An Art Blog?

I think? I have an art Twitter now! Check it out @mgoblinart !

[doyoulovethewayzeylily]

doomscrolling tiktok together and I turn to you and ask, "why doesn't your algorithm recommend any videos with Black people?"

[doyoulovethewayzeylily]

doomscrolling tumblr and I turn to you and ask, "why don't you reblog anti-racism when it makes you feel uncomfortable?"

[urfavhatesterfs]

YOU hates terfs

[switchingtogeico]

[captainhaterade]

[stankpasta]

rb if u hates terfs

[official-pussy-posts-2]

Official ‘terfs get out of my house’ Post

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Hello again!! I finalized another little chapter of my fic, as well as made some cover art for it. Apologies if this chapter feels a bit disjointed, I’m adding new things to what I had started writing in 2019, so my style has changed a bit.

In this chapter, a convent burns, some kids cause some mischief, and an Angel and Demon try to figure out how human babies work.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

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I hadn’t realized that the link didn’t embed properly the first time, oops! 😅

Now it should be clickable!

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Hello again!! I finalized another little chapter of my fic, as well as made some cover art for it. Apologies if this chapter feels a bit disjointed, I’m adding new things to what I had started writing in 2019, so my style has changed a bit.

In this chapter, a convent burns, some kids cause some mischief, and an Angel and Demon try to figure out how human babies work.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[ultra-penith]

Why Crowley is called "Anthony"

Listen, I know that Neil Gaiman said it was because it was from a nursery rhyme from his childhood, but I couldn't give less of a shit what he says right now.

Crowley's name is Anthony because of Saint Anthony. It fits too perfectly for it to be coincidental.

You get context clues throughout the story. Crowley is constantly "tempting" Aziraphale to lunch or tempting humans. Then at one point he mentions the Spanish Inquisition and specifically Hieronymus Bosch. Bosch did a triptych called "The Temptations of Saint Anthony," during the Spanish Inquisition.

more under the cut, I went on a bit of a rant.

It fits extremely well with his surname "Crowley" too. Aleister Crowley and Saint Anthony have very similar stories. Both developed their philosophies in Egypt - Aleister Crowley in Cairo, Saint Anthony in the Eastern Desert. Both philosophies have to do with earthly desires - lust, gluttony, pride, etc. Both have conflicts with the divine: Aleister Crowley believed in his religion that a person's true free will was what made them divine, not some almighty God. Whereas Saint Anthony was terrified of the presence of God and wanted to reshape his laws to his own will.

The only real difference between Saint Anthony and Aleister Crowley is that what Saint Anthony called sin, Aleister Crowley called free will.

It fits with the demon Crowley as a character, as well. Saint Anthony was a hermit who was constantly harried by the forces of Hell, trying to tempt him away from his faith. In fact, at one point in Gustav Flaubert's "The Temptations of Saint Anthony," the Devil literally asks Anthony "Would the desire of thy mind create the law of the universe?" That's LITERALLY the foundational tenet of Aleister Crowley's Book of the Law: "Do what Thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law." But the purpose was to bait him into punishment.

The demon Crowley is a hermit on earth - his only real contact is Aziraphale, and he too is pursued by the forces of Hell at every turn. This is why his apartment is so perfectly unlived in. All of the things he has littered about are temptations into that philosophy of free will - he even mentions that he thinks his computer is "something a human like him" would like. He's desperate to interact with it but is hindered by his own fear.

In Good Omens, we see the forces of Hell constantly hound Crowley to the point he barely has a moment alone. And it's stated that he actively fears Hell's retribution.

If this is true, then that means that the demon Crowley is at odds with his own philosophy. The primary name he uses is the one that signifies his desire - free will. And his first name is what hinders him - shame. It makes way too much sense. Crowley is terrified of Hell all throughout the Good Omens book. Punishment is a very real threat. It makes sense that he would be afraid to embrace the concept of free will.

Also, Saint Anthony has two-fold aspects appear to him. One is desirable, one is terrifying. So if Hell is what's terrifying, then what would be desirable? My theory is that it's Aziraphale. We see that Aziraphale is a hedonist and a sinner - it would only make sense that he was Crowley's tempter.

This makes even more sense when you think of how Aleister Crowley's philosophy first came about. He claims it was dictated to him by his own personal guardian angel - an angel named Aiwass.

We see this happen in the plain text of Good Omens! Aziraphale is the first person to bring up the merits of free will to Crowley! He plants the idea into his head!! So if Aziraphale is the Aiwass to Crowley, I think it'd be fair to say that he is also the Tempter to Saint Anthony! It's too perfect to be coincidental.

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I’ve never posted fanfic before but the end of Good Omens has put the fire under my ass to do so. Please take this humble offering, Good Omens Fandom.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[imgoblinart]

I’ve never posted fanfic before but the end of Good Omens has put the fire under my ass to do so. Please take this humble offering, Good Omens Fandom.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[st0rmy-fr]

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No Drop Shall Be Wasted

CW: gritty vampire story, so beware of themes of torture and emotional manipulation and blood.

Life on the northwestern shores of Quel’Thalas, bordering the Eversong Forest, was a simple but pleasurable one. The white sands were always sun-warmed and welcoming, and the sea was filled with bounty. Nestled on those shores, near the Sunsail Anchorage, was a small fishing village. Fishermen and traders alike spent their long days tending to their nets, sailing in to bring fish to shore, weaving baskets and salting their catches for storage and trade with nearby villages or in Silvermoon. A simple, but pleasurable life. When the day’s work was done however, the fisherman would haul up their empty nets to dry, and bring their shares home to their families. One such elf, however, had no family in the village to call his own, and so he often found himself looking out to the Great Sea when he was alone, wondering what lay beyond it.

An Exile from Silvermoon, ‘Twas had found himself in the care of these simple fishermen when he stumbled out onto the beach, dehydrated and covered in blood, beaten black and blue and missing the tips of his ears. After being nursed back to health, ‘Twas decided it was safer to live a simple life, and remained with the fisherman for many decades. In the years he spent there, while he was far from his family, the fisherman and their families were his new home. He enjoyed watching the sunset over the waves, feeling the cooling waters wash over his legs. He had no cares except to rise with the sun, bring in his catch, and tend to his nets when the day was done. And so when the fishermen retired to their homes at night, to be with their spouses and children, ‘Twas walked the shores by himself, looking out to sea as he tried not to long for the family he had lost.

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On certain days however, the fishermen would gather their best catches, and pack a cart to bring to Silvermoon City to sell them in the Bazaar. ‘Twas was remiss to ever enter the city himself, but he would always see the wagon halfway there, walking alongside it on the road.

On one such day, when the Sun was high in the sky, and the flowers of Eversong Woods were fragrant, ‘Twas accompanied the fishermen’s cart with a bag of salted and dried fish over his shoulder. There was something heavy and dark in the air, unseen but felt by the elf. Only a short ways from the city, ‘Twas urged his cohorts to stop a moment, and listen. As they paused their trek, annoyed but relenting, ‘Twas and the fishermen turned their ears to the air, looking back the way they had come. Across the river they had just passed, a dark cloud of Death and Horror was fording through the water. An army of undead, hungry and clawing at its master’s heels, was fast approaching.

‘Twas pushed his friends to leave the cart and their catch, and to flee to the city’s Shepherd’s Gate as fast as they could. Their hawkstrider’s were unhitched from the wagon as those that could fit together clambered onto their backs, and those that couldn’t were forced to stay on foot. ‘Twas had always been fast of foot, and while he was terrified that he would meet death in a Silvermoon, his former home, he would rather meet it there than on the road, at the mercy of an undead horde.

Together they escaped the horde, narrowly making into the Shepherd’s Gate alongside dozens more frantic elven citizens. Guards with tall tower shields and gleaming spears ushered them inside, their terrified visages hidden by their winged helms. The gates were shut, and soon after, panicked voices and slamming fists could be heard on the other side. Families clung to one another, counting their children in the hopes that none were left outside. ‘Twas was outraged by the barbarism of leaving more kin to fend for themselves, but his fellow fishermen urged him to keep his head down, lest he be recognized. Panicking and arguing ensued amongst the scared masses of tradesmen and simple folk, as all at once the din outside the gates ceased. A new, more terrifying noise settled in, as something large on the other side began to try and pry the doors apart.

