producing a spark and a sickening noise like a scream. Without looking, he pressed his fingers straight through a rip in the tabard of the Silver Hand that adorned his chest. Nothing for it now- he was surprised the entire thing hadn't been shorn from his body.
Skysong was now a member of a largely Human order, whom had all but deserted their Quel'dorei members... And allies. As he drew his gauntlet away from the rip, he noted with some sense of irony that the glaive had shorn almost perfectly through the middle of the hammer's head at an arc that also cut off the shaft quite cleanly. It was appropriate- the lion's head of the armor he wore shone quite cleanly through the cut.
He ripped the center of the tabard off and threw it by the wayside of the road the Undead Scourge had already begun to cut through Eversong Wood. The call that came over his shoulder distracted him, but did not tear his eyes away as the remnants of the tabard fluttered in the breeze. After slinging his hammer over his back, Daeyn turned, instead drawing the long, runed family blade and shield from his back.
The blade was long and broad, with a single edge- one was all it needed. The sheer weight of it carried it past most armor and even the dull edge was dangerous,and the runes that allowed it to channel the Light in or out of someone's body empowered his magic for anything that COULD stand a blow from the weapon. The kite shield that accompanied it was well over the size of the Paladin's torso and boasted a border of gleaming gold, with blue metalworking of his family's crest- two hawks, facing eachother, one on the left holding a flute and olive wreath in its talons, the other on the right carrying the glaive favored by the Quel'dorei spellbreakers.
Daeyn Skysong was snapped out of his admiration for the shield's handiwork by the call of a junior sergeant in one of the House guards, a young man whom, he presumed, was now his most senior officer among this group of volunteers.
"Lord Skysong," the man bellowed, reminding Daeyn rather painfully of the fact that his father, the previous Lord Skysong, had not returned from attempting to evacuate one of the Blackened Woods' southernmost villages. None of his detachment had. The poor boy's next words were even more unwelcomed than his greeting had been. "House Amil's guard captain is dead. Our own guards now make up about half of the remainder, with three from House Springsun and another handful from House Amil."
The new Lord Skysong rolled his shoulders and stared heavenward. The Blackened Wood had earned its name, now also for the great swath of destruction that ran through it as much as for its distinct lack of light. He could see the sky and the trees all well enough, but no sunlight shone through, despite the fact that they sky was clear.
The guard sergeant droned on, and Daeyn caught only something about the last caravan of evacuees being prepared to leave. The Paladin motioned weakly in the direction of the Waystation he and his volunteers had set themselves to protecting. It was the last functioning one he was aware of; at least, the last functioning one this side of the Elrendar River. Skysong's mind was elsewhere, somewhere across the river, where his wife and two little sisters-in-law resided.
Or so he thought.
Before the head of the caravan began marching through the waystation, Daeyn heard the thunderous crescendo that announced first one, then two, and finally, after several more times, a fifth -incoming- teleport. The captain of the Farstrider squadron that had situated itself back near the hastily-erected palaside proclaimed, quite loudly, "Out of the way! Make way for Lady Kavei Springsun and her priestesses! MAKE WAY!"
Daeyn's brows shot up as he first heard the name of, and then recognized, his wife. She leaned over near one of the Farstriders, who added, again very boisterously, "Bring out your sick and wounded to be checked for the Plague of Undeath! Quickly!"
He wanted to rush to her, but refrained. She had a job to do, as did he. In silence, he watched, leather-covered palm crushing against his shield's handle, as his wife made the rounds about the caravan. Finally, she came to him, shifting uncomfortably in her robes. She seemed to be waiting for something.
With an embarassed chuckle, Daeyn lifted his sword and shield away from his body, opening his arms to her in a way that wouldn't keep her out of reach or impaled, unlike his previous posture would have. Kavei flung her arms around his waist and leaned up to kiss him. It was a brief, soft gesture, but as she pulled away, he felt refreshed and somewhat more secure in her presence. For a moment, he breathed easily.
But, only for a moment. Kavei introduced her priestesses, those who could be gathered with enough haste to lend aid to the mixed unit of House guards, deserted Farstriders, and civillian militia. Of all of them, Daeyn would later remember only one name, both because he had seen her before, and because that name would later become of great importance to him.
"...And this," Kavei said, as her husband offered a nod to the last priestess, "is Marilla Duskbane." The priestess offered a nod in reply, and Daeyn chuckled.
"Perhaps you'll bring us luck, my lady. Darkness is certainly what we're facing here. Even the light of the sun has deserted us." He muttered, waving his shield broadly in the direction of the sky.
The priestess Duskbane merely offered him a small, friendly grin. Kavei replanted her staff in the ground, and turned her eyes down the Scar that cut through the Blackened Wood. In her eyes, her husband saw a look he did not recognize- one he hadn't seen before, and would never see again.
Some years later, when he re-thought the gaze she cast the evacuees immediately after averting her eyes, he realized the look was resignation. She had known their fate before he had, but in that moment, h knew only that the Scourge must be fought back, and survivors of their onslaught protected.
Just as the last of the caravan passed through the gate, Daeyn's ears perked. The sound of more hissing, moaning, and pounding feet could be heard in the distance. To one of the Farstriders, who had perched himself high in the nearest tree, off to the left of the troop of volunteers, the Paladin called "Do you see anyone else coming?"
"No!" The reply came just as quickly as the man had finished scanning through the forest with his spyglass.
Daeyn set his eyes upong the Waygate, and thought for a moment about giving the order to retreat. But, if they did, the Scourge would gain still more ground, and a crossing point to the river that now impeded their path.
He turned back to his men, and called out "Form ranks! Two deep, Farstriders take the right flank, and keep your glaives ready, they'll close distance fast! Explosive shots on the first wave!" Lord Skysong flipped his sword vertically in his hand, and moved to stand in front of the rows of tower shields and glaives that were forming behind what palasides remained.
Through the darkness of the forest, he could just make out the first pair of glowing eyes break from the treeline. Behind a wall of fetid corpses and skeletons, a row of spiders reared up, already spewing venom into the air. The House guards raised their shields reflexively, and found themselves encircled by protective barriers of the Light. Daeyn spared Kavei a knowing smirk, then set his eyes upon their rapidly-advancing foe.
"My turn," he muttered under his breath.
Then, more loudly, "FIRE!"
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It was another seven years after that day before I saw my beloved Kavei again. What happened to her, I dare not put to pen. I miss her terribly.
The young sergeat-at-arms I encountered, and fought at least twice thereafter- I know not if it was the Scourge invasion, or the destruction of our city, but in my personal opinion, the cause is irrelevent. He was driven mad. May his name be a a curse upon the earth for the things he plotted and the evil he did.
Marilla Duskbane I never saw again, and it was to be nine years after the invasion that I fully understood the impact her life had on mine. She died on the Scar, and was buried between waves of Arthas' onslaught. We buried her and the other Priestesses beneath the tree on which that young man stood, and consecrated the ground there, that they might not be raised in the service of the Lich King.
That morning, I started out with fifty of Silvermoon's finest sons and daughters under my command. Only three survived to see the city burn.
For whomever reads this, understand.. the Light of the Sun did not forsake us that day. It gave strength to the young men and women who died to save the lives of their fellow Quel'dorei. Their faith remains unshaken, and death is their reward.
May it forever be so.
-From the journal of Xynrael Frostbane
Monday, April 11, 2011
6. Bloodbath
((OOC Note: Because of the particular gruesomeness of this entry and the mental imagery it evoked in my own head, I feel the need to state that it was neither written with the intention of offending anyone nor giving small children nightmares, or, for that matter, any other sadistic or malicious intent. Some of the more disgusting details have been left out, which may cripple the flow of the story, but I believed the sheer violence of it to be excessive even for the imagination, thus, these have been left out.
Any similarity to any persons, living or dead, is unintentional but very, very unfortunate, because something this fucked up probably has happened somewhere in the world at one point.))
What I remember of becoming a Death Knight is little. The pain of a thousand years contained in but a moment, and then... Surrender. No reason to fight at all- simply giving in to the inevitable. I was going to be brought back in His service, and why not? After all, He was my patron, the one who resurrected me, who cared for me. It was only fitting. It was -proper- to repay my debt.
Becoming a Tundra Stalker was something else again. That was akin in rigor to being declared a Saint by the Church of the Holy Light.
And the members of the Church must first be baptized.
~From the journal of Xynrael the Frostbane
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He stood alone amid the new snow of the early winter months, heavy boots leaving deep prints in the settling drift behind him, which quickly disappeared. Before him, a flurry covered all but the view of lights and faint shadows cast by the buildings. The inhabitants of the settlement in the valley below had named it Dawnhaven, a name full of hope. The name would also prove to be the town's undoing.
I do not understand, he thought. Why do we not simply ravage the town and be done with it?
Because you must be properly initiated. Your kind are not an engine of pure, unthinking destruction. You must inspire fear. You must either convince your enemies that surrender is a far better fate than fighting, or make their fighting so weak-spirited that it does not matter.
Why these people?
They believe the Light will still guide them. Will still protect them. They have hope in life. You must shatter that hope. The Voice spat back, indignation lacing every syllable with an unearthly venom. But, above all, you must make them -fear.- Sow doubt and discord. They know who their enemies are. You must take away the power of their knowledge.
Xynrael grinned a savage grin beneath the darkness cast by his hood. He resumed his path down the hill, letting the snow gather on himself as he went. He wore no armor this time, but carried it in his pack. A large bedroll, his pack, and cloak were all that adorned him besides dark leathers and his mace.
The flurry turned to a blizzard, and followed him down the hillside.
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The door to the Death's End tavern burst open, letting in a small group of travelers and street-dwellers who had managed to get into town before the blizzard overtook it. From his position behind the bar, Marcus Kidrian saw immediately a small family who were not settled there, but certainly had been displaced by the coming of the Scourge. They were Human, probably from Lordaeron proper by their clothing, and looked dirty but no worse for wear. Marcus motioned to a barmaid to show them to a room, and was rewarded for his good judgment by a small sack of silver.
The innkeeper's bushy mustache lifted awkwardly as he grinned, tossing the sack away behind the bar. The second to part from the crowd gave him pause- this one was dark. Not to say his skin was, or that Marcus was racist. Far be it for him to judge based on someone's skin color. But, the visitor also had pointed ears slipping out from under his hood, and his leathers and cowl shrouded all but those completely.
"Somethin' I can get for you, stranger?" Marcus asked, casually swiping a rag over the bar and breaking eye contact the moment the Quel'dorei turned to meet his gaze. The voice that replied, however, jolted him back into looking at the leather-clad elf.
"No," he replied, his voice echoing over itself. "And my name is An'darion Iceblood."
"...Well, you'll pardon my asking, master Iceblood, but what's happened to your voice? You sound like a cavern's in your throat, son." Marcus replied, still frozen in place. His eyes searched under An'darion's cowl, but he was rewarded with nothing save an unblinking stare of piercing blue from the glowing eyes beneath.
"If you must know," the Elf growled back, as if someone were intruding greatly on his privacy "I was struck across the neck by a piece of my home when -your- Prince came rampaging through our lands. Paid off a highly inept young healer to fix my throat, but this was the result. I'm only seeking a place to stay the night, but as you can see by my clothing, I lost what little money I had on that boy's work. I have food and a few things to trade, if you know of someone who might be so inclined."
Marcus again averted his eyes and went back to mopping at the bar, the redness of his cheeks indicating his feeling of appropriate shame at having called attention to this stranger's- An'darion Iceblood's, he corrected himself- predicament, and especially in front of patrons. However, he also felt appropriately angry at the mention of Arthas Menethil's recent betrayal, and suddenly found himself eager to get this snippy point-ear out of his tavern.
"Follow me," the innkeeper said, grabbing his own cloak from a peg on the wall. Andarion did so, shutting the door behind him as they left.
It was a short trudge trough the snow to a two-story home overlooking Dawnhaven's town square. A knock on the door and the call of the innkeeper's voice provided An'darion's entry. The pair were greeted by a lumberjack, of all things, a mountain of a man by the name of John Leman, affectionately dubbed "Long" John by the inhabitants of Dawnhaven, or so An'darion was told.
"Millie," Long John called, having shaken both men's hands and run his own once through the great curly length of brown beard that adorned his chin, "We've guests! And one to stay!"
Immediately from the top of the stairs came the woman who was ostensibly Long John's wife, and at the hem of her nightgown, a small child. They descended carefully, finally coming to rest on the ground floor a moment later. Out of respect, An'darion removed his hood.
The child, now clearly a small girl of perhaps six years, screamed in terror at the flash of deathly pale skin that hid beneath the Elf's hood. Long John made a sort of reproachful grunting noise, but the child would not be deterred. She immediately bolted from the safety of her mother's side and ran for the greater safety of her bed and blanket, though she didn't make it up the stairs. The leg of her red pajamas caught on a small crack in the steps, and she tripped.
Before Millie could finish crying out, the Elf was halfway up the stairs, the back of her daughter's head resting against An'darion's chest. Daughter looked terribly confused and was breathing heavily, her eyes darting frantically around to find out why she had stopped. Mother, however, was caught somewhere between a cry of fear for her child and an open-mouthed gasp of relief, her hand hovering over her lips in a sort of combination of terror and astonishment.
"H...How did...you... You...Emma would have broken her neck!" Was all she could manage, and judging by the fact that 'Emma' had been on her way from a full head-over-heels tumble, it was probably true.
"M-m-m-mommyyy...he's cold..." Emily Leman choked, eyes finally rolling upwards to stare into her savior's face. She squeaked as he smiled down at her. To her fearful, childish mind, it looked more like the smirk a lion would give to its prey, and that settled that. She was up again and a moment later, the door to her room slammed shut.
Millie Leman immediately lifted her gown a bit, bowed to the stranger, and brushed past him up the stairs, muttering apologies for her daughter, along with the occasional statement of disbelief, leaving only Long John in the house's living room, scratching his head. Marcus had gone.
