Days Without Light

Musings of the dead

[hezeldizzle]

The Calling

((Written in collaboration with Barren/Sid: http://barrenthebloodless.tumblr.com/ ))

It was another quiet night in Ashran.  As usual, Alliance forces were on the move in the west.

Horde guards of various races occupied the eastern tower.  A trio of mail-clad blood elves stood silently, while a group of trolls puffed hand-rolled cigarettes.  But none of them wanted to approach the two death knights at the tower’s base.

Sid Sunfire had made constant jokes since his arrival, which even the normally friendly Pandaren found disconcerting.  He had a lanky build, and his plate armor was caked with a collection of strangely fresh blood. Elementium-etched runes ran down the length of the sword on his back, gleaming softly in the torchlight.

Hezzel rarely spoke, and when she did her voice was cold and flat. A heavily-built figure, she towered above all but the Trolls and Tauren there.  Her plate armor was adorned with icy sapphires and the horns of various creatures native to Kun-Lai Summit.

Sounding bored, Hezzel remarked: “That does not seem unusual.  It is merely retribution.”

Sid shook his head. “Ya missin’ the point lass!”  He exclaimed.

“She attacked me…So I took her runeblade fer my own n’ ripped her arm off. Could already smell Geoffrey…Y’don’t ferget  the scent o’ that much blood…I told ‘er to go get the boss…”

“Some of the names you mentioned are familiar, of course… Geoffrey? Voren? Human nobility, all from old Lordaeron, if I remember correctly.”

A chill breeze blew through the air, and Hezzel turned her head towards it mechanically, though her lich-fire eyes found nothing in the darkness.

“Why has this become a concern?  It…calls to you, doesn’t it?” Here the orc’s voice softened, as her preserved brain began to dig through old memories.  She saw herself in Vihnbrad, cutting through a line of exhausted footmen.  She felt again the frozen rain that had battered the Banshee’s Wail upon the North Sea.

“He wanted me back with him…like old times, like the Scourge…” His tone was cold, borderline laced in fear for whatever reason that he’d not confess to her.

Light shimmered near the two death knights, and a blue-robed figure suddenly stood before them. The night elf smiled inscrutably before launching a projectile toward Sid with her right hand, and a smaller one at Hezzel with her left. Sid’s arm shot up, eagerly catching the object in his hand, preparing to absorb the blast to prevent such damage to those around him. He was deprived of this defense as a cloud of glittering shards rained down upon him. The blob collided with the orc’s shoulder and burst on a jagged portion of her armor, surrounding her with a mass of shimmering spores. The mage then touched a finger to her chin, turned and sped away, leaving a trail of fire behind.

Sid’s face contorted with a strange mixture of amusement and awkwardness, as he found himself rooted to the ground.  Glitter seeped into the cracks of his armor as he bellowed in the strange syllables of Common: “BITCH I ALREADY SPARKLE!!”

Hezzel tossed her head, yellow spores falling away from her bone-white hair as she blinked away the haze. With a single motion she drew the runeblade from her back, and an aura of green magic faintly outlined her form.  She snarled, muttering: “I’ve got you..” and became a dark blur moving in the direction of the departed night elf.

A single scream ran out in the night, but was suddenly cut short. Horde guards hurried to gather at the tower’s base, casting curious glances at glitter-covered Sid, who offered no explanation whatsoever. Moments later, Hezzel approached the crowd, carrying something on the crook of her left arm: a night elf’s head, cleanly severed at the base, though her beautiful features were blackened with frostbite. When released it rolled across the dusty ground and landed gaze-up at the feet of a Sunwalker, who lifted a hoof in distaste. An enterprising goblin, however, whooped and gleefully snatched up the trophy: “Aww yea! Last one I needed!”

The crowd soon lost interest and drifted back to their duties.  Hezzel studied the other death knight for a moment, then spoke: “Let us continue our conversation.  Tell me more about these knights.”

Sid let out a sigh of disappointment. Was it in the lack of a fight the mage put up? Perhaps. However, those most known to Sid would know exactly what he was disheartened by.

“Do you honestly believe he will leave you alone, after that?  The patience of the dead is measured in centuries.  You must end him, unless you would see him take everything and everyone from you.”