The trampling horde of frightened elves began to flock deeper into the city, pushing past one another for any attempt to get to safety before the rest, leaving many with bruises and torn clothes as they went. ‘Twas was thrown around by the throng, separated from his companions in the frantic upheaval, covered in sweat and dirt from the cobble roads. It wasn’t long before masses of starving undead flooded Silvermoon City’s streets, and the crowds of lowborn elves were torn to shreds. ‘Twas broke off from the pack, unable to find the fishermen that had saved him many years ago in the panic, and took up a loose heavy brick from the floor as his only weapon of defense. He fled deeper into the city, face dirtied and bloodied and hopefully obscured from recognition, as he looked for a safe alcove to hide. Screams ricocheted off the tall gleaming walls, as the light of the Sun choked by burning smoke turned white towers into long, bloodstained fangs.

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Exhausted, heart pounding, and overwhelmed with grief and fear, ‘Twas wanted to do nothing more than to lay in the tiled streets of the Court of the Sun, even if that meant the hungry churning mass of Undeath would swallow him whole. More panicked elven citizens began to fill the Court, as they all tried to rush to their homes for safety. ‘Twas braced himself against the fountain, watching with slow dawning horror as richly dressed and panicked nobles were sundered by wretched knights in black suits of armor wielding weapons with wicked blades. Some were pounced upon by half-decayed ghouls, whose maws dripped with blood and saliva, while others were only brought low, but not slain. ‘Twas forced his legs beneath him once more, attempting to flee the massacre, but tripped over the scattered debris that littered the streets alongside bodies. The horrid knights and their rotting entourage all turned their focus to him, the last man standing in the bloodbath. ‘Twas could barely utter a scream before he was ambushed. Before the world went dark around him, he could have sworn the knights and their ghouls had pointed ears.

Time unknown began to pass, hours or days spent in darkness. Little by little, ‘Twas’ consciousness returned to him, but light did not. The floor beneath him was hard, cold, and dirty, smelling of refuse and sweet rot. Voices murmured and cried all around him, forced into silent whispers in the absence of the ability to scream. Whatever walls in the chamber were unseen, and the only visible light was that cast by pairs of eyes in hues of blue, indigo, and purple. Dozens upon dozens of elves— Quel’dorei like ‘Twas —had been spared one wretched fate, for another. Heaving and shuddering bodies were packed tightly together in the darkness, all alive, but wounded and traumatized. ‘Twas hugged his arms to himself, curling into a ball as he rested on the dirty floor. But he did not scream, and he did not cry. He couldn’t be sure he was alive, but if he was, he knew he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Just as the darkness began to stretch its fingers around ‘Twas’ mind, the cries of his kin deafening his ears, a silence fell upon the throng like a heavy black veil. Light filtered into the room, faintly visible, but harsh enough in the darkness that it burned to observe. A crimson aura entered the chamber, as a black cluster of figures began to weave through the masses like an adder. Rather than parting, the desperate masses swarmed and crawled along the ground, fawning and bowing at the feet of the heavy robed figures. The din of their frantic please gave form to bargaining and begging: “Please take all the gold you will, just let me go,” “Take me, just spare my family,” “Take my wife and my children but spare me.” But the robed figures said nothing, and moved in silence, uninhibited by the bodies throwing themselves in their path.

As the figures walked through the throng however— their captors, their saviors —there were times when they would halt before one elf in the pack. ‘Twas watched as the black curtain would part, and lithe, graceful hands would extend a dark goblet from within, stretching to offer it down to the Quel’dorei at their feet. One by one, the veiled figures would stop before elves, seemingly at random, and offer them that same goblet to drink. And one by one, the elf in question would take it in hungry, grasping hands, famished as they lapped at it, liquid spilling down their chins, but never depleting the chalice.  

While other elves pleaded for their lives, for a chance at even tasting a drop from that chalice, ‘Twas merely watched in dazed fascination, at the grace with which the robed figures traversed the rancid chamber, and how his kin would claw and push over one another to get to them. As ‘Twas banished any hope that he would be approached, longing to lay in the dirt and refuse and close his eyes one final time, a pale, blemish-free hand, adorned in rings of glittering gemstones, extended to him the black goblet from which select of his kin had been chosen to drink from. He turned his azure eyes up at the empty, vacant black veils in thanks, swearing he saw flashes of crimson behind the fabric, and spared no thought for what was in the chalice.

Something as dark and red and sweet as wine filled his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in its coolness. But as he withdrew his lips after nothing more than a sip, the rich taste gave way to something mealy and metallic. Nevertheless, a warmth filled ‘Twas’ chest and gullet, and he felt full and satisfied as the black robes once again drifted back into the mass. ‘Twas wiped his mouth, licking the wine from his fingers, and once more laid in the dirt, content.

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More time passed. Hours or days, it was uncertain in the dark. The figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, and once more the chamber was swallowed into the belly of darkness. The pleading cries of elven men and women quieted again, only occasionally disturbed by coughs and sputters, or arguing over why no one had thought to share their drink. Soon, more hacking and heaving punctuated the air, joined by quiet murmurings of fear. Panic once more gripped the gathered elves as their neighbors began to fall ill, weak and sluggish.

‘Twas himself too, found that the energy and warmth that had entered his body upon drinking, was beginning to leave him. His stomach cried, burning and wrenching like something in it was trying to escape, or to tear at its empty confines. His bones ached, ricocheting pain throbbed throughout his skull, like it was being stretched and crushed. The nails in his fingers felt as though they would fall out, the tips of them bloody and raw. His long raven black hair fell from his head in chunks, slipping through his torn fingers like sand, leaving uneven hairless patches along his scalp. The pain was immeasurable, the torment unending. Elves screamed in horror between fits of pitching and heaving, outrage filtering through the ranks that whatever had been given to them had started a contagious illness.

As more time passed, those affected finally felt Life leaving their bodies. ‘Twas doubled over in pain, having expelled every last drop of energy from his body, drooling as his gums bled. At long last, as he lay on the dirty floor, the strength he had used to cling to life so desperately was waning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all of these years, he’d have the chance to see his family again. As his eyelids shut, he could hear the sounds of screams being clipped short, and the ripping of clothing; but all that colored ‘Twas’ vision was the blurry, half-remembered face of his mother.

But Death did not come for the waiting elf, at least, not in the form he envisioned. Consciousness left ‘Twas, as cacophony and chaos erupted around him. Elves whose eyes had gone dark as they succumbed to the sickness, suddenly rose to their feet once more in the dark. Like starving beasts, they stalked the prey they had been locked away with. In mere moments, the once sickly elves pounced on one another, violently rending into those that were left defenseless. In the dark, ‘Twas eyes snapped awake, and rather than blackness, he could see the forms of every elf clearly before him in startling light. No screams were heard in his ears, only the pounding of a thousand drumbeats, the anxious breaths of strained lungs, the rushing of blood like water. 

Those that had drunk from the dark chalice were elves no longer, and were instead something new and twisted, something no longer living. Like blades of grass meeting a finer, sharper one, those found lacking were cut down readily and feasted upon by the predators let loose amongst them. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with blood and silence. Some of the hungry new creatures warred with one another over their kills, others writhed in the ecstasy of drinking their fill. 

Crimson light, sourceless and radiant, once more bathed the chamber with illumination, as the figures in robes made their entrance. The survivors of the onslaught lifted their crimson stares to look upon the black robes, as they cast off their veils. Pale elves, dripping with jewels and finery, beautiful and resplendent, waded amongst their new children, this time showered with praise and thanks for their mercy. These regal pale creatures raised their voices, gathering the hungry to them as they said:

“Noble Blood of Quel’Thalas, look well upon the heralds of your New Empire, now that you have tasted the blood of the Old. We are the Princes and Princesses of a new order, and you are our Precious Children. No drop of Precious Blood shall be wasted, and no cup of Lesser Blood shall go undrunk, for we will drain the world of all it’s riches, and build our walls with their iron, for we are the Darkfallen San’layn.”