"Well, as fantastic as that was, mister Iceblood, sir, I think we'd best be barterin' your room and board tomorrow. Any man who'll go out of his way to help my daughter is welcome in my home... Even if he's the one who up and scared the daylights out of her in the first place. Come along, now." Long John took his guest by the arm, and thought briefly that his daughter was right- the man was cold as death. Then again, there was a blizzard out. Awfully quiet for a blizzard, though... "We'll get you to sleep and have a talk 'bout payment after breakfast."
The snow outside began to settle.
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Long John's eyes slammed open as if someone had just felled a tree right in front of him. He sat up slowly, rubbing at one eye, and was greeted by the sight of his daughter, who reached up and began tugging at his sleeve. "Daddy... I hurt. Can I sleep with you and mommy tonight?" She asked, lifting her arms up to him.
In spite of his frustration at having been woken up, the woodsman grinned sleepily, reached down, took his daughter in one enormous hand, and set her down in his lap. "Did you have a nightmare?" He asked, his other gigantic paw lifting to run over his daughter's curly tresses. She had his hair, he thought, as he looked down at her.
Presently, Millie began to stir beside the pair, and rose as well. Before she could ask, her husband explained, and she, too, grinned. "Oh, she probably just hurt herself fallin' down the stairs like hat, John. Put her back to bed."
John nodded and lifted his daughter up against him as he swung out of bed, causing a small whimpering sound and a protest of "But, Daddy, I'm hungry!"
"Now, honey, you can't just go making things up because you want to sleep with your mother and I. You're a big girl now, and-..." It was then, looking down into his daughter's eyes for the first time since she had entered the room, that Long John Leman's blood ran cold. Just as he noticed the faint yellow gleam in her deep hazel eyes, he woke enough to feel the sticky mess beneath the fingers curled lovingly around his little girl's back.
"No...No, please, Light, no..." He whispered. In shock, he nearly dropped his daughter to the floor. She hit, and the soared through the air like a flea, landing on her mother. Before Millie could scream, her daughter's freshly-clawed hands sunk into her throat, producing nothing but a very loud, impassioned gurgle and a spray of blood across the sheets. He hadn't noticed it at first, but Long John's hands were now soaked in blood, as were his sheets. By the time he could snap himself away from the sheer horror of the situation and lay hands on his woodcutting ax, John's bedsheets were stained with crimson spew and his wife's head hung by a few threads.
His grip, however, was too weak, whether it be on his ax or the reality of the situation. As his daughter leaped again, the lumberjack swung perhaps the weakest swing he ever had, connecting with his bedsheets and barely succeeding in shredding those. The cry in his throat was one of relief as well as anguish as sharp, lupine teeth sunk into his skull, and tears fell from his eyes, leading to a swimming miasma, and then the mercy of darkness.
From the shadows of the doorway, the Death Knight slowly applauded the work of his newest pet. She stood upright and walked to him, then curled at his feet like a kitten.
Xynrael reached for the little girl and lifted her into his arms, first carrying her downstairs.
Once she was properly tucked away in front of the fireplace, he returned for her parents.
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The screams carried through the town square, shattering the early-morning peace of Dawnhaven. These were no feminine screams of pain, nothing that could be mistaken for a domestic dispute; they were instead the cries of a man in tremendous pain. Captain Darius Montgomery arrived a few moments later, still tugging on his helmet. Guards had already surrounded the home of "Long" John Leman- the house where their mysterious guest was staying. Marcus, the innkeeper, had already reported the newcomers, and Captain Montgomery regretted not ordering the Elf checked.
"What's the situation inside?" He demanded of the duty sergeant, whose men were already setting up barricades on the streets.
"Our men at the windows report three bodies but nothing else. Looks like all that time in the woods finally turned Leman into a wild-man. They say his axe is buried in what's left of his wife's neck in the living room." The sergeant reported, shifting his rifle nervously.
"Aye," Darius commented, tapping the top of his helmet twice to secure it over the chainmail hood and leather cap underneath, "and my name is Mary-Sue. John's no madman. Breach front and side doors. No one in our out after that until our men have swept every inch of the house."
"Sir, his axe is in his wife's neck. There's a butcher knife with blood on it on the floor beside her, it's fairly obv-
"Did anyone SEE it?"
"What? No, but-"
"Breach, you sodding idiot, or I'll throw you in the window." The Captain growled, thumping his Sergeant on the shoulderplate with the corner of his shield.
"...Yes, Captain. Dawnhaven Guard! Stack up, side and front doors! Prepare to make entry!" The Sergeant barked in reply, turning to face his men. He moved to join the team at the front door, taking position behind the close-quarters group that held shortswords and shields. The Sergeant leaned his rifle against the last shieldbearer's shoulder, and inhaled deeply. It had been a long time since they had done this, and that was attempting to clear a farmhouse in the Lordaeron countryside...
"Breach and clear!"
At the call, the two foremost shieldmen on either side of the house slammed their shoulders against the heavy wooden doors, then kicked the weakened wood right off the hinges. The sound of heavy leather boots slamming on wooden floor was all that could be heard, along with men shouting "Clear!" as they trod through the house, overzealously body-slamming their way through unlocked doors in their hurry to deal with the imaginary threat that dwelt within. Finally, the Sergeant of the Guard called "House Clear!" And the Captain made his way inside.
What greeted him was a grisly sight indeed.
On the floor in the living room, near Millie Leman's body lay a butcher knife, stained with blood. Further off, facing away from her, one hand wrapped partially around a clean slice in his throat, was the corpse of the stranger An'darion Iceblood, his blue eyes still wide and glowing. John Leman's axe lay between them, closer to Millie's feet- her head hung off to one side, nearly severed clean off.
John himself was slumped in a corner, a tremendous chunk of his skull either missing, or caved in out of sight. A piece of the mantle had crumbled above him, making the cause of his death fairly obvious.
The Captain lifted his helmet off, sighing heavily. Another day, another thankless waste of human life, all too precious since the invasion of the Scourge and the utter decimation of Human lands north of Stormwind-
"Where is Emily Leman?" He asked, suddenly.
"Sir?"
"John's little girl. Where is she?" The Captain demanded of the nearest guard.
Said guard looked at him dumbly for a moment, before brightening up and replying, "She's not here, sir. She must be hiding somewhere we haven't checked. Do you want us to sweep the house again?"
The Captain was about to reply in the affirmative, before he looked at the fireplace. It had a layer of fresh soot coating it, but the log pile where John kept his firewood was full. The guard followed his commanding officer's eyes, reaching the same conclusion almost immediately. "You don't think someone..."
"I think someone." The Captain glumly responded, moving to the fireplace.
More soot fell from the chimney as he approached.
"What in th-" was all he got out before Emma fell from the chimney, the greyness of her skin evident despite the soot that coated her from the tip of her head to the feet of her bloodstained pajamas. She leaped into the air, as had been her wont since being reanimated, and howled line a tiny banshee, her claws and teeth finding purchase just above the neckline of the Captain's plated chestpiece.
"GET HER OFF. GET HER OFF!" Montomgery shouted, dropping his shield and pounding at the little girl with the pommel of his shortsword. Several men rushed to help, but the little girl began scurrying all over his body like a bug, clawed hands prying at his armor and ripping at the leather that held it in place. She dug in to his joints, causing him to drop to one knee, his left arm wrenching as she bit into it.
"AAAGH. GET THE LITTLE WHORE OFF ME! SHOOT HER, SHOOT HER YOU IDIOTS!" The guards moved to follow his command, but were soon busy with problems of their own. The flue of the fireplace suddenly shut, and the corpse of John Leman rolled over, tossing another log on the pile before rising uneasteadily to his feet.
John and Millie Leman each seized the nearest guard, yanking them to the floor by their ankles. John subsequently ripped his man's leg off, producing a satisfying spray of blood, whilst Millie's sharp nails dug into the other's eyes, then jerked backwards, removing both eye and retina in one solid movement. She fell upon the young man, fists pounding at his helmet, teeth shredding into his lips, ripping his gums, and dragging his own teeth from his mouth with violent, gnashing bites.
The young man's tongue followed, and when his jaw had been satisfactorily devoured, she set to work on eating out his skull from the roof of his mouth upwards. Bullets sunk into her flesh and shots rang out amidst the growing smoke, but did not deter her. John again rose to his feet, having literally disarmed his first man, and moved on. Rounded shot sunk into his chest and stomach, producing only a mild stagger as he dragged the Sergeant straight through the railing of the stairs.
In the confusion, the body of An'darion Iceblood rose from the floor, unseen. The room was now filled with smoke which seeped eagerly out the doors, and all according to plan. He grinned as he heard the ringing of the bells over the town hall, and the yelling outside. Already, men with buckets were attempting to brush their way past the barricade set up at the end of the street.
It wasn't a riot, but as far as chaos and confusion go, it would do.
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By the time he had flung himself out the door and into the street, the Death Knight could hear the thoughts of the fallen echoing in his mind. Each individual mind he plucked and twisted, like a master cello player tuning his instrument.
And his instrument they were. Their bodies now filled with plague and necrotic energies, every single former life in the house was his instrument. The guards, the little girl- Emma. Sweet Emma. She had looked at him with the fearful look one gives a shadow on the wall, long before growing old enough to realize it is not a monster. But, she had also looked upon him with the trust one looks upon an adult. She had given him that mixed look even as he sat down on the edge of her bed and run his fingers through the curly locks that adorned her head. He had told her everything would be just fine...
Then, with one, quick jerk, he had snapped her neck.
Now she ran screaming from her former home, shrieking as loud as her little lungs could manage. She was on fire. Another mirror in the illusion- and there was plenty of smoke already. He needed more, however.
Many of the men carrying buckets and jugs of water from the town well shrunk back in horror, and a few tried to douse her or lay hold of her to choke the fire out, but in the trickiness of her childhood, she evaded them, instead throwing herself through the open door of a house across the street. Still, none of the eyes were on the apparently unconscious An'darion. All according to plan thus far.
The Death Knight reached up and grasped at his throat, blood pouring from the wound as he gurgled for aid, grasping at the nearest passerby. The man immediately dropped his bucket and began yelling for aid. Such was the state of the town with the rapidly-circulating rumors, now two fires, and missing guard captain and sergeant, however, that none came immediately. The remainder of the guard was attempting to hold back the crowd of onlookers, which was now growing according to its own size. The more ran to the scene of the chaos, the more chaos ensued.
Suddenly, he reached up, having drawn a sharp dagger with many individual, disproportionate, and curved spikes jutting up from the hilt from his boot. He drove it into the man's temple and left it there, watching contently as the pallor drained from the human's face, sweet lifeblood seeping down his cheek. That was it. The tipping point.
Using the blood of the human as sacrificial reagant with which to heal his own throat, Xynrael rose, and took his mace from inside the door of the apparently smoldering house. Those who had run in to the other after Emma were already crying out in horror, each one falling with little real fight. Trained guards, they were not, and the structure of the city guard was already crippled from the first few minutes of the attack.
From the houses seeped thicker and thicker smoke, and now, a press of the dead. His instrument now tuned, the Death Knight formerly known as An'darion Iceblood let loose the first chord in a flawless symphony of violence, death, chaos, and confusion. The dead let loose a great and terrifying howl.
Those who heard it and recognized it for what it was, and those being very nearly all, panicked and began to run.
Most were met with a press of the second wave of guards, but these were neither local, nor were they living. These men bore older crests of Lordaeron, ones far more worn than the tabards and badges crafted for the protectors of Dawnhaven. As they ripped their helmets from their shoulders, the soft blues and yellows of Undeath could be seen shimmering beneath drooping lids. The press of the crowd stopped. Silence of voice, at least, overtook the crowd as the fallen marched up the street, forcing the crowd further and further back until they lay, half-encircled on one side by Undead guards, boxed in and pressed further together on the other by the backpedaling living.
The Death Knight's surprisingly warm, but somehow hollow and cavernous voice rose above the crowd. "Good morn, ladies and gentlemen of Dawnhaven! Survivors of he Lordaeron Massacre... Well, not for long. If that didn't, let me answer you the single question that is burning in your minds: Are you going to die? The answer is, of course, aye! You are going to die GLORIOUSLY, and in service to His Majesty the Lich King! How, you might ask? Well, by the sword, obviously, though some of you might be lucky enough to be trodden on in the press, and indeed, one or twelve of you will be DEVOURED! All of you. Bit by bit. Probably while you're still alive, it really depends where my pets happen to land their teeth and claws first." He announced, leaning his arm on his mace as the remainder of his new pets made their way out of the burning houses.
The fire spread quickly, overtaking and dominating the dawn light in terms of brightness as he spoke.
"Or maybe you meant," he went on, "'How am I going to serve the Lich King?' Quite simple. My name is Xynrael. I am a Tundra Stalker- the first. Shut UP, or I'll let them rend you all one at a time, starting with your digits!" Xynrael barked, lifting his mace and slamming it into the ground like a judge's gavel, for effect. The crowd had become restless- whiny even. "Now then... Tundra Stalkers are Death Knights, as you've gathered. But, the instruments of our trade are different. You will be killed in whatever brutal fashions I can imagine. You will be stabbed with the weapons meant to protect you. The freshly-severed heads of fathers will be used to club their children to death. You will be eviscerated. You will be raped. You're going to spread the word about this instrument, whether you mean to or not. Allow me to demonstrate."