Sid shot an almost alarmed glanced to the ebon orc.”…No.. I don’t. It buys me time at least. I am really not looking forward to dealing with him. It’s that feeling, you know? Someone you used to be friends with, brothers in arms and then…what. We just kill each other? No real reason other than I don’t want anything to do with him? I guess I’m thinking too much on it…Still. It’s not like he hates me. He just doesn’t understand I’m not interested in what he’s offering. I’ve got a wife for fuck’s sake. I can’t go romping around making believe I’m a part of the Scourge again.”

A lone horn sounded mournfully in the distance, and another wave of alliance could be seen pressing the advance. They’d soon be upon the next post, just up the hill and trying to take the tower. The scene had caught the elf’s eye for the briefest of moments before tugging his sword along the dirt road. “Don’t really have all that much to begin with, y’know. If he tries…Well…That’s when things will get ugly.”

As the elf continued, Hezzel’s face twisted further in disgust, mouth contorting into an awful tusked grimace.  "No reason in killing each other…?  You’re beginning to remind me of someone I knew in Naxxramas.“ She pointed a plated finger in the direction of the hill nearby, as her voice rose in volume, though nothing about it was melodic, or heroic - rather, harsh and grating: “Look, over there.  Do we wait for them to come to us?  NO. We go break their bodies. Suffering awaits, and we must greet her properly!” The orc marched forward, fingers curling as tendrils of magic lanced from the earth around her, like bolts of black lightning.  The form of a skeletal steed coalesced out of shadow, into solid bone and decaying leather tack, which she mounted with a grunt: “Afterwards.. you can go home to your .. ‘family’.” The orc spat a viscous glob of black bile on the ground. “Without…’fear’.” Her thick lips twisted into a sneer at the end.

Sid watched her summon her steed from the realm of shadows, a frown creasing over his lips as she gave him the disgusted expression. “Sid ain’t scared o’ shit.” There had been an unnecessarily large amount of bloodshed in the past year for the elf. If he’d had less self esteem in the moment, he’d have felt inclined to out-kill her today. There was a quiet murmur, and shadows spawned yet another steed from a world unknown to most mortals. Sid quietly mounted his deathcharger, blade still drawn and face still somber. “Ain’t no hurry lass, they’re gonna be here eventually. We gettin’ paid by the death now?” The massive blade he drug along one side of the steed carved a small line in the dirt as the charger made its way down the dirt path with Hezzel’s own.”I gotta ask, do you ever turn off from all the…Death and ‘suffer well’ shit?…Y’know, contemplate yourself before?”

Hezzel turned back to regard the other death knight with an unusually - for her, at any rate - analytical stare.  The wind rose in strength, and her long white hair stretched out toward him like a vulture’s wing.  ”You must fill the void, or its emptiness will consume you until there is nothing left. Don’t you know this? Or perhaps…my journey has been too different from your own….“ She reached for the plate helm strapped to her saddlebag, and slid it down over her head, obscuring green skin with a horned, skeletal mask.

Sid’s steed soon found the speed of her own, bursting into a full gallop as he responded.”Fancy way O’ Sayin’ ya don’t wanna talk about it lass!”

[hezeldizzle]

Hi, so I hear you do orc rps?

I do.  I just recently came back to the game after a 6 month break.

[hezeldizzle]

Ship of Souls

ALTERAC COASTLINE.

It was mid-morning in Alterac. Snow had fallen during the night, as it had for weeks before, but the rising sun had done its work, and ice began to recede from the shores of the Thondoril River.

Drumbeats sounded. A ship approached, and judging by the pace of the oarsmen it was in a hurry. Fog covered the valley below, and Utren Voren could not yet make out her colors from Eastern Fjord Garrison’s wall. Briefly he considered what rumors he had heard from court. Word did not travel fast here - instead it oozed from reluctant jaws and was often dismissed as the pointless folly of mortals.

The Queen had a new consort. A Scourge assassin’s attack was thwarted. There was trouble with the peasants, as usual. And something about an archaeological society, and a voyage to the seas.

The north wind howled past, furling black-and-purple banners, and scattering hail against the death knight’s armor. But a hole opened in the fog, and Utren could make out a pennant being rigged by the ship below: a gray field, with some sort of markings upon it. Lord Stokeswood’s men, bearing food for the living, most likely.

The clouds soon returned, thick mist looking much like the coast of Northrend. On days like this, watch duty seemed pointless, and so he trudged through the snow to the tower door, vowing: They will be met at the docks with ice and steel, in a manner befitting the Brotherhood. As he descended the death knight’s mind returned to those days, when all of the coast belonged to the Lich King.