The throngs of new Darkfallen erupted into cheers and adulation, praising their new masters, enthusiastic to take up new mantels of power. ‘Twas watched in silent horror, observing the new monsters surrounding him, the new monster he had become. In the dark, he could not see the faces of the elves around them, or see their garments; he could only hear their desperate bargaining. Now, as the pitch darkness parted for his new eyes, he saw the true faces of the men and women around him. Magisters, lords and ladies, tacticians and knights, the Nobility of Quel’Thalas, rounded up like animals in a pen, having been starved in a barren room, brought low by animalistic nature, now given way to their hungry selfish desires with new and terrifying power. He knew the looks in their crimson eyes well; he had seen it in the faces of the men that had exiled him from Silvermoon City decades ago, as they severed the pointed tips of his ears, and beat him bloody.

An ear splitting wail pierced the room, as ‘Twas fell to his knees on the filthy blood splattered floor, and wept. A sea of pitiless crimson eyes turned to him then, staring with craven annoyance. One of the San’layn Masters surged forward, striking ‘Twas across the face and sending him to the ground. He groveled at their feet, weeping and beating his fists on the floor, not begging for forgiveness or mercy, but lamenting that he had slaughtered and fed upon the living, that he had been ripped from the world he knew to become a monster. The San’layn looked amongst themselves, and then the groveling ‘Twas, and realized that the clothing he wore was not like their own, finery covered in filth from their conditions, but rather hand-me-down rags, clothing of a simple life with simple means. The San’layn Masters fell to bickering, pointing accusatory fingers. “Who has done this? Who has brought this lowborn into our midst? Who has wasted Blood on the unworthy?”

As the San’layn argued, one among them strode forward, and grasped ‘Twas’ face in her black claws. His wailing quieted as bloody tears streamed down his squashed cheeks, staring up into the shadowed face of the San’layn before him. He was twisted this way and that, as his features were examined, and found wanting.

“Is this not the Magister Eidolon Skygaze? Does he not posses his likeness?” One San’layn argued.

“If so, then why are his clothes ragged and homely? What has become of the real magister?” Another postured.

“Silence,” the San’layn spoke, grasping ‘Twas in her fingers as though he were nothing but a dry and moldy hunk of bread at a feast, “calm yourselves and your sniveling. What is done is done, and cannot be undone. No drop shall be wasted… this is our dark rebirth. If one of lesser birth has been brought into our fold, it would not do to waste the gift that was given.”

“Let me take him,” she argued, as ‘Twas struggled to see her features even with renewed vision, “he is not noble by birth, but he can become noble by bearing. This one can be made useful, if not as a Prince or Lord, then as a Thrall, a tool of our Crimson Court.”

The San’layn Masters and their new lordlings murmured in agreement, jeering and grinning as ‘Twas was dragged off, black claws dug into the flesh of his patchy scalp. He cried and thrashed, resisting his newfound destiny, rejecting the gift that was bestowed.

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While the other newborn Darkfallen were claimed by various houses, stripped of their tattered finery and bathed anew in lavish excess, ‘Twas’ mistaken identity slotted him for a harsher rebirth beneath the Scourge. Instead of richly adorned quarters, ‘Twas’ new home was a cell. Instead of glittering jewelry, his new trappings were iron chains and manacles. Where the hungry nobility acquiesced to their masters’ demands, ‘Twas spat in their faces, the sorrow for such wanton destruction renewed with the vigor of his dark rebirth. He rejected nobility, living or dead, and all that they stood for, for what they had done to him so many years ago, leaving him an exile because of his bastard birth.

But where there was resistance, ‘Twas was met with reprimand. Disobedience was punished severely, with higher tolls than just death. Failing to comply, rejecting blood when offered, was met with torturous treatment, the scars of such riddling every inch of his flesh as his skin was flayed then healed. Bumbling through the artistry and poise demanded of him at court, meant he would be made to drink his fill once left famished, only for bloodletting to drain him of the crimson prize he had taken.

Years passed, following the bloody fall of Silvermoon City, and the corruption of the Sunwell. Years passed, with ‘Twas in the shadowy clutches of the Crimson Court. Eventually, the beatings and bloodletting slowed, as ‘Twas swallowed the poison fed to him, along with his hatred, and became the tool he was meant to become. ‘Twas had become a master of all things courtly; not a noble by birth, but a noble by rearing. He was transformed, and had become a scholar, an artist, as well as an assassin. He excelled where other men of lesser birth would have failed, hiding the scars inflicted by his rearing and failed birth with the talents and bearing he had been taught. ‘Twas was no longer a simple fisherman, or exile from his homeland. Now, he was the Court Assassin, the clawed hand of one Lady Drelacora Sinflame, Matron of house Bloodwake, and player of the Crimson Court; the San’layn Master that had spared his life and raised him from nothingness.

A powerful magister and sorceress of fire in life, Lady Drelacora’s heart was frozen in death. She could freeze the blood in her enemies veins, wield the frigid iron within like daggers, and paralyze her opponents where they stood. Hemomantic and Cryomantic energies in equal measure made her a fearsome opponent, both in the setting of Court, and on the battlefield. As beautiful as she was, radiant and pale, she was not without blemish. The Lady Sinflame had once tasted the burning hands of zealous Paladin of the Silver Hand, who’s Light ate away at her flesh, leaving the right side of her face burned and cracked, her eye useless and unglowing. This scar she wore with honor, her beauty hardly disfigured, as she wanted her kin to know who their true enemy was, and what the Scourge stood to eradicate.

While the San’layn played at the Crimson Court, living in excess and vying for one another’s power, Lady Drelacora also trained her pet to pick off the weakest links in the chain; to secure new alliances, and shift the dynamics of the old. ‘Twas’ view of the nobles around him was ruthless and honed, and though he was beneath the heel of his Matron, she trusted his judgement.

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One such alliance, chosen to be beneficial to Drelacora and House Bloodwake, was securing the hand of a military leader with mighty martial prowess, as well as scholarly talent. Lord Crealis Redgorget, the General of the Bloody Brigade, a San’layn who’s artistry on the battlefield made him an easy choice to educate the Lich King’s Death Knights in the ways of Hemomancy, wielding blood as a weapon. Lord Crealis was a man of impressive stature, chiseled features framed intense eyes that could cut an army down to size in but a glance. A tactician’s sheer brilliance, a warrior’s hulking physique, and a lord’s humorous silver tongue; no better match could have been chosen to wear the crown of House Bloodwake.

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And at their command, an assassin of shadowy renown. A lowborn, who only spoke when spoken too, who stalked silently and unseen through the crowds, even in full view. ‘Twas the Nightslain, who had been plucked from nothing, and shined into something new and sharp, like a reforged blade. His rapier was saved for those at Court who could not measure up to their Master’s demands, as well as those Light-Fearing Paladins that bore down upon the Crimson Court’s fledgling empire in the Frozen North. Blood and Blade were bent to ‘Twas’ will as easily as leaves, as he followed the instructions of his Matron, Masked and Muzzled, like a wolf on a leash.

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Appearances at Court were seldom by Lady Drelacora, the Blood Matron choosing rather to send her second in command. But in celebration of another successful acquisition of territory in Northrend’s Borean Tundra, the San’layn Princes and Lordlings were drawn from their domains to partake in the revelry. Drelacora flaunted the tactician whose arm she hung off of, striking emerald green envy into the black hearts of all the Darkfallen who beheld her. The General Redgorget sneered instead of smiling at those they passed, shifting his weight in discomfort for having been unarmed, and unarmored.

Neutrality was all that ‘Twas felt, as he broke from his Matron’s side to cling to the shadows. A sharpened gaze and impassive visage took in the lavish decor and sycophantic nobles from a shaded perch. He could do nothing but watch and listen, not permitted to speak unless addressed, not permitted to drink unless offered. It was rude to take what was not his, just as it was rude to refuse a drink offered in charity; both would lead to dire consequences, at the hand of his Matron.