Without so much as a twitch of the eye from their master, the Undead fell upon the crowd. Their moment of hypnotized silence shattered, the screaming resumed, and the crowd broke, running for any clear space they could see. The Undead who had been turned before, those in Lordaeronian armor whom had been foolishly allowed in by the gatekeeper at the town's paliside, blocked most of the view of freedom, but some did manage to escape. When questioned by his new lieutenant, the former Captain of the Guard, Xynrael merely grinned, his eyes surveying the carnage with contentedness and great affection for the work
"Look at them, Montgomery. We do not chase them. We do not even touch them, and still they run. This is the power fear holds over them- a guilty man may run when no man pursues, but a fearful man will weaken and die where no man strikes. Whither we go now, they will fear, and they will break before us. Whither we do not go, they will fear the stranger. They will fear the shadow. They will fear the howl of the wolf at night and think that he is our call. And they will think on their own cowardice, and they will despair. And their despair will pierce their hearts... And they shall suffer, and in their old age and young sickness they, too, untouched but by our fear, will die."
Xynrael extended his hand over the scene, sweeping it to include every road out of the town. In the panic, fathers deserted their wives and children to the mouths of the ravenous dead.
Sisters left their little brothers to be cracked and split open like walnuts by the Death Knight's crushing mace.
The young men among the guard dropped their weapons and fled to the countryside in undisciplined terror, leaving the old to cover their cowardly retreat, a living sacrifice to the fragile inner god of youth.
The sun rose from its bed in the mountains, and shone brightly over Xynrael and his minions as the Death Knight stripped himself of his clothes and armor, baptizing himself in the river of blood and flesh that ran down the High Street of Dawnhaven. He submerged a lone member of the Scourge, and emerged reborn by the blood of the innocent.
He emerged Xynrael the Dawnbreaker.
Beneath the golden rays of light and a cloudless sky, Dawnhaven burned.
Any similarity to any persons, living or dead, is unintentional but very, very unfortunate, because something this fucked up probably has happened somewhere in the world at one point.))
What I remember of becoming a Death Knight is little. The pain of a thousand years contained in but a moment, and then... Surrender. No reason to fight at all- simply giving in to the inevitable. I was going to be brought back in His service, and why not? After all, He was my patron, the one who resurrected me, who cared for me. It was only fitting. It was -proper- to repay my debt.
Becoming a Tundra Stalker was something else again. That was akin in rigor to being declared a Saint by the Church of the Holy Light.
And the members of the Church must first be baptized.
~From the journal of Xynrael the Frostbane
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He stood alone amid the new snow of the early winter months, heavy boots leaving deep prints in the settling drift behind him, which quickly disappeared. Before him, a flurry covered all but the view of lights and faint shadows cast by the buildings. The inhabitants of the settlement in the valley below had named it Dawnhaven, a name full of hope. The name would also prove to be the town's undoing.
I do not understand, he thought. Why do we not simply ravage the town and be done with it?
Because you must be properly initiated. Your kind are not an engine of pure, unthinking destruction. You must inspire fear. You must either convince your enemies that surrender is a far better fate than fighting, or make their fighting so weak-spirited that it does not matter.
Why these people?
They believe the Light will still guide them. Will still protect them. They have hope in life. You must shatter that hope. The Voice spat back, indignation lacing every syllable with an unearthly venom. But, above all, you must make them -fear.- Sow doubt and discord. They know who their enemies are. You must take away the power of their knowledge.
Xynrael grinned a savage grin beneath the darkness cast by his hood. He resumed his path down the hill, letting the snow gather on himself as he went. He wore no armor this time, but carried it in his pack. A large bedroll, his pack, and cloak were all that adorned him besides dark leathers and his mace.
The flurry turned to a blizzard, and followed him down the hillside.
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The door to the Death's End tavern burst open, letting in a small group of travelers and street-dwellers who had managed to get into town before the blizzard overtook it. From his position behind the bar, Marcus Kidrian saw immediately a small family who were not settled there, but certainly had been displaced by the coming of the Scourge. They were Human, probably from Lordaeron proper by their clothing, and looked dirty but no worse for wear. Marcus motioned to a barmaid to show them to a room, and was rewarded for his good judgment by a small sack of silver.
The innkeeper's bushy mustache lifted awkwardly as he grinned, tossing the sack away behind the bar. The second to part from the crowd gave him pause- this one was dark. Not to say his skin was, or that Marcus was racist. Far be it for him to judge based on someone's skin color. But, the visitor also had pointed ears slipping out from under his hood, and his leathers and cowl shrouded all but those completely.
"Somethin' I can get for you, stranger?" Marcus asked, casually swiping a rag over the bar and breaking eye contact the moment the Quel'dorei turned to meet his gaze. The voice that replied, however, jolted him back into looking at the leather-clad elf.
"No," he replied, his voice echoing over itself. "And my name is An'darion Iceblood."
"...Well, you'll pardon my asking, master Iceblood, but what's happened to your voice? You sound like a cavern's in your throat, son." Marcus replied, still frozen in place. His eyes searched under An'darion's cowl, but he was rewarded with nothing save an unblinking stare of piercing blue from the glowing eyes beneath.
"If you must know," the Elf growled back, as if someone were intruding greatly on his privacy "I was struck across the neck by a piece of my home when -your- Prince came rampaging through our lands. Paid off a highly inept young healer to fix my throat, but this was the result. I'm only seeking a place to stay the night, but as you can see by my clothing, I lost what little money I had on that boy's work. I have food and a few things to trade, if you know of someone who might be so inclined."
Marcus again averted his eyes and went back to mopping at the bar, the redness of his cheeks indicating his feeling of appropriate shame at having called attention to this stranger's- An'darion Iceblood's, he corrected himself- predicament, and especially in front of patrons. However, he also felt appropriately angry at the mention of Arthas Menethil's recent betrayal, and suddenly found himself eager to get this snippy point-ear out of his tavern.
"Follow me," the innkeeper said, grabbing his own cloak from a peg on the wall. Andarion did so, shutting the door behind him as they left.
It was a short trudge trough the snow to a two-story home overlooking Dawnhaven's town square. A knock on the door and the call of the innkeeper's voice provided An'darion's entry. The pair were greeted by a lumberjack, of all things, a mountain of a man by the name of John Leman, affectionately dubbed "Long" John by the inhabitants of Dawnhaven, or so An'darion was told.
"Millie," Long John called, having shaken both men's hands and run his own once through the great curly length of brown beard that adorned his chin, "We've guests! And one to stay!"
Immediately from the top of the stairs came the woman who was ostensibly Long John's wife, and at the hem of her nightgown, a small child. They descended carefully, finally coming to rest on the ground floor a moment later. Out of respect, An'darion removed his hood.
The child, now clearly a small girl of perhaps six years, screamed in terror at the flash of deathly pale skin that hid beneath the Elf's hood. Long John made a sort of reproachful grunting noise, but the child would not be deterred. She immediately bolted from the safety of her mother's side and ran for the greater safety of her bed and blanket, though she didn't make it up the stairs. The leg of her red pajamas caught on a small crack in the steps, and she tripped.
Before Millie could finish crying out, the Elf was halfway up the stairs, the back of her daughter's head resting against An'darion's chest. Daughter looked terribly confused and was breathing heavily, her eyes darting frantically around to find out why she had stopped. Mother, however, was caught somewhere between a cry of fear for her child and an open-mouthed gasp of relief, her hand hovering over her lips in a sort of combination of terror and astonishment.
"H...How did...you... You...Emma would have broken her neck!" Was all she could manage, and judging by the fact that 'Emma' had been on her way from a full head-over-heels tumble, it was probably true.
"M-m-m-mommyyy...he's cold..." Emily Leman choked, eyes finally rolling upwards to stare into her savior's face. She squeaked as he smiled down at her. To her fearful, childish mind, it looked more like the smirk a lion would give to its prey, and that settled that. She was up again and a moment later, the door to her room slammed shut.
Millie Leman immediately lifted her gown a bit, bowed to the stranger, and brushed past him up the stairs, muttering apologies for her daughter, along with the occasional statement of disbelief, leaving only Long John in the house's living room, scratching his head. Marcus had gone.
"Well, as fantastic as that was, mister Iceblood, sir, I think we'd best be barterin' your room and board tomorrow. Any man who'll go out of his way to help my daughter is welcome in my home... Even if he's the one who up and scared the daylights out of her in the first place. Come along, now." Long John took his guest by the arm, and thought briefly that his daughter was right- the man was cold as death. Then again, there was a blizzard out. Awfully quiet for a blizzard, though... "We'll get you to sleep and have a talk 'bout payment after breakfast."
The snow outside began to settle.
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Long John's eyes slammed open as if someone had just felled a tree right in front of him. He sat up slowly, rubbing at one eye, and was greeted by the sight of his daughter, who reached up and began tugging at his sleeve. "Daddy... I hurt. Can I sleep with you and mommy tonight?" She asked, lifting her arms up to him.
In spite of his frustration at having been woken up, the woodsman grinned sleepily, reached down, took his daughter in one enormous hand, and set her down in his lap. "Did you have a nightmare?" He asked, his other gigantic paw lifting to run over his daughter's curly tresses. She had his hair, he thought, as he looked down at her.
Presently, Millie began to stir beside the pair, and rose as well. Before she could ask, her husband explained, and she, too, grinned. "Oh, she probably just hurt herself fallin' down the stairs like hat, John. Put her back to bed."
John nodded and lifted his daughter up against him as he swung out of bed, causing a small whimpering sound and a protest of "But, Daddy, I'm hungry!"
"Now, honey, you can't just go making things up because you want to sleep with your mother and I. You're a big girl now, and-..." It was then, looking down into his daughter's eyes for the first time since she had entered the room, that Long John Leman's blood ran cold. Just as he noticed the faint yellow gleam in her deep hazel eyes, he woke enough to feel the sticky mess beneath the fingers curled lovingly around his little girl's back.
"No...No, please, Light, no..." He whispered. In shock, he nearly dropped his daughter to the floor. She hit, and the soared through the air like a flea, landing on her mother. Before Millie could scream, her daughter's freshly-clawed hands sunk into her throat, producing nothing but a very loud, impassioned gurgle and a spray of blood across the sheets. He hadn't noticed it at first, but Long John's hands were now soaked in blood, as were his sheets. By the time he could snap himself away from the sheer horror of the situation and lay hands on his woodcutting ax, John's bedsheets were stained with crimson spew and his wife's head hung by a few threads.
His grip, however, was too weak, whether it be on his ax or the reality of the situation. As his daughter leaped again, the lumberjack swung perhaps the weakest swing he ever had, connecting with his bedsheets and barely succeeding in shredding those. The cry in his throat was one of relief as well as anguish as sharp, lupine teeth sunk into his skull, and tears fell from his eyes, leading to a swimming miasma, and then the mercy of darkness.
From the shadows of the doorway, the Death Knight slowly applauded the work of his newest pet. She stood upright and walked to him, then curled at his feet like a kitten.
Xynrael reached for the little girl and lifted her into his arms, first carrying her downstairs.
Once she was properly tucked away in front of the fireplace, he returned for her parents.
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The screams carried through the town square, shattering the early-morning peace of Dawnhaven. These were no feminine screams of pain, nothing that could be mistaken for a domestic dispute; they were instead the cries of a man in tremendous pain. Captain Darius Montgomery arrived a few moments later, still tugging on his helmet. Guards had already surrounded the home of "Long" John Leman- the house where their mysterious guest was staying. Marcus, the innkeeper, had already reported the newcomers, and Captain Montgomery regretted not ordering the Elf checked.
"What's the situation inside?" He demanded of the duty sergeant, whose men were already setting up barricades on the streets.
"Our men at the windows report three bodies but nothing else. Looks like all that time in the woods finally turned Leman into a wild-man. They say his axe is buried in what's left of his wife's neck in the living room." The sergeant reported, shifting his rifle nervously.
"Aye," Darius commented, tapping the top of his helmet twice to secure it over the chainmail hood and leather cap underneath, "and my name is Mary-Sue. John's no madman. Breach front and side doors. No one in our out after that until our men have swept every inch of the house."
"Sir, his axe is in his wife's neck. There's a butcher knife with blood on it on the floor beside her, it's fairly obv-
"Did anyone SEE it?"
"What? No, but-"
"Breach, you sodding idiot, or I'll throw you in the window." The Captain growled, thumping his Sergeant on the shoulderplate with the corner of his shield.
"...Yes, Captain. Dawnhaven Guard! Stack up, side and front doors! Prepare to make entry!" The Sergeant barked in reply, turning to face his men. He moved to join the team at the front door, taking position behind the close-quarters group that held shortswords and shields. The Sergeant leaned his rifle against the last shieldbearer's shoulder, and inhaled deeply. It had been a long time since they had done this, and that was attempting to clear a farmhouse in the Lordaeron countryside...
"Breach and clear!"
At the call, the two foremost shieldmen on either side of the house slammed their shoulders against the heavy wooden doors, then kicked the weakened wood right off the hinges. The sound of heavy leather boots slamming on wooden floor was all that could be heard, along with men shouting "Clear!" as they trod through the house, overzealously body-slamming their way through unlocked doors in their hurry to deal with the imaginary threat that dwelt within. Finally, the Sergeant of the Guard called "House Clear!" And the Captain made his way inside.
What greeted him was a grisly sight indeed.
On the floor in the living room, near Millie Leman's body lay a butcher knife, stained with blood. Further off, facing away from her, one hand wrapped partially around a clean slice in his throat, was the corpse of the stranger An'darion Iceblood, his blue eyes still wide and glowing. John Leman's axe lay between them, closer to Millie's feet- her head hung off to one side, nearly severed clean off.
John himself was slumped in a corner, a tremendous chunk of his skull either missing, or caved in out of sight. A piece of the mantle had crumbled above him, making the cause of his death fairly obvious.
The Captain lifted his helmet off, sighing heavily. Another day, another thankless waste of human life, all too precious since the invasion of the Scourge and the utter decimation of Human lands north of Stormwind-
"Where is Emily Leman?" He asked, suddenly.
"Sir?"
"John's little girl. Where is she?" The Captain demanded of the nearest guard.
Said guard looked at him dumbly for a moment, before brightening up and replying, "She's not here, sir. She must be hiding somewhere we haven't checked. Do you want us to sweep the house again?"