-

The Banshee’s Wail had wandered the North Sea for weeks, largely in silence, save for waves, wind, and creaking wood. There was little need for conversation, with the Lich King’s voice in their heads.

She traveled lightly, carrying only plague barrels and supplies for one living necromancer. She was manned by a crew of geists, ghouled shipmen, and death knight marines. When red-and-black sails of a corsair appeared on the horizon, all heard the voice of their King:

PURSUE THEM.

Ghouls scrambled over the rigging, and death knights charged over the gangway. The corsair was slow and heavy, stuffed to the brim with booty from a Tuskarr village: ivory, whale meat, harpoons. Chaos erupted on deck as the living humans hurried to obey a captain who shouted in Common and cursed in Thalassian.

KILL THEM ALL.

-

“Cheerful place. Look alive, lads.” A slim man wearing an oversized gray tabard muttered to the sailors around him. Theirs was the only vessel at a lonely, frozen dock. Above them loomed the Eastern Fjord Garrison.

Heavy footsteps announced the arrival of a welcoming party. Nightfall, a stout woman in blue armor. Javor, a miserable-looking living man, face red with cold and criss-crossed with white scars. Utren, a knight in gray armor, half covered by ice and snow. The last one spoke:

State your name and purpose.

Kanner Thornwood, boatswain of The Maiden’s Plow. Tharvin is her captain. She carries supplies for the Brotherhood. Would’ve been here a day earlier if not for the ice. May we ashore?

Proceed. And be quick about it. Lord Coldsorrow has no more patience than I do for excuses.

Don’t you worry about that! We don’t want to remain here any longer than we must …

[hezeldizzle]

It was not Death, for I stood up

What if death knights never became Scourge?

What if those people never died at all?

They'd still be living warriors, paladins, maybe rogues, and a few other things on Azeroth.  But would they have escaped despair?

Utren Voren

Utren decided not to return to Lordaeron after battling demons on the slopes of Hyjal.  Even though his father lay dying, he had nothing but bad memories of the place where he grew up.  He shipped out to Theramore with a merchant vessel instead. 

He abandoned his family, so why stay with Lady Proudmoore, who pushed for peace treaties with the orcs?  He deserted from her army. He became a mercenary and later pillaged Taraujo, to which the Alliance turned a blind eye.  For now he makes a living off robbing and murdering travelers on the Gold Road, but he's getting older and slower.

Hezzel

Hezzel decided not to surrender willingly to the Scourge.  She made her way back to Orgrimmar after the Eastern Plaguelands.  She even married like she was supposed to, but her only child died in infancy. In Northrend she followed a Nerubian tunnel deep into the earth, intent on pursuing the source of the strange whispers that started the moment she came ashore the continent.

Her head wasn't quite right after that and she became fanatically loyal to Garrosh Hellscream. She's currently imprisoned with other Kor'kron Dark Shaman awaiting trial for the crimes of twisting the elements and executing prisoners.  Will it be the gallows?

[hezeldizzle]

The Quarrel

EASTERN FJORD GARRISON.

It was so early in Alterac that the sun had not yet risen.

The soldiers blinked sleepily.  They hadn't eaten, that would come after the morning's exercises.  That was the way things worked around here, at any rate.  Some of of the men complained it was backwards, and that their death knight commanders had lost touch of what it was like to be mortal.  But none of them were stupid enough to voice such complaints within Sir Utren Voren's hearing.  Not after what had happened last week.

Voren, seated on a gray deathcharger, paced before a group of living soldiers."Remember, keep your shields locked once the command is given.  Do not give an inch, and trust the man behind you not to move either.  The wall is only as strong as each brick holding it together."  The skeletal steed turned and trotted off some distance; its rider bellowed and came at them: "Defend yourselves, or die!"

Shields crunched as the horse crashed against them, and men staggered as the runeblade came down on their line, but it held. "Better.  But next time-"  Voren turned his head at a soundless explosion, and watched a crowd of soldiers gathering about the far side of the yard.  "Wait here."

Voren shoved his way through the men, who all stood eerily still around two death knights and one still form.  Were they frozen or just dumb this morning? "Milagros, Vathirr, what's the meaning of this?!" he demanded impatiently.

"It's broken." Said the shorter knight as she watched the pool of spreading blood.  There was a tinge of regret in her small, cold voice, like a girl who discovered her favorite doll ruined.

"Not broken, Milagros.  Dead."

"Dead." She repeated, adding: "Is that bad?"