The Ballroom of the Crimson Court was filled with music, gem-encrusted bodies swaying along as if possessed. Chalices of ruby liquid were drained and set aside, as hands found their partners and took to the floor. ‘Twas watched with impartiality and numb observance as Lady Drelacora ushered her stilted partner to the floor, Lord Crealis following her whims with some hidden reluctance. But the Lady Sinflame cared not, as the pair of them joined the others throwing their bodies together in dance. All on the floor watched in awe as the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake took to the floor, Lord Crealis’ commanding and fearsome presence parting a clearing for just the two of them. How graceful and light Lady Drelacora was in Lord Crealis’ hands, as he spun her about like a top. A smirk crossed the Lord’s unshaven features as Lady Drelacora giggled in delight, draped down and bending at the waist, throwing her pale head back with a beaming smile.

All in attendance at the Crimson Court paused to observe the pair as they danced.

They were beautiful.

They were deadly.

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Whispers filtered through the chattering San’layn as they left the floor to return to their alcoves of drinking and gossip; House Bloodwake cut a fearsome figure amongst the Court this night, as the Matron’s new right hand was displayed so proudly and openly. ‘Twas listened to their honeyed words of approval and fear over the rapture of cello and organ, taking note of who would be willing to follow his House. As the San’layn— and therefore the Scourge —increased in power, ‘Twas found with some degree of dissatisfaction that he was no longer as useful a tool as he had once been. If celebrations like this were to be had more once the Scourge was successful, what use had he as a blade? He could speak and play at court as well as the rest of them, but what was the point if he had no mouth?

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The assassin found himself growing restless, and pushed away from his perch to stalk the halls once more, as the band struck up another dance. He did not see Lady Drelacora break off from her political partner, nor did he see the Lord Redgorget’s approach. ‘Twas had scarcely begun to stalk the outskirts of the dance before Lord Crealis gently caught him by the arm. The assassin turned, poised for cutting remarks and even more cutting blades, a hand drifting to his sheathed rapier, before he met the eye of the Lord.

“You seem to be sulking more than I tonight,” the Lord said, addressing ‘Twas with ease and informality, “if I am intruding upon your work for the Lady, I beg your pardon, but I finally have a moment to myself, and I’ve noticed that you seem to only have yourself.”

A softer, more melodious theme played over the ballroom floor, as again more Darkfallen paired off, this time for a more rigid, organized dance. ‘Twas made no move to respond, watching the Lord speak with curiosity. Lord Crealis looked to the floor, then back to his silent conversation partner, and with tremendous care, bowed his head of faded amber towards ‘Twas, extending his hand to say “if you will not speak, then indulge me a moment, and let’s meet on the floor for one last dance. Then I think, we’ll both have had our fill of this garish place.”

‘Twas lifted his chin, head cocked inquisitively, as he timidly obliged the Lord with healthy suspicion. Side by side, but not hand in hand, ‘Twas and Lord Crealis entered the floor once more, a gaggle of whispers surrounding them like leeches in a lake. Crimson eyes watched with wonder as the Lord moved with his House Assassin as though he were an equal, one of higher standing like himself. For once, ‘Twas cared not for the words muttered by the prying nobility, nor for the looks of scorn they threw him. 

‘Twas had been educated in many a dance, learning every move and position under threat of deprivation, and as such, fell easily into the steps of the dance alongside Lord Crealis. The Lord moved with sudden rigidity compared to that of his dance with Lady Drelacora, his brows pinched in thought, one hand wrapped in a fist. But the pair fell into slow, easy step around one another, stalking the floor in circles with palms raised, a whisper of touch implied.

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“I don’t remember this dance very well. Do you?” The Lord asked, dark red eyes darting from the floor to ‘Twas’ neutral expression. 

‘Twas flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, the red iron rings and claw caps skirting the sides of Lord Crealis’ fingers. He thought for a moment, content to leave the Lord in silence for addressing him with such overfamiliarity, fearing it may be a trick. But the assassin could not help the upward quirk at one corner of his mouth, as he met his gaze and said, “perhaps too well. Follow my lead, and do as I do, and we may just leave the floor alive.”

A smile travelled the length of the Lord’s scruffy mouth, as a look of amusement painted his features upon hearing the assassin’s voice for the very first time. A laugh could do nothing to stop itself from tumbling from his lips, as quiet as it was, “I will have to trust you. But be warned, I may trip over my feet. If I fall flat on my face, leave me and save yourself.”

The dance only lasted so long, but even still, in hushed tones the Assassin and Lord traded witty remarks and verbal blows, as if they were old friends meeting each other after years apart on the battlefield. All gossip that swirled around the room fell upon their deaf ears, even after the two of them left the floor, and parted ways. 

‘Twas found that no matter what he did, the tilt of a small smile would not leave his face, even as he withdrew to the shadows once more. Though as Lady Drelacora returned to the room, her plush lips darker with the crimson jewel tones of a recent feast, Lord Crealis’ nonplused demeanor returned to him, as once more the crook of his arm became occupied. Lady Drelacora shared in the gossip, fawning with the other nobles about her match, and the wealth of opportunities their allegiance would open up. Lord Crealis would pretend to listen and nod along, trading pained and polite smiles with those he was introduced to, yet all the while, when none were looking, he would effortlessly find ‘Twas’ gaze at the far end of the crowd, peeking at the assassin from where he watched in the shadows. And at every meeting of eyes, ‘Twas would bow his head, and offer an encouraging smile, unseen by the hundreds of eyes except the Lord’s.

The night of revelry eventually drew to a close, however, as the San’layn had drunk and danced their fill. Alliances were made, bonds formed and broken, politics traded for politics. Lady Drelacora accomplished what she set out to do, territory thoroughly marked, and power clearly displayed, and so House Bloodwake returned to its manor.

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The Scourge’s war raged across Northrend, and with many victories under its heels. With new purpose bestowed upon him, the General of the Bloody Brigade withdrew from the front to spend time learning the lay of his new land. Lady Drelacora continued her ruthless pursuit of zealots, sights focused on the Argent Crusade as they marched upon the shores of Northrend, her focus turned away from her newest pet for a time. With the Lady of the House gone, ‘Twas found himself in her castle with no one to keep an eye on him. No one, of course, except the Lord Redgorget.

Unadorned, stripped of the jeweled and armored facades that they both wore, ‘Twas and Crealis met face to face once more, as they walked the spacious stone halls of Castle Bloodwake by themselves. ‘Twas was shocked to find that the fearsome and bloodthirsty general of the Scourge’s armies of Death Knights was truly not so fearsome— and Crealis was surprised that the shadowy assassin of his inherited political power had a voice and thoughts of his own, that differed from that of his Lady. Without the pressure of the Crimson Court, ‘Twas and Crealis became fast friends, united by crude humor born of their living pasts, and shared love of martial combat born of their deaths.

Days and nights were spent in deep conversation, as Crealis and ‘Twas discussed any number of topics. Philosophy, art, music, combat— even simpler things, like the coasts of Quel’Thalas, the merchants and their goods, the bawdy atmosphere of Silvermoon City’s taverns. They practiced combat, training and sparring to show strength and for amusement. Slowly, gradually, the pair found they quite enjoyed the other’s company. Without the prying eyes of other darkfallen to see them, ‘Twas and Crealis had the freedom to relax, and drop the masks that were so often demanded of them. The numbed neutrality ‘Twas found he felt for most things melted away like snow under the light of the Sun, and only did so in Crealis’ presence. The warrior and General eased upon carrying his soldier’s bearing, his guard falling moment by moment as he got to know the lowborn assassin, learning the secret mind that sat untouched behind the muzzle of courtly politeness.