The Captain was about to reply in the affirmative, before he looked at the fireplace. It had a layer of fresh soot coating it, but the log pile where John kept his firewood was full. The guard followed his commanding officer's eyes, reaching the same conclusion almost immediately. "You don't think someone..."
"I think someone." The Captain glumly responded, moving to the fireplace.
More soot fell from the chimney as he approached.
"What in th-" was all he got out before Emma fell from the chimney, the greyness of her skin evident despite the soot that coated her from the tip of her head to the feet of her bloodstained pajamas. She leaped into the air, as had been her wont since being reanimated, and howled line a tiny banshee, her claws and teeth finding purchase just above the neckline of the Captain's plated chestpiece.
"GET HER OFF. GET HER OFF!" Montomgery shouted, dropping his shield and pounding at the little girl with the pommel of his shortsword. Several men rushed to help, but the little girl began scurrying all over his body like a bug, clawed hands prying at his armor and ripping at the leather that held it in place. She dug in to his joints, causing him to drop to one knee, his left arm wrenching as she bit into it.
"AAAGH. GET THE LITTLE WHORE OFF ME! SHOOT HER, SHOOT HER YOU IDIOTS!" The guards moved to follow his command, but were soon busy with problems of their own. The flue of the fireplace suddenly shut, and the corpse of John Leman rolled over, tossing another log on the pile before rising uneasteadily to his feet.
John and Millie Leman each seized the nearest guard, yanking them to the floor by their ankles. John subsequently ripped his man's leg off, producing a satisfying spray of blood, whilst Millie's sharp nails dug into the other's eyes, then jerked backwards, removing both eye and retina in one solid movement. She fell upon the young man, fists pounding at his helmet, teeth shredding into his lips, ripping his gums, and dragging his own teeth from his mouth with violent, gnashing bites.
The young man's tongue followed, and when his jaw had been satisfactorily devoured, she set to work on eating out his skull from the roof of his mouth upwards. Bullets sunk into her flesh and shots rang out amidst the growing smoke, but did not deter her. John again rose to his feet, having literally disarmed his first man, and moved on. Rounded shot sunk into his chest and stomach, producing only a mild stagger as he dragged the Sergeant straight through the railing of the stairs.
In the confusion, the body of An'darion Iceblood rose from the floor, unseen. The room was now filled with smoke which seeped eagerly out the doors, and all according to plan. He grinned as he heard the ringing of the bells over the town hall, and the yelling outside. Already, men with buckets were attempting to brush their way past the barricade set up at the end of the street.
It wasn't a riot, but as far as chaos and confusion go, it would do.
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By the time he had flung himself out the door and into the street, the Death Knight could hear the thoughts of the fallen echoing in his mind. Each individual mind he plucked and twisted, like a master cello player tuning his instrument.
And his instrument they were. Their bodies now filled with plague and necrotic energies, every single former life in the house was his instrument. The guards, the little girl- Emma. Sweet Emma. She had looked at him with the fearful look one gives a shadow on the wall, long before growing old enough to realize it is not a monster. But, she had also looked upon him with the trust one looks upon an adult. She had given him that mixed look even as he sat down on the edge of her bed and run his fingers through the curly locks that adorned her head. He had told her everything would be just fine...
Then, with one, quick jerk, he had snapped her neck.
Now she ran screaming from her former home, shrieking as loud as her little lungs could manage. She was on fire. Another mirror in the illusion- and there was plenty of smoke already. He needed more, however.
Many of the men carrying buckets and jugs of water from the town well shrunk back in horror, and a few tried to douse her or lay hold of her to choke the fire out, but in the trickiness of her childhood, she evaded them, instead throwing herself through the open door of a house across the street. Still, none of the eyes were on the apparently unconscious An'darion. All according to plan thus far.
The Death Knight reached up and grasped at his throat, blood pouring from the wound as he gurgled for aid, grasping at the nearest passerby. The man immediately dropped his bucket and began yelling for aid. Such was the state of the town with the rapidly-circulating rumors, now two fires, and missing guard captain and sergeant, however, that none came immediately. The remainder of the guard was attempting to hold back the crowd of onlookers, which was now growing according to its own size. The more ran to the scene of the chaos, the more chaos ensued.
Suddenly, he reached up, having drawn a sharp dagger with many individual, disproportionate, and curved spikes jutting up from the hilt from his boot. He drove it into the man's temple and left it there, watching contently as the pallor drained from the human's face, sweet lifeblood seeping down his cheek. That was it. The tipping point.
Using the blood of the human as sacrificial reagant with which to heal his own throat, Xynrael rose, and took his mace from inside the door of the apparently smoldering house. Those who had run in to the other after Emma were already crying out in horror, each one falling with little real fight. Trained guards, they were not, and the structure of the city guard was already crippled from the first few minutes of the attack.
From the houses seeped thicker and thicker smoke, and now, a press of the dead. His instrument now tuned, the Death Knight formerly known as An'darion Iceblood let loose the first chord in a flawless symphony of violence, death, chaos, and confusion. The dead let loose a great and terrifying howl.
Those who heard it and recognized it for what it was, and those being very nearly all, panicked and began to run.
Most were met with a press of the second wave of guards, but these were neither local, nor were they living. These men bore older crests of Lordaeron, ones far more worn than the tabards and badges crafted for the protectors of Dawnhaven. As they ripped their helmets from their shoulders, the soft blues and yellows of Undeath could be seen shimmering beneath drooping lids. The press of the crowd stopped. Silence of voice, at least, overtook the crowd as the fallen marched up the street, forcing the crowd further and further back until they lay, half-encircled on one side by Undead guards, boxed in and pressed further together on the other by the backpedaling living.
The Death Knight's surprisingly warm, but somehow hollow and cavernous voice rose above the crowd. "Good morn, ladies and gentlemen of Dawnhaven! Survivors of he Lordaeron Massacre... Well, not for long. If that didn't, let me answer you the single question that is burning in your minds: Are you going to die? The answer is, of course, aye! You are going to die GLORIOUSLY, and in service to His Majesty the Lich King! How, you might ask? Well, by the sword, obviously, though some of you might be lucky enough to be trodden on in the press, and indeed, one or twelve of you will be DEVOURED! All of you. Bit by bit. Probably while you're still alive, it really depends where my pets happen to land their teeth and claws first." He announced, leaning his arm on his mace as the remainder of his new pets made their way out of the burning houses.
The fire spread quickly, overtaking and dominating the dawn light in terms of brightness as he spoke.
"Or maybe you meant," he went on, "'How am I going to serve the Lich King?' Quite simple. My name is Xynrael. I am a Tundra Stalker- the first. Shut UP, or I'll let them rend you all one at a time, starting with your digits!" Xynrael barked, lifting his mace and slamming it into the ground like a judge's gavel, for effect. The crowd had become restless- whiny even. "Now then... Tundra Stalkers are Death Knights, as you've gathered. But, the instruments of our trade are different. You will be killed in whatever brutal fashions I can imagine. You will be stabbed with the weapons meant to protect you. The freshly-severed heads of fathers will be used to club their children to death. You will be eviscerated. You will be raped. You're going to spread the word about this instrument, whether you mean to or not. Allow me to demonstrate."
Without so much as a twitch of the eye from their master, the Undead fell upon the crowd. Their moment of hypnotized silence shattered, the screaming resumed, and the crowd broke, running for any clear space they could see. The Undead who had been turned before, those in Lordaeronian armor whom had been foolishly allowed in by the gatekeeper at the town's paliside, blocked most of the view of freedom, but some did manage to escape. When questioned by his new lieutenant, the former Captain of the Guard, Xynrael merely grinned, his eyes surveying the carnage with contentedness and great affection for the work
"Look at them, Montgomery. We do not chase them. We do not even touch them, and still they run. This is the power fear holds over them- a guilty man may run when no man pursues, but a fearful man will weaken and die where no man strikes. Whither we go now, they will fear, and they will break before us. Whither we do not go, they will fear the stranger. They will fear the shadow. They will fear the howl of the wolf at night and think that he is our call. And they will think on their own cowardice, and they will despair. And their despair will pierce their hearts... And they shall suffer, and in their old age and young sickness they, too, untouched but by our fear, will die."
Xynrael extended his hand over the scene, sweeping it to include every road out of the town. In the panic, fathers deserted their wives and children to the mouths of the ravenous dead.
Sisters left their little brothers to be cracked and split open like walnuts by the Death Knight's crushing mace.
The young men among the guard dropped their weapons and fled to the countryside in undisciplined terror, leaving the old to cover their cowardly retreat, a living sacrifice to the fragile inner god of youth.
The sun rose from its bed in the mountains, and shone brightly over Xynrael and his minions as the Death Knight stripped himself of his clothes and armor, baptizing himself in the river of blood and flesh that ran down the High Street of Dawnhaven. He submerged a lone member of the Scourge, and emerged reborn by the blood of the innocent.
He emerged Xynrael the Dawnbreaker.
Beneath the golden rays of light and a cloudless sky, Dawnhaven burned.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
5. Love Like Vengeance
Xynrael the Frostbane turned his head to face the woman who lay beside him, sleeping, he assumed, quite soundly. He took her arm from around his waist, gently lifted it away, and slowly peeled the sheets back. The Death Knight slid out of bed, dressed carefully in the dark, and ducked from the master bedroom of the Duskryder Estate, into the hallway where his armor and runemace had been discarded.
It took him ten minutes, with the help of ghoul attendants, to strap his armor on and sling the enormous mace onto his back. First came heavily plated boots, then legguards and gauntlets. Finally, his breastplate, tabard, and over these, his belt, were lifted into place, held as firmly as one could expect rotting hands to hold them. He tied the leather straps himself, and with a metallic shuffle and heavy thump of titansteel on marble floors preceeding him, headed off down the hallway.
The skyward-reaching arches and elegant domes of the Duskryder Estate were bathed in a sea of twisting shadow as Xynrael stalked from room to room, the combination of torches and the home's remaining lightspheres creating an almost eerie ambiance. He passed through the grand ballroom, which had seen a thousand parties in better times, and now collected dust, remaining as a tomb and tribute to memories of a more joyous an era. A number of guest rooms in various states of disrepair arose to greet him out of the next hallway, among them the room Daeryan Duskryder had claimed. From this, the Death Knight recalled that he was nearing the home's exit. A cold breeze greeted him as he thumped past; the breeze from the recently-destroyed outer wall, something he had yet to completely fix. As he exited the estate, Xynrael turned, his eyes taking the foreboding enormity of the building in.
It looked like a giant mausoleum, in the twilight darkness that always seized Eversong Wood this time of night. He deluded that he could hear the ghosts of generations past chatting on the lawn, the music from the ballroom in full swing. He could smell the food cooking from the tremendous kitchen, hear the idle back-and-forth of servants as they darted about, each one simultaneously at the whim of every man and woman in the place.
And he felt them turn to him, glare at him, each one making it clear he was unwelcome there. Their faces were no longer indistinct and forgettable, however- Xynrael recognized every single one of them.
The Death Knight called up his charger and fled down the Dawning Lane, disappearing into the darkness.
* * *
The shaman awoke with a start, his hand already curling around his staff. Zujibaba of the Darkspear reached out, flicking his wrist at the totem of fire that sat in the center of his cave. The shaman walked foreward along the path created by the piles of tools his trade demanded, and stood at the mouth of the mountain's hollow, eyes watching warily. There the shaman knelt, his eyes falling half closed as he raised his staff. A green aura surrounded the skulls and fetishes at the staff's head, guiding Zuji's spiritual eyes to places his physical could not see.
There, in the distance, amid the whirling snow, and lit only by the swirling dance of the sky-lights, was a single Death Knight. Zuji's eyes popped open, then widened slightly, and a smile crept up between his tusks. The Death Knight's face was shrouded, his armor already covered to the point of being unrecognizeable from the still-forming ice that hung heavily upon it, but from the purposefulness of his stride and the determination with which e plodded on, Zuji was sure he knew its name. Only a handful had ever seen past the wards that guarded Zujibaba's cave, and this one knew the illusion only because he knew every dip and curve of Icecrown Glacier like one knows an old lover.
The shaman retreated inside to make preparations.
* * *
Xynrael stopped as he approached a large hill near the mountains that surrounded Icecrown Glacier. In the hill, he knew, waited an old friend, upon whom there was no sneaking up. The Troll was simply waiting, watching to see what would happen next. From his right side rose the Death Knight's hand, fingers nearly frozen together from the ice and his own lack of body heat. After a brief invocation, runic energy shot out in a bubble around Xynrael's body and the immediate area, for several yards in every direction, destroying the illusion that covered Zujibaba's cave.
Deeper in, amongst the shadows cast by his totems, the shaman waited, grinning from tusk to tusk.
"Neva' moa' one for da' suddahlty, wer' ya mon? Ya be lucky da' Scourge no longah be bodderin' Zuji, oddahwise ah have ta make ya put up a new glamah fa' mah cave." The troll commented, shaking out his carefully slicked, spiked blue hair and letting it fluff out slightly, for warmth. He looked thoroughly nonplussed by the Death Knight's presence, but Xynrael could see better. In his left hand, Zujibaba held some sort of mystical reagant bag, the contents of which had been poured out in circles around the single, large, clear space at the back of the cave. Small sticks had been arrayed in strange patterns both inside and outside the circles, and still-swinging fetishes hung from bits of string and rope and staves that had been meticulously laid out.
"You were expecting me," The more ice-worn of the two observed, as he righted himself from having crouched to enter the cave. He walked the length of the path and sat down where Zuji's outstretched hand indicated he should sit. Little but a nod came from the troll by way of reaction, the two waiting in a sort of content silence, regarding eachother.