Voren studied the body, which was utterly drained of color.  The ground around it was certainly full of life, as if every drop of the man's blood had evacuated his body at once. "It's not good-"

"You killed Joff, you Scourge witch!"

 One of the men charged directly at Milagros, sword in hand.  Voren recognized him as Perin, one of the youngest fighters.  Holding his arms steady, he reached into shadow and drew the boy back onto his runeblade. Perhaps it had been his brother.  Or maybe just a friend, thought Voren as the body jerked, shuddered, then slid to the ground next to the unfortunate Joff.  Now there were two issues this morning.  Nikephoros would not be pleased.

 Vathirr scowled in disgust; he'd had enough of this. He hated mortal needs, mortal complaints, mortal weaknesses.  The soldiers scurried back to their places as he roared: "COME ON YOU WRETCHES.  BACK TO WORK."

Voren frowned at Milagros, who knelt between both bodies.  The woman had split poor Perin's stomach open with her runed axe and was staring at his still-steaming entrails, utterly fascinated. "Go and help your brother.  I'll take care of this."

The hallway down to Lord Coldsorrow never seemed long enough. He was, predictably, less than enthused when Voren arrived.

"I accept full responsibility for this.  I was overseer today."

Nikephoros growled, thin lips curling around rotting teeth. He walked toward the two bodies, first turning Joff over with his boot, then lifting Perin's head up by his black hair.  Their eyes were open, though they didn't see either death knight.  "That doesn't matter. As far as I'm concerned, there was a quarrel between these two and they killed each other".

"Yes, Lord Coldsorrow."

"And Voren-"

"This must not happen again.  As insignificant as mortal lives are to me - the Brotherhood is still responsible for fielding a new army, and I will not disappoint Her Majesty."

[hezeldizzle]

Above Us All

The symbol of the Brotherhood of the Penitent flies from the central keep of the Eastern Fjord Garrison, swaying in the cold mountain air.

As the death knights guide the brotherhood, so too does the skeletal hand wield the runeblade, which unites force of magic with strength of arms.

It is violet for sorrow and repentance, and black for oblivion which awaits us all.

[hezeldizzle]

Welcome Home

RUINS OF ALTERAC.

  Two figures made their way through the snowy wastes of upper Alterac.  The midday sun cast strange shadows before them and at times they paused; Syndicate holdouts and ogres had been known to inhabit this area.  The fair-haired youth stopped to regard a misshapen heap of rubble, squinting at the outlines of a snow-covered carving.  Before his elderly man-at-arms could object, he quickly dusted off a few layers of fine snow.

  "Curious.  I don't remember a statue like-"

The statue blazed to life, blue light filling its eye sockets.  Voren raised his gauntlet and frost obeyed: shards of ice tumbled from the roof, instantly impaling the man-at-arms.  

"Wait-don't you know who I-"

"You're mortal. That's all I need to know."  Voren called upon the runes again, making sure an adequate snowdrift covered the rapidly cooling body, then dragged the boy forward by his tabard.

  The Brotherhood of the Penitent had claimed the largest ruins in the area. This once-grand castle keep, half blown apart by cannon fire, was slowly being reclaimed by the elements.  Snow had pushed its was into vacant cracks, windows, and doorways.  Rats had eaten gaping holes in fine rugs and elaborate tapestries left behind long ago by fleeing Alterac nobles.  Voren ducked beneath dripping icicles and headed down the hallway toward the throneroom.  In shadows sat a large, armored figure, another equally still statue.

"Lord Coldsorrow, 

We have a guest.  Or should I say trespasser; the house colors he wears are unknown to me.  What a fool to be here alone."

Just as the lad was about to reply to the contrary, Voren added: "Where are your manners? Show proper respect for Lord Coldsorrow", and aimed a sharp kick at his lower back.  The youth fell to his knees and began to stammer an explanation.

[hezeldizzle]

Through the Ice, Into the Fire

KUN-LAI SUMMIT

The undead orc did not sleep, nor did she rest - thus it was hard for her to tell if it had been weeks or months since the avalanche had sealed the cave's entrance, leaving her entombed in complete darkness. Hezzel slowly chipped away at the wall of ice with the dull side of her runeblade. She had tried everything else, of course. Her hearthstone had been crushed beneath a stone statue, and her runic magic refused to form a gateway to Acherus in such a cramped space.