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In Lady Drelacora’s continued absence, it wasn’t long before the conversations traded between the Lord and Assassin took on a softer nature. The brush of hands whilst conversing, the locking of eyes whilst passing, quiet words traded at the end of an evening. After a thousand cuts and flayings for speaking out of turn, ‘Twas had never been able to speak his mind more clearly than with Crealis. And the General used as a political stepping stone, a weapon wielded so that his “partner” could climb higher, had never been afforded such simple kindness and caring than by ‘Twas. 

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Still, it came as every shock, when Crealis confided in ‘Twas his unwillingness to return to the frontlines, if it meant leaving him to the castle, or to his work once again severing the links of weaker lordlings. More shocking still, that Crealis would set his hand so neatly about ‘Twas’ waist, as though they were dancing in that ballroom again. A fate was decided upon, chosen freely for the first time, as ‘Twas allowed himself to press his lips to Crealis’, without fear of the repercussions. Crealis held him gently, his titles as Lord or General falling away like paper armor, as he returned the kiss with wanting. In darkness and in secret, the Lord and Assassin upheld their trysts, a bond stronger than any made at Court forged between them.

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Shockwaves were felt down the chains of command amongst the San’layn, however, as rapidly, three of their most precious Princes were felled in battle by mortal heroes. Unease was palpable amongst the Darkfallen, and hollow grief was voiced at these heavy losses.

Emboldened with calming the masses, and having tasted her fill of holy blood in defense of the Scourge, Lady Drelacora returned to her manor. War was encroaching upon Icecrown’s doorstep, and the Lich King curled his fingers of rime for all his best lieutenants to return to the front. Lord Crealis was needed among them.

On the eve of Lady Drelacora’s return, a plot was hatched by Crealis’ tactical brilliance. Crealis found in the Lady’s possession a pair of earrings, forged in red iron with gleaming rubies. With an enchantment placed on them both, as long as the other wore one half of the set, ‘Twas and Crealis could communicate with each other at any distance, at any time, simply by thinking of the other. 

Crealis would return to Icecrown proper, to lead his troops against the forces amassing at his master’s door; and when Lady Drelacora returned, ‘Twas would go back to court, continuing his duties as reconnaissance and assassin, but instead turning his blade upon the most powerful at court. With the Blood Princes slain, the court was weak, and Power ripe for the taking— Lady Drelacora could hardly say no to a tactical advantage. She would get her status, and ‘Twas would take his revenge. With their plan set, and their thoughts never far from each other, ‘Twas and Crealis went their separate ways. 

One by one, players of the Crimson Court began to fall. Unease turned to panic once again, as the lordlings were filled with alarm at the deadly threat taking their allies off of the board. Unseen was ‘Twas the Nightslain, as he enacted brutal Justice against the bloodsuckers that had played roles in his tragedy. All the years of anger and hatred swallowed in favor of survival were unleashed in bloody slaughter, as ‘Twas inflicted wounds akin to the scars he bore from countless hours of torture, much to the amusement of ‘Twas’ Matron. Drelacora’s day would come, one way or another, even if she sat at the highest seat of power when it did.

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With every powerful San’layn ‘Twas cut down, though his Matron’s political power grew, so too did his strength. No drop of precious blood was spilt, as ‘Twas siphoned the blood of the chosen nobility into his own, the iron in their blood strengthening his blade. Whispers of a Fangslayer dispersed through the remaining noble houses, said with fear and distrust. All the while, Lady Drelacora beamed with pride, her role as a Blood Princess all but secured.

Word carried across the channels that Court would be amassing once again— this time in Icecrown Citadel. The fabled ruler of the darkfallen, Blood Queen Lana’thel, could not risk more precious blood being spilt, and called for all her subjects to join her in protecting the Lich King’s sanctum. Lady Drelacora, who’s house had risen cleanly through the ranks as others were disposed, was giddy and sycophantic at the opportunity, when Lord Crealis arrived from the front to return word to her *personally*.

The time to strike at the serpent’s head was drawing nearer. Crealis’ return brought news from the Front, but it also brought reinforcements. Lady Drelacora happily took up her place pressed against the Lord’s side once more, cloyingly sweet as she vied for his attention. But more planning was done in secret, as the Lady could not read the thoughts behind the Lord’s eyes; ‘Twas’ Fangslayer would taste the Matron’s blood soon, and he would have a General’s aid.

Lavish we’re the Lady Sinflame’s personal quarters; almost a mansion in their own right from sheer volume, her chambers were a sanctum of magic, as well as a gaudy and rich sprawl of creature comforts and wealth. The stage was set, on the day before the House was to depart for a Icecrown Citadel; Lady Drelacora would take Crealis to bed, unaware that he had hidden his weapons in her chambers, and ‘Twas would wake her and weaken her for his final strike. 

‘Twas stalked the halls with a predator’s quiet, slinking through the Lady’s rich bedchambers at a snail’s pace. His life, and that of his now lover’s, rested on the edge of a knife; if he could not kill Drelacora, they would never be free. The assassin held his breath as he pressed his back against the wall, seeing that Lady Drelacora had already been awoken, and was moving to wander the halls. There was no time to doubt his strikes, as ‘Twas dropped from his perch and thrusted his blade of red iron through the back of the Matron.

Drelacora screamed in pain and outrage, head turning like a snake’s as her pale hair whipped about her like a twirling skirt, body contorting strangely beneath her nightdress. Perfectly manicured hands, unblemished and fair, elongated and stretched as long, deadly black claws took their place. Her neck continued to lengthen as veins spiderwebbed across her skin, down her arms and shoulders, covering her bare legs, as though she was stripped of all moisture. Her elven fangs only elongated into daggers, jaw unhinged as her eyes opened to a feral intensity. ‘Twas was thrown back from engagement with her by the beat of two leathery wings, the fingers of them seemingly growing from her back as they extended and flapped outward.

“How dare you defy me,” the Blood Matron screamed, voice rattled and frayed in rage, “how dare you reject the gifts I have given you like this!”

The red blade in ‘Twas’ hands was wreathed in crimson, the Lady’s blood begining to glow a horrible light as it encircled the blade like thorns. A clawed hand wrenched the mask from ‘Twas’ face, tossing the courtly muzzle aside as he grinned with fiendish satisfaction at the wounded Matron. “I’ll see too it, that not a drop of our precious blood shall be wasted. Your power will be put to good use.”

The Matron’s scream made the very stone walls tremble like trees in a gale. Shards of ice and rime, wreathed with blood that roiled and rippled like tongues of fire, manifested from the outstretched palms of Drelacora’s hands. Hail and iron rained down upon ‘Twas, thrown with all the fury of a mother betrayed. But no strike met its mark, as ‘Twas danced and twirled around each volley of icicles, keeping the Matron’s attention solely focused on him. All the while she shrieked in rage, her sinewy and dehydrated flesh pulling taught as she conjured larger and larger showers of crystallized blood, sacrificing more and more of her energy.  

Drelacora’s anger was as great and frigid as her magic, her heart as cold and black as ice; but her Power was Finite, and she would exhaust her blood trying to strike ‘Twas down. Melting ice littered the floor, blood flaked off and turned to blackened dust, the mana within expended, as ‘Twas parried and evaded every attack. The once beautiful Matron of House Bloodwake was twisted beyond recognition, her features gaunt and exaggerated, bones poking through her thin white skin at odd angles. Stringy white hair streaked with black fell from her scalp as she panted, fanged jaw agape and eyes blazing with fury. The Matron was nothing more than an animal now, driven to desperation and bloodlust, just as ‘Twas and the other newborn darkfallen had been starved and deprived and made to turn upon one another.

“You wretch, you wastrel,” Drelacora hissed, “you were never meant to be one of the Master’s chosen, you were never meant to be.”

‘Twas twirled his blade with grim contentment, satisfied that he need not even strike more than once to bring his adversary to her knees. “Perhaps the Master should have chosen more carefully then, if a lowborn was able to bring you so low.”