Just as the contentness of the silence would have descended into awkwardness, Zuji asked, "Ya rememba' wat a told ya da dey we met, mon? A tell ya dat d'eh be no angah wit'out lohv. Zuji be seein' intah dat cold, dead 'art a yahs. Lohv be makin' ya angreh, mon. Angreh at da people who not be deservin' ya wrat', an' makin' ya blind tah dose dat do. Da ones ya lohv can make ya weak an' foolish wit dey words." The troll explained, not-so-subtly dodging the pretense of small talk. Xynrael shifted as if a dip had suddenly formed in the ground beneath him- hearing all of this said out loud made him uneasy, but even as he opened his mouth to object, the troll went on.
"Dat love fah ya people also make ya strong, mon. By yahself, ya die. Yah have no purpose in dis world, mon. No-tin' tah do wit a, dis be all of us. We cannat exist wit'out dah oddahs. An lovh fah oddahs make ya strong, too. Ya can do fah dah oddahs ya lohv what ya cannat do fah yahself. But ya mind be distant, mon. Ya not be a 'ole mon. Ya not even be a 'ole ded mon."
The Sin'dorei listened on in silence as Zujibaba spoke, his mouth clamping shut after the second or third attempt at interrupting. Xynrael had already resigned himself to the fact that Zuji would get to the point when he was damn good and ready. Presently, the troll began to speak again, clearly delving deeper in his reading.
"Ya feel dat ya lohv two women, mon. Zuji be tinkin' ya cannat make dat work, but Zuji also be tinkin'... Dis show who ya ah. Ya cannat help ya lohv fah dese people. Ya most not let dat go, mon. Ya most not let it make ya bittah, an' angreh, no mattah what dey do. Dey not be deservin' ya angah- ya not belong in dis world, even doh ya heah. And dey love yah anyway." Zuji fell silent, leaving Xynrael to sit, frozen as if by the cold of the Glacier itself, in startled silence. He had not expected the shaman to read that far into him.
For a long, long time, nothing more was said between the two. Then, slowly, Zuji's visitor reached over his shoulder, taking from behind his back a sort of cloth that rolled like a sleeping bag, typically used by travelling merchants to carry weapons. Xynrael unrolled it on the floor, and from it took a number of runeblades. Each one was different, from axes to broadswords and polearms, but each one held, just above the hilt or at the tip of the shaft, a single, slightly discolored shard, clearly from a piece of metal unlike the rest of the weapon. He laid them out, blades and heads pointing towards the centerpoint of one of the circles the shaman had drawn on the ground. Then, he himself walked to another circle, and sat down in it. Zujibaba rose without comment and sat in a third.
Each circle formed the endpoint of a perfect triangle, the whole shape contained inside of a larger circle, at the direct center of which was a single, unlit totem.
As Xynrael settled into position, Zujibaba cautioned, "Dis be no simpal task, Fros'bane. Ya gunna face a trial wit'in. Zuji can guide ya, but ya most figh' da beast dat hold ya strengkt and ya cunning. Wat else ya face inside, ah do not know. But if yah fail... Ya be lost fahevah mon, and ya bodeh be empteh, and dah darkness take ya insted."
There was again a moment of silence as Xynrael lay down within the circle, his eyes locking on a point on the ceiling. A thousand things passed through his mind all at once. Last thoughts. Things he wished he'd said and done, and very few of them things he expected he'd care about. He thought of Iliae, of Eriene and Wyleth, of the Vanguard, of Jaen Peaceroot, of the hulking Gilomesh, and Melathanore, of the late mother of the Kierr sisters, and, to his surprise, of Nikkitah, Treue, and Tydris...And of Aerather. He thought of his comrades from the Eventide, people he hadn't seen in years, some he knew were gone forever.
Then, with finality: "Make me whole again, Zuji."
"Only ya can do dat, mon."
At first, Xynrael only heard the soft sound of Zujibaba's quiet chanting and the shaking of the troll's staff as he hopped back and forth. A tiny spark began to grow atop the totem, this particular flame an icy sort of blue. It grew, almost unnoticeably but quite steadily, for several moments, though nothing else happened. Then, just as the Death Knight was about to ask how much longer it was going to take, the weapons in the last circle started to quiver, metal rattling against metal as the points of blades and sharpened edges of axeheads clashed. In the center of all of them, he had laid his mace, which now lifted pommel-first into the air, the sharp, pointed tip of the shaft sticking deep into the ground.
Smoke rose from the flame on the totem, the smoke the same dark color as the clouds that seemed to endlessly block the sun just outside. Xyn noticed the flame on the totem growing more rapidly, and saw, as he turned his head to stare directly at it, that it was the same corrupted blue as his eyes.
Louder grew the shaman's chanting, and deeper came his voice and invications to the Loa. Xynrael reached up to grab his head, a sudden sensation of falling passing over him. Rather than feel the pressure directly where he thought it would be, however, the Death Knight's conciousness seemed to be coming from another part of his body. He still saw with his eyes, but it was as if he were thinking from his chest, rather than his head.
The center of his focus jerked again, then a second time, shortly after. By the eighth movement, he was feeling dizzy and clutching his stomach, his body wracked with coughs as if he were attempting to hold back vomit.
After the fourteenth (or was it fifteenth?) move, Xyn started losing count...and conciousness. Plagued blood and bile lay in a coagulated pool on the floor beside him, and he began feeling a sensation he had only felt once before. The Death Knight's eyes went wide, and Zujibaba's chanting seemed to come from everywhere, each word joined by a thousand different voices, all molded into one. The shadows on the walls cast by the flame of totem and torch melded into indistinct faces and forms, ghosts and demons that jeered and taunted him in the midst of his torment.
In a vague attempt to steady the rapidly dissolving world, Xynrael pushed himself up slightly. He was immediatly smashed back into the ground by a shear of wind, the pure force of the action causing him to vomit again, adding more to the pool that lay to his right. The world around him vanished into darkness, though he was aware that Zuji was still chanting.
"Ya not be movin', mon. We not close ya done yet." Was the last thing the Death Knight heard.
From the edge of the darkness that was his vision, Xynrael saw a bright light erupt and shoot towards him. He jerked backwards, held in the circle by another shear of wind as the source of the light passed through the totem, then out again and impacted him.
"Zuji, what...w.....AH. AHHHHHHH!" The Death Knight screamed at the top of his lungs as a burning sensation enveloped him. He writhed and screamed and thrashed against the shield that held him in place, hands slapping his body as if the very air against his skin was catching fire. "GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT! ZUJI, GET IT OUT, IT BURNS!" He begged, still screaming at the top of his lungs, the tiny sliver of rational thought remaining his brain attempting to reconcile the furious burning in the midst of Icecrown's unholy chill. Unbidden tears poured from Xynrael's eyes, streaming down his cheeks from the sheer pain of his entire body lighting aflame, inside and out, though ice still hung on him. Despite the weight his armor, he continued the mad pounding and thrashing against Zuji's elemental restraints .
"We can acommahdate ya soon enough, mon! Ya be holdin' on now!"
"AAAAAGGGHHHHH!!!! GET IT OUT!" Despite the cries, Zuji continued chanting, a feeling of sinking and swirling cutting through the pit of his friend's stomach, as if the firestorm pervading him had met with a dark whirlwind. Then, blessed numbness overtook him, and his last concious thought was the belief that death had finally taken him back, and the feeling of his mind being taken from his body to join his father in whatever way proceeded it.
* * *
Xynrael reached out to catch himself as he stumbled, only to realize that he was kneeling. The world around him was dark, but this dark was... Natural. His face was covered by his hood, his cloak spread out slightly behind him. One leather-covered hand was wrapped tightly around his runemace, which stood point-down in the thick permafrost beneath him. Looking up, he saw that he was kneeling before a set of stairs made from the same frost upon which he had found himself. And up the steps was a terrifying sight.
The Frozen Throne. Upon the Throne sat Arthas Menethil, the Lich King. Frostmourne was not in his hand, but the Lich King's hand hung in the air, outstretched towards a place behind Xynrael's shoulder. The Death Knight turned, and behind him, on the dias leading up to the throne, was gathered a small army. Some names he had forgotten, but every face he remembered. Many of them had been caved into or cleaved from their shoulders by the weight or scythes of Skyshatter, and each one's blood had, at one point, decorated the mighty runemace.
They charged.
By the tens and hundreds they swarmed around him, each one grabbing any hold their hands could find. Xynrael fought back weakly, but against this mad charge, there was no defense. One or two fell to Skyshatter before the weapon was torn from his hands. A spray of surrging blood magic struck down another fifteen or so, but eventually, the Death Knight was completely overwhelmed, his body dragged into the crushing press. As they clawed at his armor and flesh, he heard amid the madness a single, distinct voice.
This is your just reward, Xynrael the Dawnbreaker. You turned against your people, and you turned against the King you betrayed them for. This world has no place for traitors. You belong to me. You are -sworn- to me.
As he was dragged down, he began to feel the truth of it. The inevitability of it. Maybe, just maybe, if he gave in, joined the press that tore at him...
"Quiet be ya, ya damn fool! Ya not be givin' in, mon! Dese people ya killed, dat be true, but ya be doin' it undah HIS sway! Da dead and da livin' cannaht hold ya fa' his sins! Dey be HIS tah bea'. YA RELEASE DEM UN'TAH HEEM." Zuji's voice echoed like a thunderstorm amidst the chaos, seeming to come from all directions at once.
The Death Knight set his gaze upon his mace, which sat, unmoved by the crowd, not three feet away. He managed to wrench his right arm free and extend it, calling the weapon to him with tendrils of unholy power. The mace slid between the legs of several who held them, knocking over and unbalancing the legs that it did not rend off. Taking hold of the mace's shaft, Xynrael let loose a mighty swing, beating from his left side those who held him. Another torrent of blood flew outwards as he swung the weapon, sending the immediate mob as far back as it could go. With a sweep of his left hand, he took hold of the blood in the chests of those around him and sent it bubbling outwards, causing them to grasp their chests in agony as their hearts exploded. Many died instantly and disappeared, and Xynrael finally had some breathing room.
"BACK TO THE PIT WITH YOU." He roared, slamming his mace into the floor. A discharge of unholy power spread through the permafrost, rapidly bubbling outwards and consuming the flesh of many who were too close to him, and thus too far from the edge to escape before their flesh and bone were worn away to rot.
As he lifted his head, the hood of Xynrael's cloak fell away, revealing his face to the stinging cold, and finally allowing him to see the sky. The flurries of snow outside the dias of the Frozen Throne were too thick to see even a foot outside of the edge. A test, then. This was the test Zuji had spoken of. The Death Knight slid one leg back, ears twitching slightly, listening for any sound indicating that the mob was about to rush him again.
"Know ya well, mon... Dis be no alluzhon. If ya die hea', da last t'ing keepin' dese souls from ya body be gone. It be vacant wit'out da rule of ya mace an' ya mind." Zuji's voice cautioned. As if on cue, the remaining souls rushed at Xynrael, screaming incoherently.
The last of these he barely saw as he struck them down. He whirled in and out of their ranks, Skyshatter punching holes in the awkward circle they formed, and crushing even more holes and cavities into their flesh. Each time Skyshatter swung, five or six fell, caught in the mace's sweeping arc or the spray of freshly-plagued blood that followed each strike. Soon, they had all been dispatched, but the last thirty or so did not disappear as the rest did. Xynrael knelt among them as they reanimated, then rose again for battle as they turned to face him, though he knew strength was spent.
The faces he saw were not those he had expected.
Instead of the bodies of the fallen, the faces of those he considered (or had once considered) friends greeted him. Thaelis Kael'dorin and Eriene Riverwalker stood side-by-side, their Blood Knight uniforms looking freshly polished, the shield in Thaelis' hand gleaming so beautifully that Xynrael could swear the Phoenix upon it was about to take flight. From behind Eriene, Wyleth Riverwalker appeared. He stood in a sort of contented silence behind his wife, a smile on his face, arms hanging loosely at his sides. For a moment, Xynrael saw some of the stress Eriene had secured for herself as captain of the Academy's Red Brigade disappear, though she quickly grew stern again, her hands folding behind her back as her eyes turned from her husband.
Through the howling gale outside the dias came Ruscion Vas'nir and Hylaudius Dorennen, beside whom the Death Knight had fought in Northrend. Ruscion looked impassive, and Hylaudius was clearly unhappy to be there, though he seemed approving of the remaining carnage, even though some of the corpses continued to reanimate, bearing clothing and faces they hadn't borne a moment ago. Two figures slid in next to Ruscion and Hylaudius, both women Xynrael recognized from the Order of the Eventide, before it had dissolved. Xynrael's self-appointed bodyguard, the Death Knight Irelynn, a tall, lanky woman with flame-red hair and a temper to match settled herself in beside Ruscion and was herself flanked by Saori, their resident expert on temporal magic and representative to the Bronze Flight.
At his left, the Death Knight felt a familiar pair of hands wrap around the gauntlet covering his own. Iliae Duskryder smirked up at him as he turned, her former mate, Dinendal Amandil falling into step behind her. She moved away from Xynrael as a third figure appeared- his cousin, Jaericho, whose flesh Iliae had carved off, piece by peice, and let to bleed to death in the laboratory beneath the Duskryder Estate. Dinendal faded into the crowd, and as she fell in beside Iliae, Jaericho, too, disappeared.
From out of the snowstorm stumbled an enormous Undead. He held a flask in one hand, an axe in the other, and a look of general boredom pasted all over the rest of him. Melathanore Malarius grinned as he spotted Iliae, and rather violently shoved his way through the gathering to stand beside her. Adalvaldr Von Harmonn appeared beside Mel, his saronite jaw clenched tightly, both clawed hands folded over the head of his swagger cane, and behind him rose Riethe Kierr, flanked by her two daughters. The three Kierrs immediately moved left to join those Xynrael had met in the Academy, each one looking mildly uncomfortable at the sight of the Forsaken.