ORGRIMMAR

The Kor'kron recruitment office was a newer building near the center of the city, built of iron like the rest. In the dusty yard surrounding it brown Mag'har orcs dueled green-skinned orcs from other clans, all under the watchful eyes of a massive Dragonmaw sergeant, who glowered at Hezzel as she rode past on an undead steed.

Inside the building, goblins scurried about with paper schematics in hand, while a single orc barked orders at them. The dark shaman was clad in leather as black as night trimmed with gray wolf fur. She paused and stared at the death knight incredulously.

Can I... help you?

I'm here to join the war effort. I was told a troll uprising threatened the warchief's rule.

While it's true that some trollish upstarts have declared their intention to murder the warchief of the True Horde, only those who are pure of blood may join the Kor'kron Guard. That does not include those who once served the Lich King.

If you refuse to accept my offer of service, then I can find another who will not judge me by my past.

The dark shaman frowned as Hezzel walked away, and spoke in a low voice to the goblins nearby.

If she leaves the city, you know what to do.

[lothcats-moving-blog]

kinda close?

[hezeldizzle]

that's perfect, thanks!

[hezeldizzle]

Dreams of a Dead Mind

KILL THEM ALL.

Gore splattered against the death knight's face. Grinning, she planted a foot on the dying soldier and yanked her sword from his stomach.  

DO NOT LET HIM FLEE.

Hezzel focused on an archer who was running to the safety of the forest. She raised her arm and shadowy magic gathered around her fist.

Her vision swirled and the battle dissolved into a lecture. The forest became a hide hut and the voice of an aged female orc intruded on the scene.

'Cave mushroom.'

"It relaxes the muscles in small doses, but is fatal in larger ones."

'Ancestor's prayer.'

"Great spirits above, dark spirits below, and souls awaiting rebirth,  I ask that your blessing be .... I can't remember the rest." 

'Hezzel. You MUST remember. The old ways are almost forgotten, and it is our duty to keep them alive on this new world.'

"Yes, mother..."

'Most orcs have abandoned the ways of the shaman and only use demon magic now. This is our clan's legacy.'

"I know, mother..."

The death knight's eyes snapped open with a jolt.

Had she been sleeping?

Sleep was forbidden among the Scourge! If anyone saw her...

But this was Kun-Lai, not the necropolis. The tomb she called her home was empty, and the only voice was the howling wind outside.

This is what passed for dreaming among the undead - a collection of jumbled memories and persistent whispers.

[hezeldizzle]

The Sun Sets on Vihnbrad

I am joined by other writers from Wyrmrest Accord. We tell the story of heralds of the Lich King, who have come to the Eastern Kingdoms to proclaim his glorious return, and those Alliance who rise up against them to defend their homeland.

Link:

http://wyrmrestaccord.org/forums/roleplaying-corner/roleplay/vihnbrad-shadows-before-dawn-ah-open

Excerpt:

"Below us men sleep soundly in their beds, unaware that their meaningless lives will soon end. We will cut them down in the fields and on the streets. We will slaughter their women and children. We will take their strength for our own. And then we will burn this miserable town to the ground."

[hezeldizzle]

The Banshee Queen's Prize

UNDERCITY. The stench of slow decay, putrescent slime, and bat guano. None of it bothered the death knight. She stomped down narrow corridors and turned sharp corners until she reached the bottom of Lordaeron's sewers.

A dark blue banner hung beside the entrance to a darkened passage. A single Forsaken stood at attention. His red armor identified him as a royal Dreadguard, a member of Sylvanas Windrunner's personal retinue.  Hezzel approached him without hesitation.

"What do you want, orc?"

"I'm told Koltira Deathweaver currently enjoys the hospitality of the Dark Lady.  I have a message for him."

The Dreadguard sneered. "Give it to me.  The Deathweaver is currently indisposed."

She shook her head. "Nay, it must be delivered in person. I will see him now."

"What makes you think you can march into our city and make demands? Return to where you came from.  We take orders from the Banshee Queen, not the Lich King's lapdogs or ogre-headed orcs."

The shift in Hezzel's demeanor was remarkably swift. The guard's neck was small in the orc's plated grasp, and she slammed his thin body up against the wall repeatedly. "I AM A SLAVE TO NO ONE. AND YOU WILL TAKE ME TO THE ONE I SEEK."

Silently he endured the blows, until his old bones began to crack and break. "Release me - I don't know where he is."

"None of us do," he added, as more Dreadguards appeared, weapons drawn and ready.