The assassin poised his crimson-wreathed blade, alight with all the blood of the Crimson Court within it, as Crealis emerged from the shadows, the head of his mace raised high above his head. Lady Sinflame was rent asunder, her heart pieced through with the blade of her trusted assassin, and visage destroyed by the hand of her consort. Together, ‘Twas and Crealis ended the unlife of one of the Crimson Court’s most viscous and bloodthirsty players. At last, House Bloodwake was no more, and as Argent Crusade troops marched on Icecrown Citadel, soon the rest of the San’layn would fall.

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But there was no time for celebration, no time to breathe and reflect. The blood of the fallen Matron shown with intensity in Crealis’ eyes, as an animalistic snarl like her own replaced his relieved features. He stalked towards ‘Twas with purpose, and made to swing the head of his mace for the Assassin’s face. ‘Twas barely had enough time to throw his rapier up to block the attack, using all the strength he had to keep him at bay. 

‘Twas’ ears pinned against the sides of his head, eyes wide. “Crealis? It’s over, she’s dead, this is no time for games— what are you doing?”

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“What I should have done ages ago,” the General growled, the hardness of his voice sounding foreign to ‘Twas’ ears, “ending the line, once and for all; no memory of House Bloodwake’s disgrace must stand to tarnish the Master’s name.”

‘Twas parried his mace, throwing it aside with the blade of his rapier as he retreated. “None will remember the House, Crealis, we’re free! Free of her and free of the Lich King! Stop this!!”

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But he did not heed, instead a bestial shout leaving his lips. ‘Twas found he could no longer recognize the man before him, instead only seeing the power hungry and ruthless General of the Scourge that the Court had fabled him to be. A heavy hand, once gentle in its approach, swung again to press the attack on ‘Twas and to render him broken and bloody. Without hesitation, as True Death stared ‘Twas in the face, the assassin ran the mad general through with his blade, pushing it deeper and deeper until his hands around the hilt met Crealis’ flesh.

The Lord’s snarling expression dropped, and all of the strength in his legs melted away like the ice decorating the floor. ‘Twas cried out in dismay as Crealis’ body slumped overtop of him, forcing them both to the floor. Cooled blood gushed over ‘Twas’ hands, as he did not free the blade from his lover’s abdomen, sitting in the pool with his body draped over him. Crimson tears poured from ‘Twas’ eyes, as he screamed at what he had done, fists balled up and beating ineffectually at Crealis’ arms to wake him.

And there ‘Twas stayed, for untold hours, weeping into the crook of his lover’s neck, and cursing his foolishness, the trust he’d placed in him.

All the while unaware, that this was far from the end of their tale.

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‘Twas left the sundered bodies of the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake where they rested, only bothering to put Crealis onto his back, and fold his hands over his chest. He fled the castle soon after. Word from the Citadel soon reached his ears, that the Blood Queen was dead, as well as the Lich King and his greatest generals. The empire of the Darkfallen would scatter to the far winds, cutting their losses and fading into obscurity to protect their egos. With numb determination, ‘Twas vowed to hunt as many of them as he could, to end their precious bloodlines once and for all.

When all was said and done, the Lich King slain, ‘Twas knew there was nothing for him left in Northrend. With spell craft, ‘Twas obscured the battlescars left upon him by the Crimson Court, as well as the signs of his Undeath. His kind would be feared and reviled wherever he travelled, but he would never cease to eradicate those born of his dark rebirth, his brothers and sisters in the San’layn. ‘Twas stole away on a ship bound for leaving the Frozen North, pulling his cloak tight about himself, as he looked out to the Great Sea, and wondered what lay beyond it.

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No Drop Shall Be Wasted

CW: gritty vampire story, so beware of themes of torture and emotional manipulation and blood.

Life on the northwestern shores of Quel’Thalas, bordering the Eversong Forest, was a simple but pleasurable one. The white sands were always sun-warmed and welcoming, and the sea was filled with bounty. Nestled on those shores, near the Sunsail Anchorage, was a small fishing village. Fishermen and traders alike spent their long days tending to their nets, sailing in to bring fish to shore, weaving baskets and salting their catches for storage and trade with nearby villages or in Silvermoon. A simple, but pleasurable life. When the day’s work was done however, the fisherman would haul up their empty nets to dry, and bring their shares home to their families. One such elf, however, had no family in the village to call his own, and so he often found himself looking out to the Great Sea when he was alone, wondering what lay beyond it.

An Exile from Silvermoon, ‘Twas had found himself in the care of these simple fishermen when he stumbled out onto the beach, dehydrated and covered in blood, beaten black and blue and missing the tips of his ears. After being nursed back to health, ‘Twas decided it was safer to live a simple life, and remained with the fisherman for many decades. In the years he spent there, while he was far from his family, the fisherman and their families were his new home. He enjoyed watching the sunset over the waves, feeling the cooling waters wash over his legs. He had no cares except to rise with the sun, bring in his catch, and tend to his nets when the day was done. And so when the fishermen retired to their homes at night, to be with their spouses and children, ‘Twas walked the shores by himself, looking out to sea as he tried not to long for the family he had lost.

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On certain days however, the fishermen would gather their best catches, and pack a cart to bring to Silvermoon City to sell them in the Bazaar. ‘Twas was remiss to ever enter the city himself, but he would always see the wagon halfway there, walking alongside it on the road.

On one such day, when the Sun was high in the sky, and the flowers of Eversong Woods were fragrant, ‘Twas accompanied the fishermen’s cart with a bag of salted and dried fish over his shoulder. There was something heavy and dark in the air, unseen but felt by the elf. Only a short ways from the city, ‘Twas urged his cohorts to stop a moment, and listen. As they paused their trek, annoyed but relenting, ‘Twas and the fishermen turned their ears to the air, looking back the way they had come. Across the river they had just passed, a dark cloud of Death and Horror was fording through the water. An army of undead, hungry and clawing at its master’s heels, was fast approaching.

‘Twas pushed his friends to leave the cart and their catch, and to flee to the city’s Shepherd’s Gate as fast as they could. Their hawkstrider’s were unhitched from the wagon as those that could fit together clambered onto their backs, and those that couldn’t were forced to stay on foot. ‘Twas had always been fast of foot, and while he was terrified that he would meet death in a Silvermoon, his former home, he would rather meet it there than on the road, at the mercy of an undead horde.

Together they escaped the horde, narrowly making into the Shepherd’s Gate alongside dozens more frantic elven citizens. Guards with tall tower shields and gleaming spears ushered them inside, their terrified visages hidden by their winged helms. The gates were shut, and soon after, panicked voices and slamming fists could be heard on the other side. Families clung to one another, counting their children in the hopes that none were left outside. ‘Twas was outraged by the barbarism of leaving more kin to fend for themselves, but his fellow fishermen urged him to keep his head down, lest he be recognized. Panicking and arguing ensued amongst the scared masses of tradesmen and simple folk, as all at once the din outside the gates ceased. A new, more terrifying noise settled in, as something large on the other side began to try and pry the doors apart.

The trampling horde of frightened elves began to flock deeper into the city, pushing past one another for any attempt to get to safety before the rest, leaving many with bruises and torn clothes as they went. ‘Twas was thrown around by the throng, separated from his companions in the frantic upheaval, covered in sweat and dirt from the cobble roads. It wasn’t long before masses of starving undead flooded Silvermoon City’s streets, and the crowds of lowborn elves were torn to shreds. ‘Twas broke off from the pack, unable to find the fishermen that had saved him many years ago in the panic, and took up a loose heavy brick from the floor as his only weapon of defense. He fled deeper into the city, face dirtied and bloodied and hopefully obscured from recognition, as he looked for a safe alcove to hide. Screams ricocheted off the tall gleaming walls, as the light of the Sun choked by burning smoke turned white towers into long, bloodstained fangs.