The sound of shuffling plate announced the rising of Treue Frostblade and his 'family,' such as Xynrael had known them; Nikkitah Blightheart stood behind his 'father' and adopted a look of irritation. He seemed about to say something, but cut it off, instead moving with Treue and Tydris Dawnfury to stand off to one side. The three were followed immediately by some of the most misguided men Xynrael Frostbane had ever met. Aerather Sunrender, Annexious Bloodfury, and Surion Draxus pushed themselves to their feet and, in unison, brushed past Xyn to stand beside Treue's family. For several moments, Xynrael allowed himself to wonder if Aerather, Annexious, and Surion were all so alike... And how far beyond redemption they had really been when he turned on each of them.
Jaen Peaceroot appeared and scampered quickly out of sight, behind those from the Vanguard. He was dragged back into veiw by Calthos Sunkeeper, the Ebonhawk Vanguard's artificer, at one shoulder. On his other shoulder, gripping just as tightly, was Lyzander Bloodthorne, whom Xyn now knew to be a master spy and tactician. The two men were grinning slightly down at the Vanguard's newest recruit- they'd make something of him, yet. Lyzander's companion Taleal slipped from the shadows at his side, lifting one arm onto his shoulder and leaning on him as if he were a fencepost. Lieutenant Vladimaer Lightsworn appeared from behind the Ebonhawks' ranks, grinning like a drunken fool.
The appearance of the Springsun Sisters, Kavei, Maexin, and Tyaene, completed the picture- these were perhaps the only three Xynrael had truly known before becoming a member of the Scourge. Kavei was the oldest of the three, and had died with Xynrael on the grounds of his family's estate during the Invasion. Even in this dreamlike state, the Death Knight fought back tears at seeing her whole, unmarred, and alive again. But the dreams of her living form had stopped years ago, and he forced thoughts of her from his mind even as she turned to smile at him. Maexin and Tyaene were twins and much younger than Kavei. The two women stood side-by-side, staring up at him as they had when he had first been introduced to them nearly a hundred years before.
Xynrael forced himself to stop breathing in order to keep from sobbing as Kavei and Maexin disappeared like ghosts carried in a mist, the last traces of their existance wiped clean by the whirling snow outside the Throne. Tyaene gave him a small, understanding smile, and turned away to join all of the others.
There were many more, but the last to arrive was a single, black-and-red clad Rogue that Xyn knew only as Sunsworn. Her face was masked and hooded even more heavily than his own had been. As he looked her over, the Death Knight noticed with some curiosity that she held in the fingers of her left hand an ornate, black rook from the human game of chess. Rather than ending in the usual battlements, however, the head of a wolf extended from the playing piece's top, its eyes following Xynrael even as she drew it out of his sight, shooting him a rather exaggerated glare.
Others came in by the dozens. Eventually, he lost track of how many people there were, and gave up. They stood at a sort of grim attention where they had gathered, like gladiators about to die for his entertainment.
The irony was not lost on him. Once, he had done the same. Once...
Why do you bother?
The voices came from among the crowd, and all in unison. He recognized them- all of the people who had caused him to question his motives, speaking in unison. They sounded as the Scourge once sounded, encompassed by the vast conciousness of the Lich King. Orderly. Assured.
The sound was too familiar.
You cannot protect them all.
Xynrael moved in and out of the crowd, his hand on his mace's pommel, corrupted blue eyes darting from face to face. Those who were now voicing his doubts were gone. Jaericho, Nikkitah, Aerather, had all disappeared. Though all the crowd were facing foreward, he heard another pair of boots thumping steadily on the ice as he moved, the deep sound accompanied by a light swish.
You cannot even protect them from yourself.
The meaning of the words was clear. Perhaps not to anyone else, should they have heard, but Xynrael understood them. If his bloodlust ever flared because of the Light...
His throught were interrupted. The Death Knight looked heavenward as a howl of wind brought into sharp relief the rapid shift of the falling snow. Rather than fall outside the dias upon which the Frozen Throne rested, the flurry of white was now beginning to swirl over it. Though he felt the wind sting his face, the feeling of the snow was unexpected. Rather than simply come to rest or turn to water, it shattered into dust.
It is fitting. You are a broken man, protecting a world already so broken that it cannot be saved.
The 'snow' felt thin and silty on his skin, and as Xyn dusted some of it off with his left gauntlet, he saw it was dark and dirty looking.
Ash.
For a brief moment, he could see through the blizzard, outside of the Throne's dias. All he could glimpse before the curtain closed again was mountains of bodies, piled a thousand high, their flesh searing away in great pillars of flame that seemed to burn hot enough to ignite the air around them.
Who is fit to replace you as protector, Xynrael the Frostbane? Who can keep these people safe? You have the trust of death itself. Neither time nor will of nature can remove you from his grasp. But you are one man. How many of them can you protect? The voice of doubt had echoed in Xynrael's mind for nearly a year, but never had he heard it so clearly as he did now, the image of friends and strangers alike still burning in his mind.
Thaelis Kael'dorin is a good man. A strong man. He can replace you. But what if death claims him first?
The Death Knight's eyes narrowed to slits as he turned, attempting to push his way through a crowd that was suddenly too thick to move past.
"Kael'dorin, RUN!" He forced his way through with a broad swing of the arm, throwing others out of his way by shoving with the shaft of his mace and by slamming into them with a lowered shoulderplate. Kael'dorin turned just fast enough to see the hooded face of his attacker. Two long, serrated, rune-covered blades protruded from Thaelis' lower and upper back.
"THAELIS!"
Xynrael arrived just in time to catch his friend in his arms as the Blood Knight fell, already dead. The rest of those gathered looked around stupidly- the whole thing had taken not more than a few seconds, and the attacker was gone. Eriene was screaming something, but Xyn's ears were deafened by a voice that seemed to whisper from everywhere at once. Zujibaba was either gone, or unable to communicate with him.
What of Hylaudius Dorennen? He is a fine soldier, but he cares only for the larger picture. What must be done to save the people as a whole, which sacrifices are acceptable...
He arrived too late to find out how Hylaudius had died.
As he turned to head back into the crowd, Xynrael saw a pair of silvery-blue flashes out of the corner of his eye. Skyshatter's shaft was brought up just in time to deflect the blows, which were aimed downwards for the shoulder joints of his armor. The necessity of deflecting the strike obscured his vision, and the attacker was gone not a moment later, disappearing amidst the confusion that had been the crowd of the Death Knight's friends.
Xynrael followed the phantom by sprays of blood and the gleam of silver and blue that struck out at him when he neared too close to its next target, but somehow, he was always a step behind the man who was slowly, poetically killing everyone gathered, staining the ice of the Throne's dias with their blood.
He finally saw the attacker as it went for Sunsworn, one of the last few still alive. It came from the blizzard surrounding the dias, like a monster from a child's nightmares gliding from the shadows. Sunsworn reacted faster than any of the others- she had been ready. She had been -waiting.- For the wrong thing.
Her blades came up, impaling the ghoul as it flew through the storm, and was herself impaled in turn, from the direction she had just been facing. What rent her flesh apart was a Death Knight by his blades, and judging by the warm, sound-muffling robe he wore under his armor, one of Xynrael's own Tundra Stalkers. As it spoke, a chill ran down his spine.
Spend too much time watching your back... It mocked in those same voices. It drew the two, serrated runeblades out of the woman's shoulders, letting its arms hang loosely at its sides. The crowd was cleared now. Only Eriene Riverwalker and Iliae Duskryder remained- one the most difficult but fulfilling friend Xynrael had ever had, the other the first woman he had truly -loved- since Kavei's death.
Iliae wasted no time. She raised her bow and aimed the notched arrow between the eyes of the Death Knight who stood across the dias from her, her head cocking slightly as she drew bowstring back.
She hesitated as he pulled down his hood. The gaunt cheeks, raven-black hair, and slightly arrogant smirk were unmistakable. Iliae looked behind her, as if to make certain. That instant's hesitation sealed her fate.
With a twist of his arm, Xynrael the Dawnbreaker yanked Iliae towards him, one slash of his blades laying her open in the same fashion his free counterpart had found her two years ago. She had enough in her to roll over and stare at the first Xynrael, her eyes screaming betrayal at him.
In the moment it had taken Iliae to be cleaved open by the doppleganger, Eriene Riverwalker had lifted her sword and thrown herself at him. Three or four blows landed solidly, but the Tundra Stalker's blood magic overcame her control of the Light. As she lowered her blade to land a fiery final swing, the Death Knight dropped his blades, grabbing her by the wrist, and she clutched her chest in pain, her own sword falling to the ground.
The Blood Knight panted and gasped for air as if her lungs were collapsing. Xynrael's doppleganger swung her around in one arm to face the original, his other hand holding her chin, as if he were about to snap her neck.
You see, now? You can never strike first. They cannot protect themselves from what is to come. YOU cannot protect them. You love them all too much to protect them. From eachother, from themselves... Most importantly, from you. Your love is your greatest weakness, a weakness I do not share.
In that moment, Xynrael came to understand what was happening, and what his trial was. He was literally wrestling with his own soul- a battle he could not win. A battle neither side of him could win, because each one needed the other to survive.
"Ya can do fah da ones ya lohv, wat ya cannat do fah yaself, mon." Zuji's words echoed.
Xynrael Frostbane looked at Iliae, bleeding to death on the dias of the Throne, and at Eriene, who stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth held firmly shut by the doppleganger.
Frostbane drew his runemace back, and slammed it into the nearest crack in the ice. Tendrils of runic energy shot through the ice just beneath the surface as he began to run towards his counterpart. The Dawnbreaker stared down at the rapidly advancing cracks in the Throne's structure, then to the blood that he had spilled not moments before, which had seeped down through the cracks in the ice and was now speeding towards him. The blood was being drawn along by the runic energy like metal to a magnet, forcing the cracks wider as it coagulated. With a turn of his head, he realized what was happening.
He held Eriene on the edge of the Throne's dias.
The section of the dias upon which the Dawnbreaker stood began to fall away, and his grip loosened. In that moment, Xynrael closed distance and yanked Eriene out of the doppleganger's arms, throwing her back onto the dias. The Dawnbreaker reached out, his hand charged with unholy energy, but Xynrael grabbed the other by the wrist, throwing his weight foreward, propelling them both over the edge of the throne and through the veil of ash.
Congratulations. You have protected the image of a friend, an idea, from death, by sacrificing yourself. Your love has been your undoing.
As Xynrael raised his mace over his head, he could feel the heat from the pyres of corpses below beginning to rise. They were falling fast, and as they fell it grew still hotter within his armor, enough that even the primordial Saronite couldn't cast off the heat. They would likely incinerate before ever hitting the ground.
"My love," he explained, as he brought his mace down, one of the scythes cleaving into his doppleganger's skull, "is my vengeance for all you've ever made me do. Now burn in hell where you belong." He growled, pushing himself off from the other's body, its blood turning to a misty gas as it fell to the fires below.
Xynrael the Dawnbreaker knew no more.
* * *
His eyes opened slowly, the light from the real world burning his eyes. Well, this world, anyway. As he opened his eyes fully, Xynrael realized that world had been just as real, and just as deadly as this. Zujibaba loomed over him, a grin spreading from tusk to tusk, causing the shaman's eyes to squint slightly, and his lips to draw bak even beyond the tusks. He looked almost... Silly.
"Ya did it, mon. De'h be a problem, tho'. One ah dah shads ah Skayshattah be missin'...When yah ovahcame him, ah couldn't restore ya soul completely. Ya always gannah be a bit... What ya Elfies say in yah fancy words... 'Ahgressahve' towards da Light. But nevahmind dat, mon... Ya be whole again, near as Zuji can tell... An' someone be hea' tah see ya."
As Xynrael followed the direction indicated by the troll's elongaed finger, a devilish smirk passed over his features.
It took him ten minutes, with the help of ghoul attendants, to strap his armor on and sling the enormous mace onto his back. First came heavily plated boots, then legguards and gauntlets. Finally, his breastplate, tabard, and over these, his belt, were lifted into place, held as firmly as one could expect rotting hands to hold them. He tied the leather straps himself, and with a metallic shuffle and heavy thump of titansteel on marble floors preceeding him, headed off down the hallway.
The skyward-reaching arches and elegant domes of the Duskryder Estate were bathed in a sea of twisting shadow as Xynrael stalked from room to room, the combination of torches and the home's remaining lightspheres creating an almost eerie ambiance. He passed through the grand ballroom, which had seen a thousand parties in better times, and now collected dust, remaining as a tomb and tribute to memories of a more joyous an era. A number of guest rooms in various states of disrepair arose to greet him out of the next hallway, among them the room Daeryan Duskryder had claimed. From this, the Death Knight recalled that he was nearing the home's exit. A cold breeze greeted him as he thumped past; the breeze from the recently-destroyed outer wall, something he had yet to completely fix. As he exited the estate, Xynrael turned, his eyes taking the foreboding enormity of the building in.
It looked like a giant mausoleum, in the twilight darkness that always seized Eversong Wood this time of night. He deluded that he could hear the ghosts of generations past chatting on the lawn, the music from the ballroom in full swing. He could smell the food cooking from the tremendous kitchen, hear the idle back-and-forth of servants as they darted about, each one simultaneously at the whim of every man and woman in the place.
And he felt them turn to him, glare at him, each one making it clear he was unwelcome there. Their faces were no longer indistinct and forgettable, however- Xynrael recognized every single one of them.
The Death Knight called up his charger and fled down the Dawning Lane, disappearing into the darkness.
* * *
The shaman awoke with a start, his hand already curling around his staff. Zujibaba of the Darkspear reached out, flicking his wrist at the totem of fire that sat in the center of his cave. The shaman walked foreward along the path created by the piles of tools his trade demanded, and stood at the mouth of the mountain's hollow, eyes watching warily. There the shaman knelt, his eyes falling half closed as he raised his staff. A green aura surrounded the skulls and fetishes at the staff's head, guiding Zuji's spiritual eyes to places his physical could not see.