She was now surrounded on all sides. She glowered at the guard, her glowing eyes narrow with hatred. Her grip slackened and his body immediately slid down into an awkward heap. "Enough. I will leave your Queen to her prize." She shouldered her way between two guards and headed to the surface.

The death knight carefully marked a piece of parchment with ink, the Common script still unfamiliar:

Forget him. He is ours no longer.

[hezeldizzle]

To the Amphitheater

"Are you certain this disguise will work?"

"Death Knight, please. I am a Sunreaver.  Magic is my life and my passion."

"That does not answer my question."

"Look, the procession is starting.  Here, I must finish the spell quickly."

The magister raised his hand and the arcane light that shone from it was so bright Hezzel shielded her eyes with an unfamiliar three-fingered hand.

The Drakkari were on their way to the amphitheater. A heavily-armored troll barked orders in Zandali. He sat atop a pale blue raptor, richly decorated with skulls and feathers as befitting his high rank.

She stepped into a ragged line of undead champions as they lurched toward the ampitheater.  None of the dead noticed an addition to their ranks. 

The corridors led to a holding room, and the undead stood in near darkness, the only light emerging from tiny holes in a gate somewhere far above them.  Soon the battle would begin...

[hezeldizzle]

The Red Hand of Death

Acherus.  Stone corridors hewn by unliving hands, quiet whispers of lost souls, echoes of cold steel.

The domain of Blood, the slaughterhouse of a madman. From a tall ceiling hung from flesh hooks - flayed skin, slowly rotting entrails.  From the stained floor, the butchered remnants of demonstration. A fly or two crawled the length of dead flesh, scattering as the new arrival knelt before Lord Thorval.

"Master, I bring word from Icecrown." 

"Rise, Knight.  What is your name?"

"Hezzel, Knight of the Order of the Vulture, sir."

"I remember your commander, Voren. None could rival his skill with a runeblade.  What news from the North?"

The armored orc withdrew a scroll-case from her pack, of blue-green metal engraved with a motif of skulls and bones. This she offered to the undead human, who broke the seal and scanned the message, a frown darkening his features further.

"I will first finish addressing the initiates.  Then you will have your answer, Knight."

A slim Elven male asked:

"Lord Thorval, what is the nature of blood?"

"Blood binds the flesh to the mind and the soul. By manipulating it, we can affect the other two."

A Draenei female, her facial features twisted and scarred beyond recognition from sudden heat, asked:

"Does our mastery of blood bear any resemblance to that of blood magi?"

"Very little. Theirs is a theoretical and abstract science. Elegance and complexity are unimportant compared with overwhelming power.  We who are cursed with undeath attune ourselves naturally to life-leeching.  They require decades of careful study before understanding even the nuances of the art."

A twice-dead Forsaken inquired with a scratchy, hoarse voice:

"The living complain blood is unfair. Are they simply jealous of our power to stand before a ceaseless tide of enemies and not fall?"

"As death knights, our power comes with a cost. If any wish to know what it is like, I will gladly demonstrate."

A stout Dwarf, his grey beard encrusted with ice crystals, added:

"And yet, others say we are weak from afar."

"Our strength lies in close-quarters. Alone on a battlefield, surrounded by magi and warlocks, our defenses are fewer, though we are by no means weak."

The last to question was a human male, a younger mirror of the Lord himself:

"What of our other masteries?"

"Unholy lacks fortitude. The driest corpse eventually turns to dust. Frost may be reversed, what good is a blizzard before an inferno?"

The initiates dispersed to begin sparring.  Lord Thorval turned to the orc, his mouth a firm line.

"Tell the Duke that I will stand by his decision. You are dismissed, Knight."

[hezeldizzle]

Dead Man's Eye

The vulture sees.

The vulture wants.

The vulture knows.

It waits on gnarled branches.

It wheels above the battlefield.

As flesh tears and bone shatters,

as clothing rots and weapons rust,

the vulture becomes past and future.

What tale will your dead eye tell?

[hezeldizzle]

Undeath Made Manifest

There is no place for us in this world, except the one we create.

As long as war, pestilence, famine, and death plague the living, we will endure.

Suffering feeds us, hate nourishes us, destruction is our strength.

We need only fear the apathy of peace, the stagnation when all sides agree.

Thus, break the treaty. Scorn compromise. Never forgive.

Embrace Strife and protect Her, for She is our savior.

[hezeldizzle]

havar, rune of slaughter

Havar, Rune of Slaughter.

When the beasts are of age,

When the flies slumber,

Carve the body, freeze the meat.