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Exhausted, heart pounding, and overwhelmed with grief and fear, ‘Twas wanted to do nothing more than to lay in the tiled streets of the Court of the Sun, even if that meant the hungry churning mass of Undeath would swallow him whole. More panicked elven citizens began to fill the Court, as they all tried to rush to their homes for safety. ‘Twas braced himself against the fountain, watching with slow dawning horror as richly dressed and panicked nobles were sundered by wretched knights in black suits of armor wielding weapons with wicked blades. Some were pounced upon by half-decayed ghouls, whose maws dripped with blood and saliva, while others were only brought low, but not slain. ‘Twas forced his legs beneath him once more, attempting to flee the massacre, but tripped over the scattered debris that littered the streets alongside bodies. The horrid knights and their rotting entourage all turned their focus to him, the last man standing in the bloodbath. ‘Twas could barely utter a scream before he was ambushed. Before the world went dark around him, he could have sworn the knights and their ghouls had pointed ears.

Time unknown began to pass, hours or days spent in darkness. Little by little, ‘Twas’ consciousness returned to him, but light did not. The floor beneath him was hard, cold, and dirty, smelling of refuse and sweet rot. Voices murmured and cried all around him, forced into silent whispers in the absence of the ability to scream. Whatever walls in the chamber were unseen, and the only visible light was that cast by pairs of eyes in hues of blue, indigo, and purple. Dozens upon dozens of elves— Quel’dorei like ‘Twas —had been spared one wretched fate, for another. Heaving and shuddering bodies were packed tightly together in the darkness, all alive, but wounded and traumatized. ‘Twas hugged his arms to himself, curling into a ball as he rested on the dirty floor. But he did not scream, and he did not cry. He couldn’t be sure he was alive, but if he was, he knew he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Just as the darkness began to stretch its fingers around ‘Twas’ mind, the cries of his kin deafening his ears, a silence fell upon the throng like a heavy black veil. Light filtered into the room, faintly visible, but harsh enough in the darkness that it burned to observe. A crimson aura entered the chamber, as a black cluster of figures began to weave through the masses like an adder. Rather than parting, the desperate masses swarmed and crawled along the ground, fawning and bowing at the feet of the heavy robed figures. The din of their frantic please gave form to bargaining and begging: “Please take all the gold you will, just let me go,” “Take me, just spare my family,” “Take my wife and my children but spare me.” But the robed figures said nothing, and moved in silence, uninhibited by the bodies throwing themselves in their path.

As the figures walked through the throng however— their captors, their saviors —there were times when they would halt before one elf in the pack. ‘Twas watched as the black curtain would part, and lithe, graceful hands would extend a dark goblet from within, stretching to offer it down to the Quel’dorei at their feet. One by one, the veiled figures would stop before elves, seemingly at random, and offer them that same goblet to drink. And one by one, the elf in question would take it in hungry, grasping hands, famished as they lapped at it, liquid spilling down their chins, but never depleting the chalice.  

While other elves pleaded for their lives, for a chance at even tasting a drop from that chalice, ‘Twas merely watched in dazed fascination, at the grace with which the robed figures traversed the rancid chamber, and how his kin would claw and push over one another to get to them. As ‘Twas banished any hope that he would be approached, longing to lay in the dirt and refuse and close his eyes one final time, a pale, blemish-free hand, adorned in rings of glittering gemstones, extended to him the black goblet from which select of his kin had been chosen to drink from. He turned his azure eyes up at the empty, vacant black veils in thanks, swearing he saw flashes of crimson behind the fabric, and spared no thought for what was in the chalice.

Something as dark and red and sweet as wine filled his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in its coolness. But as he withdrew his lips after nothing more than a sip, the rich taste gave way to something mealy and metallic. Nevertheless, a warmth filled ‘Twas’ chest and gullet, and he felt full and satisfied as the black robes once again drifted back into the mass. ‘Twas wiped his mouth, licking the wine from his fingers, and once more laid in the dirt, content.

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More time passed. Hours or days, it was uncertain in the dark. The figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, and once more the chamber was swallowed into the belly of darkness. The pleading cries of elven men and women quieted again, only occasionally disturbed by coughs and sputters, or arguing over why no one had thought to share their drink. Soon, more hacking and heaving punctuated the air, joined by quiet murmurings of fear. Panic once more gripped the gathered elves as their neighbors began to fall ill, weak and sluggish.

‘Twas himself too, found that the energy and warmth that had entered his body upon drinking, was beginning to leave him. His stomach cried, burning and wrenching like something in it was trying to escape, or to tear at its empty confines. His bones ached, ricocheting pain throbbed throughout his skull, like it was being stretched and crushed. The nails in his fingers felt as though they would fall out, the tips of them bloody and raw. His long raven black hair fell from his head in chunks, slipping through his torn fingers like sand, leaving uneven hairless patches along his scalp. The pain was immeasurable, the torment unending. Elves screamed in horror between fits of pitching and heaving, outrage filtering through the ranks that whatever had been given to them had started a contagious illness.

As more time passed, those affected finally felt Life leaving their bodies. ‘Twas doubled over in pain, having expelled every last drop of energy from his body, drooling as his gums bled. At long last, as he lay on the dirty floor, the strength he had used to cling to life so desperately was waning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all of these years, he’d have the chance to see his family again. As his eyelids shut, he could hear the sounds of screams being clipped short, and the ripping of clothing; but all that colored ‘Twas’ vision was the blurry, half-remembered face of his mother.

But Death did not come for the waiting elf, at least, not in the form he envisioned. Consciousness left ‘Twas, as cacophony and chaos erupted around him. Elves whose eyes had gone dark as they succumbed to the sickness, suddenly rose to their feet once more in the dark. Like starving beasts, they stalked the prey they had been locked away with. In mere moments, the once sickly elves pounced on one another, violently rending into those that were left defenseless. In the dark, ‘Twas eyes snapped awake, and rather than blackness, he could see the forms of every elf clearly before him in startling light. No screams were heard in his ears, only the pounding of a thousand drumbeats, the anxious breaths of strained lungs, the rushing of blood like water. 

Those that had drunk from the dark chalice were elves no longer, and were instead something new and twisted, something no longer living. Like blades of grass meeting a finer, sharper one, those found lacking were cut down readily and feasted upon by the predators let loose amongst them. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with blood and silence. Some of the hungry new creatures warred with one another over their kills, others writhed in the ecstasy of drinking their fill. 

Crimson light, sourceless and radiant, once more bathed the chamber with illumination, as the figures in robes made their entrance. The survivors of the onslaught lifted their crimson stares to look upon the black robes, as they cast off their veils. Pale elves, dripping with jewels and finery, beautiful and resplendent, waded amongst their new children, this time showered with praise and thanks for their mercy. These regal pale creatures raised their voices, gathering the hungry to them as they said:

“Noble Blood of Quel’Thalas, look well upon the heralds of your New Empire, now that you have tasted the blood of the Old. We are the Princes and Princesses of a new order, and you are our Precious Children. No drop of Precious Blood shall be wasted, and no cup of Lesser Blood shall go undrunk, for we will drain the world of all it’s riches, and build our walls with their iron, for we are the Darkfallen San’layn.”

The throngs of new Darkfallen erupted into cheers and adulation, praising their new masters, enthusiastic to take up new mantels of power. ‘Twas watched in silent horror, observing the new monsters surrounding him, the new monster he had become. In the dark, he could not see the faces of the elves around them, or see their garments; he could only hear their desperate bargaining. Now, as the pitch darkness parted for his new eyes, he saw the true faces of the men and women around him. Magisters, lords and ladies, tacticians and knights, the Nobility of Quel’Thalas, rounded up like animals in a pen, having been starved in a barren room, brought low by animalistic nature, now given way to their hungry selfish desires with new and terrifying power. He knew the looks in their crimson eyes well; he had seen it in the faces of the men that had exiled him from Silvermoon City decades ago, as they severed the pointed tips of his ears, and beat him bloody.

An ear splitting wail pierced the room, as ‘Twas fell to his knees on the filthy blood splattered floor, and wept. A sea of pitiless crimson eyes turned to him then, staring with craven annoyance. One of the San’layn Masters surged forward, striking ‘Twas across the face and sending him to the ground. He groveled at their feet, weeping and beating his fists on the floor, not begging for forgiveness or mercy, but lamenting that he had slaughtered and fed upon the living, that he had been ripped from the world he knew to become a monster. The San’layn looked amongst themselves, and then the groveling ‘Twas, and realized that the clothing he wore was not like their own, finery covered in filth from their conditions, but rather hand-me-down rags, clothing of a simple life with simple means. The San’layn Masters fell to bickering, pointing accusatory fingers. “Who has done this? Who has brought this lowborn into our midst? Who has wasted Blood on the unworthy?”