There, in the distance, amid the whirling snow, and lit only by the swirling dance of the sky-lights, was a single Death Knight. Zuji's eyes popped open, then widened slightly, and a smile crept up between his tusks. The Death Knight's face was shrouded, his armor already covered to the point of being unrecognizeable from the still-forming ice that hung heavily upon it, but from the purposefulness of his stride and the determination with which e plodded on, Zuji was sure he knew its name. Only a handful had ever seen past the wards that guarded Zujibaba's cave, and this one knew the illusion only because he knew every dip and curve of Icecrown Glacier like one knows an old lover.
The shaman retreated inside to make preparations.
* * *
Xynrael stopped as he approached a large hill near the mountains that surrounded Icecrown Glacier. In the hill, he knew, waited an old friend, upon whom there was no sneaking up. The Troll was simply waiting, watching to see what would happen next. From his right side rose the Death Knight's hand, fingers nearly frozen together from the ice and his own lack of body heat. After a brief invocation, runic energy shot out in a bubble around Xynrael's body and the immediate area, for several yards in every direction, destroying the illusion that covered Zujibaba's cave.
Deeper in, amongst the shadows cast by his totems, the shaman waited, grinning from tusk to tusk.
"Neva' moa' one for da' suddahlty, wer' ya mon? Ya be lucky da' Scourge no longah be bodderin' Zuji, oddahwise ah have ta make ya put up a new glamah fa' mah cave." The troll commented, shaking out his carefully slicked, spiked blue hair and letting it fluff out slightly, for warmth. He looked thoroughly nonplussed by the Death Knight's presence, but Xynrael could see better. In his left hand, Zujibaba held some sort of mystical reagant bag, the contents of which had been poured out in circles around the single, large, clear space at the back of the cave. Small sticks had been arrayed in strange patterns both inside and outside the circles, and still-swinging fetishes hung from bits of string and rope and staves that had been meticulously laid out.
"You were expecting me," The more ice-worn of the two observed, as he righted himself from having crouched to enter the cave. He walked the length of the path and sat down where Zuji's outstretched hand indicated he should sit. Little but a nod came from the troll by way of reaction, the two waiting in a sort of content silence, regarding eachother.
Just as the contentness of the silence would have descended into awkwardness, Zuji asked, "Ya rememba' wat a told ya da dey we met, mon? A tell ya dat d'eh be no angah wit'out lohv. Zuji be seein' intah dat cold, dead 'art a yahs. Lohv be makin' ya angreh, mon. Angreh at da people who not be deservin' ya wrat', an' makin' ya blind tah dose dat do. Da ones ya lohv can make ya weak an' foolish wit dey words." The troll explained, not-so-subtly dodging the pretense of small talk. Xynrael shifted as if a dip had suddenly formed in the ground beneath him- hearing all of this said out loud made him uneasy, but even as he opened his mouth to object, the troll went on.
"Dat love fah ya people also make ya strong, mon. By yahself, ya die. Yah have no purpose in dis world, mon. No-tin' tah do wit a, dis be all of us. We cannat exist wit'out dah oddahs. An lovh fah oddahs make ya strong, too. Ya can do fah dah oddahs ya lohv what ya cannat do fah yahself. But ya mind be distant, mon. Ya not be a 'ole mon. Ya not even be a 'ole ded mon."
The Sin'dorei listened on in silence as Zujibaba spoke, his mouth clamping shut after the second or third attempt at interrupting. Xynrael had already resigned himself to the fact that Zuji would get to the point when he was damn good and ready. Presently, the troll began to speak again, clearly delving deeper in his reading.
"Ya feel dat ya lohv two women, mon. Zuji be tinkin' ya cannat make dat work, but Zuji also be tinkin'... Dis show who ya ah. Ya cannat help ya lohv fah dese people. Ya most not let dat go, mon. Ya most not let it make ya bittah, an' angreh, no mattah what dey do. Dey not be deservin' ya angah- ya not belong in dis world, even doh ya heah. And dey love yah anyway." Zuji fell silent, leaving Xynrael to sit, frozen as if by the cold of the Glacier itself, in startled silence. He had not expected the shaman to read that far into him.
For a long, long time, nothing more was said between the two. Then, slowly, Zuji's visitor reached over his shoulder, taking from behind his back a sort of cloth that rolled like a sleeping bag, typically used by travelling merchants to carry weapons. Xynrael unrolled it on the floor, and from it took a number of runeblades. Each one was different, from axes to broadswords and polearms, but each one held, just above the hilt or at the tip of the shaft, a single, slightly discolored shard, clearly from a piece of metal unlike the rest of the weapon. He laid them out, blades and heads pointing towards the centerpoint of one of the circles the shaman had drawn on the ground. Then, he himself walked to another circle, and sat down in it. Zujibaba rose without comment and sat in a third.
Each circle formed the endpoint of a perfect triangle, the whole shape contained inside of a larger circle, at the direct center of which was a single, unlit totem.
As Xynrael settled into position, Zujibaba cautioned, "Dis be no simpal task, Fros'bane. Ya gunna face a trial wit'in. Zuji can guide ya, but ya most figh' da beast dat hold ya strengkt and ya cunning. Wat else ya face inside, ah do not know. But if yah fail... Ya be lost fahevah mon, and ya bodeh be empteh, and dah darkness take ya insted."
There was again a moment of silence as Xynrael lay down within the circle, his eyes locking on a point on the ceiling. A thousand things passed through his mind all at once. Last thoughts. Things he wished he'd said and done, and very few of them things he expected he'd care about. He thought of Iliae, of Eriene and Wyleth, of the Vanguard, of Jaen Peaceroot, of the hulking Gilomesh, and Melathanore, of the late mother of the Kierr sisters, and, to his surprise, of Nikkitah, Treue, and Tydris...And of Aerather. He thought of his comrades from the Eventide, people he hadn't seen in years, some he knew were gone forever.
Then, with finality: "Make me whole again, Zuji."
"Only ya can do dat, mon."
At first, Xynrael only heard the soft sound of Zujibaba's quiet chanting and the shaking of the troll's staff as he hopped back and forth. A tiny spark began to grow atop the totem, this particular flame an icy sort of blue. It grew, almost unnoticeably but quite steadily, for several moments, though nothing else happened. Then, just as the Death Knight was about to ask how much longer it was going to take, the weapons in the last circle started to quiver, metal rattling against metal as the points of blades and sharpened edges of axeheads clashed. In the center of all of them, he had laid his mace, which now lifted pommel-first into the air, the sharp, pointed tip of the shaft sticking deep into the ground.
Smoke rose from the flame on the totem, the smoke the same dark color as the clouds that seemed to endlessly block the sun just outside. Xyn noticed the flame on the totem growing more rapidly, and saw, as he turned his head to stare directly at it, that it was the same corrupted blue as his eyes.
Louder grew the shaman's chanting, and deeper came his voice and invications to the Loa. Xynrael reached up to grab his head, a sudden sensation of falling passing over him. Rather than feel the pressure directly where he thought it would be, however, the Death Knight's conciousness seemed to be coming from another part of his body. He still saw with his eyes, but it was as if he were thinking from his chest, rather than his head.
The center of his focus jerked again, then a second time, shortly after. By the eighth movement, he was feeling dizzy and clutching his stomach, his body wracked with coughs as if he were attempting to hold back vomit.
After the fourteenth (or was it fifteenth?) move, Xyn started losing count...and conciousness. Plagued blood and bile lay in a coagulated pool on the floor beside him, and he began feeling a sensation he had only felt once before. The Death Knight's eyes went wide, and Zujibaba's chanting seemed to come from everywhere, each word joined by a thousand different voices, all molded into one. The shadows on the walls cast by the flame of totem and torch melded into indistinct faces and forms, ghosts and demons that jeered and taunted him in the midst of his torment.
In a vague attempt to steady the rapidly dissolving world, Xynrael pushed himself up slightly. He was immediatly smashed back into the ground by a shear of wind, the pure force of the action causing him to vomit again, adding more to the pool that lay to his right. The world around him vanished into darkness, though he was aware that Zuji was still chanting.
"Ya not be movin', mon. We not close ya done yet." Was the last thing the Death Knight heard.
From the edge of the darkness that was his vision, Xynrael saw a bright light erupt and shoot towards him. He jerked backwards, held in the circle by another shear of wind as the source of the light passed through the totem, then out again and impacted him.
"Zuji, what...w.....AH. AHHHHHHH!" The Death Knight screamed at the top of his lungs as a burning sensation enveloped him. He writhed and screamed and thrashed against the shield that held him in place, hands slapping his body as if the very air against his skin was catching fire. "GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT! ZUJI, GET IT OUT, IT BURNS!" He begged, still screaming at the top of his lungs, the tiny sliver of rational thought remaining his brain attempting to reconcile the furious burning in the midst of Icecrown's unholy chill. Unbidden tears poured from Xynrael's eyes, streaming down his cheeks from the sheer pain of his entire body lighting aflame, inside and out, though ice still hung on him. Despite the weight his armor, he continued the mad pounding and thrashing against Zuji's elemental restraints .
"We can acommahdate ya soon enough, mon! Ya be holdin' on now!"
"AAAAAGGGHHHHH!!!! GET IT OUT!" Despite the cries, Zuji continued chanting, a feeling of sinking and swirling cutting through the pit of his friend's stomach, as if the firestorm pervading him had met with a dark whirlwind. Then, blessed numbness overtook him, and his last concious thought was the belief that death had finally taken him back, and the feeling of his mind being taken from his body to join his father in whatever way proceeded it.
* * *
Xynrael reached out to catch himself as he stumbled, only to realize that he was kneeling. The world around him was dark, but this dark was... Natural. His face was covered by his hood, his cloak spread out slightly behind him. One leather-covered hand was wrapped tightly around his runemace, which stood point-down in the thick permafrost beneath him. Looking up, he saw that he was kneeling before a set of stairs made from the same frost upon which he had found himself. And up the steps was a terrifying sight.
The Frozen Throne. Upon the Throne sat Arthas Menethil, the Lich King. Frostmourne was not in his hand, but the Lich King's hand hung in the air, outstretched towards a place behind Xynrael's shoulder. The Death Knight turned, and behind him, on the dias leading up to the throne, was gathered a small army. Some names he had forgotten, but every face he remembered. Many of them had been caved into or cleaved from their shoulders by the weight or scythes of Skyshatter, and each one's blood had, at one point, decorated the mighty runemace.
They charged.
By the tens and hundreds they swarmed around him, each one grabbing any hold their hands could find. Xynrael fought back weakly, but against this mad charge, there was no defense. One or two fell to Skyshatter before the weapon was torn from his hands. A spray of surrging blood magic struck down another fifteen or so, but eventually, the Death Knight was completely overwhelmed, his body dragged into the crushing press. As they clawed at his armor and flesh, he heard amid the madness a single, distinct voice.
This is your just reward, Xynrael the Dawnbreaker. You turned against your people, and you turned against the King you betrayed them for. This world has no place for traitors. You belong to me. You are -sworn- to me.
As he was dragged down, he began to feel the truth of it. The inevitability of it. Maybe, just maybe, if he gave in, joined the press that tore at him...
"Quiet be ya, ya damn fool! Ya not be givin' in, mon! Dese people ya killed, dat be true, but ya be doin' it undah HIS sway! Da dead and da livin' cannaht hold ya fa' his sins! Dey be HIS tah bea'. YA RELEASE DEM UN'TAH HEEM." Zuji's voice echoed like a thunderstorm amidst the chaos, seeming to come from all directions at once.
The Death Knight set his gaze upon his mace, which sat, unmoved by the crowd, not three feet away. He managed to wrench his right arm free and extend it, calling the weapon to him with tendrils of unholy power. The mace slid between the legs of several who held them, knocking over and unbalancing the legs that it did not rend off. Taking hold of the mace's shaft, Xynrael let loose a mighty swing, beating from his left side those who held him. Another torrent of blood flew outwards as he swung the weapon, sending the immediate mob as far back as it could go. With a sweep of his left hand, he took hold of the blood in the chests of those around him and sent it bubbling outwards, causing them to grasp their chests in agony as their hearts exploded. Many died instantly and disappeared, and Xynrael finally had some breathing room.
"BACK TO THE PIT WITH YOU." He roared, slamming his mace into the floor. A discharge of unholy power spread through the permafrost, rapidly bubbling outwards and consuming the flesh of many who were too close to him, and thus too far from the edge to escape before their flesh and bone were worn away to rot.
As he lifted his head, the hood of Xynrael's cloak fell away, revealing his face to the stinging cold, and finally allowing him to see the sky. The flurries of snow outside the dias of the Frozen Throne were too thick to see even a foot outside of the edge. A test, then. This was the test Zuji had spoken of. The Death Knight slid one leg back, ears twitching slightly, listening for any sound indicating that the mob was about to rush him again.
"Know ya well, mon... Dis be no alluzhon. If ya die hea', da last t'ing keepin' dese souls from ya body be gone. It be vacant wit'out da rule of ya mace an' ya mind." Zuji's voice cautioned. As if on cue, the remaining souls rushed at Xynrael, screaming incoherently.
The last of these he barely saw as he struck them down. He whirled in and out of their ranks, Skyshatter punching holes in the awkward circle they formed, and crushing even more holes and cavities into their flesh. Each time Skyshatter swung, five or six fell, caught in the mace's sweeping arc or the spray of freshly-plagued blood that followed each strike. Soon, they had all been dispatched, but the last thirty or so did not disappear as the rest did. Xynrael knelt among them as they reanimated, then rose again for battle as they turned to face him, though he knew strength was spent.
The faces he saw were not those he had expected.
Instead of the bodies of the fallen, the faces of those he considered (or had once considered) friends greeted him. Thaelis Kael'dorin and Eriene Riverwalker stood side-by-side, their Blood Knight uniforms looking freshly polished, the shield in Thaelis' hand gleaming so beautifully that Xynrael could swear the Phoenix upon it was about to take flight. From behind Eriene, Wyleth Riverwalker appeared. He stood in a sort of contented silence behind his wife, a smile on his face, arms hanging loosely at his sides. For a moment, Xynrael saw some of the stress Eriene had secured for herself as captain of the Academy's Red Brigade disappear, though she quickly grew stern again, her hands folding behind her back as her eyes turned from her husband.
Through the howling gale outside the dias came Ruscion Vas'nir and Hylaudius Dorennen, beside whom the Death Knight had fought in Northrend. Ruscion looked impassive, and Hylaudius was clearly unhappy to be there, though he seemed approving of the remaining carnage, even though some of the corpses continued to reanimate, bearing clothing and faces they hadn't borne a moment ago. Two figures slid in next to Ruscion and Hylaudius, both women Xynrael recognized from the Order of the Eventide, before it had dissolved. Xynrael's self-appointed bodyguard, the Death Knight Irelynn, a tall, lanky woman with flame-red hair and a temper to match settled herself in beside Ruscion and was herself flanked by Saori, their resident expert on temporal magic and representative to the Bronze Flight.
At his left, the Death Knight felt a familiar pair of hands wrap around the gauntlet covering his own. Iliae Duskryder smirked up at him as he turned, her former mate, Dinendal Amandil falling into step behind her. She moved away from Xynrael as a third figure appeared- his cousin, Jaericho, whose flesh Iliae had carved off, piece by peice, and let to bleed to death in the laboratory beneath the Duskryder Estate. Dinendal faded into the crowd, and as she fell in beside Iliae, Jaericho, too, disappeared.
From out of the snowstorm stumbled an enormous Undead. He held a flask in one hand, an axe in the other, and a look of general boredom pasted all over the rest of him. Melathanore Malarius grinned as he spotted Iliae, and rather violently shoved his way through the gathering to stand beside her. Adalvaldr Von Harmonn appeared beside Mel, his saronite jaw clenched tightly, both clawed hands folded over the head of his swagger cane, and behind him rose Riethe Kierr, flanked by her two daughters. The three Kierrs immediately moved left to join those Xynrael had met in the Academy, each one looking mildly uncomfortable at the sight of the Forsaken.
The sound of shuffling plate announced the rising of Treue Frostblade and his 'family,' such as Xynrael had known them; Nikkitah Blightheart stood behind his 'father' and adopted a look of irritation. He seemed about to say something, but cut it off, instead moving with Treue and Tydris Dawnfury to stand off to one side. The three were followed immediately by some of the most misguided men Xynrael Frostbane had ever met. Aerather Sunrender, Annexious Bloodfury, and Surion Draxus pushed themselves to their feet and, in unison, brushed past Xyn to stand beside Treue's family. For several moments, Xynrael allowed himself to wonder if Aerather, Annexious, and Surion were all so alike... And how far beyond redemption they had really been when he turned on each of them.
Jaen Peaceroot appeared and scampered quickly out of sight, behind those from the Vanguard. He was dragged back into veiw by Calthos Sunkeeper, the Ebonhawk Vanguard's artificer, at one shoulder. On his other shoulder, gripping just as tightly, was Lyzander Bloodthorne, whom Xyn now knew to be a master spy and tactician. The two men were grinning slightly down at the Vanguard's newest recruit- they'd make something of him, yet. Lyzander's companion Taleal slipped from the shadows at his side, lifting one arm onto his shoulder and leaning on him as if he were a fencepost. Lieutenant Vladimaer Lightsworn appeared from behind the Ebonhawks' ranks, grinning like a drunken fool.
The appearance of the Springsun Sisters, Kavei, Maexin, and Tyaene, completed the picture- these were perhaps the only three Xynrael had truly known before becoming a member of the Scourge. Kavei was the oldest of the three, and had died with Xynrael on the grounds of his family's estate during the Invasion. Even in this dreamlike state, the Death Knight fought back tears at seeing her whole, unmarred, and alive again. But the dreams of her living form had stopped years ago, and he forced thoughts of her from his mind even as she turned to smile at him. Maexin and Tyaene were twins and much younger than Kavei. The two women stood side-by-side, staring up at him as they had when he had first been introduced to them nearly a hundred years before.
Xynrael forced himself to stop breathing in order to keep from sobbing as Kavei and Maexin disappeared like ghosts carried in a mist, the last traces of their existance wiped clean by the whirling snow outside the Throne. Tyaene gave him a small, understanding smile, and turned away to join all of the others.
There were many more, but the last to arrive was a single, black-and-red clad Rogue that Xyn knew only as Sunsworn. Her face was masked and hooded even more heavily than his own had been. As he looked her over, the Death Knight noticed with some curiosity that she held in the fingers of her left hand an ornate, black rook from the human game of chess. Rather than ending in the usual battlements, however, the head of a wolf extended from the playing piece's top, its eyes following Xynrael even as she drew it out of his sight, shooting him a rather exaggerated glare.
Others came in by the dozens. Eventually, he lost track of how many people there were, and gave up. They stood at a sort of grim attention where they had gathered, like gladiators about to die for his entertainment.
The irony was not lost on him. Once, he had done the same. Once...
Why do you bother?
The voices came from among the crowd, and all in unison. He recognized them- all of the people who had caused him to question his motives, speaking in unison. They sounded as the Scourge once sounded, encompassed by the vast conciousness of the Lich King. Orderly. Assured.
The sound was too familiar.
You cannot protect them all.
Xynrael moved in and out of the crowd, his hand on his mace's pommel, corrupted blue eyes darting from face to face. Those who were now voicing his doubts were gone. Jaericho, Nikkitah, Aerather, had all disappeared. Though all the crowd were facing foreward, he heard another pair of boots thumping steadily on the ice as he moved, the deep sound accompanied by a light swish.
You cannot even protect them from yourself.
The meaning of the words was clear. Perhaps not to anyone else, should they have heard, but Xynrael understood them. If his bloodlust ever flared because of the Light...
His throught were interrupted. The Death Knight looked heavenward as a howl of wind brought into sharp relief the rapid shift of the falling snow. Rather than fall outside the dias upon which the Frozen Throne rested, the flurry of white was now beginning to swirl over it. Though he felt the wind sting his face, the feeling of the snow was unexpected. Rather than simply come to rest or turn to water, it shattered into dust.
It is fitting. You are a broken man, protecting a world already so broken that it cannot be saved.
The 'snow' felt thin and silty on his skin, and as Xyn dusted some of it off with his left gauntlet, he saw it was dark and dirty looking.
Ash.
For a brief moment, he could see through the blizzard, outside of the Throne's dias. All he could glimpse before the curtain closed again was mountains of bodies, piled a thousand high, their flesh searing away in great pillars of flame that seemed to burn hot enough to ignite the air around them.
Who is fit to replace you as protector, Xynrael the Frostbane? Who can keep these people safe? You have the trust of death itself. Neither time nor will of nature can remove you from his grasp. But you are one man. How many of them can you protect? The voice of doubt had echoed in Xynrael's mind for nearly a year, but never had he heard it so clearly as he did now, the image of friends and strangers alike still burning in his mind.
Thaelis Kael'dorin is a good man. A strong man. He can replace you. But what if death claims him first?
The Death Knight's eyes narrowed to slits as he turned, attempting to push his way through a crowd that was suddenly too thick to move past.
"Kael'dorin, RUN!" He forced his way through with a broad swing of the arm, throwing others out of his way by shoving with the shaft of his mace and by slamming into them with a lowered shoulderplate. Kael'dorin turned just fast enough to see the hooded face of his attacker. Two long, serrated, rune-covered blades protruded from Thaelis' lower and upper back.
"THAELIS!"
Xynrael arrived just in time to catch his friend in his arms as the Blood Knight fell, already dead. The rest of those gathered looked around stupidly- the whole thing had taken not more than a few seconds, and the attacker was gone. Eriene was screaming something, but Xyn's ears were deafened by a voice that seemed to whisper from everywhere at once. Zujibaba was either gone, or unable to communicate with him.
What of Hylaudius Dorennen? He is a fine soldier, but he cares only for the larger picture. What must be done to save the people as a whole, which sacrifices are acceptable...
He arrived too late to find out how Hylaudius had died.
As he turned to head back into the crowd, Xynrael saw a pair of silvery-blue flashes out of the corner of his eye. Skyshatter's shaft was brought up just in time to deflect the blows, which were aimed downwards for the shoulder joints of his armor. The necessity of deflecting the strike obscured his vision, and the attacker was gone not a moment later, disappearing amidst the confusion that had been the crowd of the Death Knight's friends.
Xynrael followed the phantom by sprays of blood and the gleam of silver and blue that struck out at him when he neared too close to its next target, but somehow, he was always a step behind the man who was slowly, poetically killing everyone gathered, staining the ice of the Throne's dias with their blood.
He finally saw the attacker as it went for Sunsworn, one of the last few still alive. It came from the blizzard surrounding the dias, like a monster from a child's nightmares gliding from the shadows. Sunsworn reacted faster than any of the others- she had been ready. She had been -waiting.- For the wrong thing.
Her blades came up, impaling the ghoul as it flew through the storm, and was herself impaled in turn, from the direction she had just been facing. What rent her flesh apart was a Death Knight by his blades, and judging by the warm, sound-muffling robe he wore under his armor, one of Xynrael's own Tundra Stalkers. As it spoke, a chill ran down his spine.
Spend too much time watching your back... It mocked in those same voices. It drew the two, serrated runeblades out of the woman's shoulders, letting its arms hang loosely at its sides. The crowd was cleared now. Only Eriene Riverwalker and Iliae Duskryder remained- one the most difficult but fulfilling friend Xynrael had ever had, the other the first woman he had truly -loved- since Kavei's death.
Iliae wasted no time. She raised her bow and aimed the notched arrow between the eyes of the Death Knight who stood across the dias from her, her head cocking slightly as she drew bowstring back.
She hesitated as he pulled down his hood. The gaunt cheeks, raven-black hair, and slightly arrogant smirk were unmistakable. Iliae looked behind her, as if to make certain. That instant's hesitation sealed her fate.
With a twist of his arm, Xynrael the Dawnbreaker yanked Iliae towards him, one slash of his blades laying her open in the same fashion his free counterpart had found her two years ago. She had enough in her to roll over and stare at the first Xynrael, her eyes screaming betrayal at him.
In the moment it had taken Iliae to be cleaved open by the doppleganger, Eriene Riverwalker had lifted her sword and thrown herself at him. Three or four blows landed solidly, but the Tundra Stalker's blood magic overcame her control of the Light. As she lowered her blade to land a fiery final swing, the Death Knight dropped his blades, grabbing her by the wrist, and she clutched her chest in pain, her own sword falling to the ground.
The Blood Knight panted and gasped for air as if her lungs were collapsing. Xynrael's doppleganger swung her around in one arm to face the original, his other hand holding her chin, as if he were about to snap her neck.
You see, now? You can never strike first. They cannot protect themselves from what is to come. YOU cannot protect them. You love them all too much to protect them. From eachother, from themselves... Most importantly, from you. Your love is your greatest weakness, a weakness I do not share.
In that moment, Xynrael came to understand what was happening, and what his trial was. He was literally wrestling with his own soul- a battle he could not win. A battle neither side of him could win, because each one needed the other to survive.
"Ya can do fah da ones ya lohv, wat ya cannat do fah yaself, mon." Zuji's words echoed.
Xynrael Frostbane looked at Iliae, bleeding to death on the dias of the Throne, and at Eriene, who stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth held firmly shut by the doppleganger.
Frostbane drew his runemace back, and slammed it into the nearest crack in the ice. Tendrils of runic energy shot through the ice just beneath the surface as he began to run towards his counterpart. The Dawnbreaker stared down at the rapidly advancing cracks in the Throne's structure, then to the blood that he had spilled not moments before, which had seeped down through the cracks in the ice and was now speeding towards him. The blood was being drawn along by the runic energy like metal to a magnet, forcing the cracks wider as it coagulated. With a turn of his head, he realized what was happening.
He held Eriene on the edge of the Throne's dias.
The section of the dias upon which the Dawnbreaker stood began to fall away, and his grip loosened. In that moment, Xynrael closed distance and yanked Eriene out of the doppleganger's arms, throwing her back onto the dias. The Dawnbreaker reached out, his hand charged with unholy energy, but Xynrael grabbed the other by the wrist, throwing his weight foreward, propelling them both over the edge of the throne and through the veil of ash.
Congratulations. You have protected the image of a friend, an idea, from death, by sacrificing yourself. Your love has been your undoing.
As Xynrael raised his mace over his head, he could feel the heat from the pyres of corpses below beginning to rise. They were falling fast, and as they fell it grew still hotter within his armor, enough that even the primordial Saronite couldn't cast off the heat. They would likely incinerate before ever hitting the ground.
"My love," he explained, as he brought his mace down, one of the scythes cleaving into his doppleganger's skull, "is my vengeance for all you've ever made me do. Now burn in hell where you belong." He growled, pushing himself off from the other's body, its blood turning to a misty gas as it fell to the fires below.
Xynrael the Dawnbreaker knew no more.
* * *
His eyes opened slowly, the light from the real world burning his eyes. Well, this world, anyway. As he opened his eyes fully, Xynrael realized that world had been just as real, and just as deadly as this. Zujibaba loomed over him, a grin spreading from tusk to tusk, causing the shaman's eyes to squint slightly, and his lips to draw bak even beyond the tusks. He looked almost... Silly.
"Ya did it, mon. De'h be a problem, tho'. One ah dah shads ah Skayshattah be missin'...When yah ovahcame him, ah couldn't restore ya soul completely. Ya always gannah be a bit... What ya Elfies say in yah fancy words... 'Ahgressahve' towards da Light. But nevahmind dat, mon... Ya be whole again, near as Zuji can tell... An' someone be hea' tah see ya."
As Xynrael followed the direction indicated by the troll's elongaed finger, a devilish smirk passed over his features.
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