As the San’layn argued, one among them strode forward, and grasped ‘Twas’ face in her black claws. His wailing quieted as bloody tears streamed down his squashed cheeks, staring up into the shadowed face of the San’layn before him. He was twisted this way and that, as his features were examined, and found wanting.

“Is this not the Magister Eidolon Skygaze? Does he not posses his likeness?” One San’layn argued.

“If so, then why are his clothes ragged and homely? What has become of the real magister?” Another postured.

“Silence,” the San’layn spoke, grasping ‘Twas in her fingers as though he were nothing but a dry and moldy hunk of bread at a feast, “calm yourselves and your sniveling. What is done is done, and cannot be undone. No drop shall be wasted… this is our dark rebirth. If one of lesser birth has been brought into our fold, it would not do to waste the gift that was given.”

“Let me take him,” she argued, as ‘Twas struggled to see her features even with renewed vision, “he is not noble by birth, but he can become noble by bearing. This one can be made useful, if not as a Prince or Lord, then as a Thrall, a tool of our Crimson Court.”

The San’layn Masters and their new lordlings murmured in agreement, jeering and grinning as ‘Twas was dragged off, black claws dug into the flesh of his patchy scalp. He cried and thrashed, resisting his newfound destiny, rejecting the gift that was bestowed.

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While the other newborn Darkfallen were claimed by various houses, stripped of their tattered finery and bathed anew in lavish excess, ‘Twas’ mistaken identity slotted him for a harsher rebirth beneath the Scourge. Instead of richly adorned quarters, ‘Twas’ new home was a cell. Instead of glittering jewelry, his new trappings were iron chains and manacles. Where the hungry nobility acquiesced to their masters’ demands, ‘Twas spat in their faces, the sorrow for such wanton destruction renewed with the vigor of his dark rebirth. He rejected nobility, living or dead, and all that they stood for, for what they had done to him so many years ago, leaving him an exile because of his bastard birth.

But where there was resistance, ‘Twas was met with reprimand. Disobedience was punished severely, with higher tolls than just death. Failing to comply, rejecting blood when offered, was met with torturous treatment, the scars of such riddling every inch of his flesh as his skin was flayed then healed. Bumbling through the artistry and poise demanded of him at court, meant he would be made to drink his fill once left famished, only for bloodletting to drain him of the crimson prize he had taken.

Years passed, following the bloody fall of Silvermoon City, and the corruption of the Sunwell. Years passed, with ‘Twas in the shadowy clutches of the Crimson Court. Eventually, the beatings and bloodletting slowed, as ‘Twas swallowed the poison fed to him, along with his hatred, and became the tool he was meant to become. ‘Twas had become a master of all things courtly; not a noble by birth, but a noble by rearing. He was transformed, and had become a scholar, an artist, as well as an assassin. He excelled where other men of lesser birth would have failed, hiding the scars inflicted by his rearing and failed birth with the talents and bearing he had been taught. ‘Twas was no longer a simple fisherman, or exile from his homeland. Now, he was the Court Assassin, the clawed hand of one Lady Drelacora Sinflame, Matron of house Bloodwake, and player of the Crimson Court; the San’layn Master that had spared his life and raised him from nothingness.

A powerful magister and sorceress of fire in life, Lady Drelacora’s heart was frozen in death. She could freeze the blood in her enemies veins, wield the frigid iron within like daggers, and paralyze her opponents where they stood. Hemomantic and Cryomantic energies in equal measure made her a fearsome opponent, both in the setting of Court, and on the battlefield. As beautiful as she was, radiant and pale, she was not without blemish. The Lady Sinflame had once tasted the burning hands of zealous Paladin of the Silver Hand, who’s Light ate away at her flesh, leaving the right side of her face burned and cracked, her eye useless and unglowing. This scar she wore with honor, her beauty hardly disfigured, as she wanted her kin to know who their true enemy was, and what the Scourge stood to eradicate.

While the San’layn played at the Crimson Court, living in excess and vying for one another’s power, Lady Drelacora also trained her pet to pick off the weakest links in the chain; to secure new alliances, and shift the dynamics of the old. ‘Twas’ view of the nobles around him was ruthless and honed, and though he was beneath the heel of his Matron, she trusted his judgement.

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One such alliance, chosen to be beneficial to Drelacora and House Bloodwake, was securing the hand of a military leader with mighty martial prowess, as well as scholarly talent. Lord Crealis Redgorget, the General of the Bloody Brigade, a San’layn who’s artistry on the battlefield made him an easy choice to educate the Lich King’s Death Knights in the ways of Hemomancy, wielding blood as a weapon. Lord Crealis was a man of impressive stature, chiseled features framed intense eyes that could cut an army down to size in but a glance. A tactician’s sheer brilliance, a warrior’s hulking physique, and a lord’s humorous silver tongue; no better match could have been chosen to wear the crown of House Bloodwake.

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And at their command, an assassin of shadowy renown. A lowborn, who only spoke when spoken too, who stalked silently and unseen through the crowds, even in full view. ‘Twas the Nightslain, who had been plucked from nothing, and shined into something new and sharp, like a reforged blade. His rapier was saved for those at Court who could not measure up to their Master’s demands, as well as those Light-Fearing Paladins that bore down upon the Crimson Court’s fledgling empire in the Frozen North. Blood and Blade were bent to ‘Twas’ will as easily as leaves, as he followed the instructions of his Matron, Masked and Muzzled, like a wolf on a leash.

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Appearances at Court were seldom by Lady Drelacora, the Blood Matron choosing rather to send her second in command. But in celebration of another successful acquisition of territory in Northrend’s Borean Tundra, the San’layn Princes and Lordlings were drawn from their domains to partake in the revelry. Drelacora flaunted the tactician whose arm she hung off of, striking emerald green envy into the black hearts of all the Darkfallen who beheld her. The General Redgorget sneered instead of smiling at those they passed, shifting his weight in discomfort for having been unarmed, and unarmored.

Neutrality was all that ‘Twas felt, as he broke from his Matron’s side to cling to the shadows. A sharpened gaze and impassive visage took in the lavish decor and sycophantic nobles from a shaded perch. He could do nothing but watch and listen, not permitted to speak unless addressed, not permitted to drink unless offered. It was rude to take what was not his, just as it was rude to refuse a drink offered in charity; both would lead to dire consequences, at the hand of his Matron.

The Ballroom of the Crimson Court was filled with music, gem-encrusted bodies swaying along as if possessed. Chalices of ruby liquid were drained and set aside, as hands found their partners and took to the floor. ‘Twas watched with impartiality and numb observance as Lady Drelacora ushered her stilted partner to the floor, Lord Crealis following her whims with some hidden reluctance. But the Lady Sinflame cared not, as the pair of them joined the others throwing their bodies together in dance. All on the floor watched in awe as the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake took to the floor, Lord Crealis’ commanding and fearsome presence parting a clearing for just the two of them. How graceful and light Lady Drelacora was in Lord Crealis’ hands, as he spun her about like a top. A smirk crossed the Lord’s unshaven features as Lady Drelacora giggled in delight, draped down and bending at the waist, throwing her pale head back with a beaming smile.

All in attendance at the Crimson Court paused to observe the pair as they danced.

They were beautiful.

They were deadly.

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Whispers filtered through the chattering San’layn as they left the floor to return to their alcoves of drinking and gossip; House Bloodwake cut a fearsome figure amongst the Court this night, as the Matron’s new right hand was displayed so proudly and openly. ‘Twas listened to their honeyed words of approval and fear over the rapture of cello and organ, taking note of who would be willing to follow his House. As the San’layn— and therefore the Scourge —increased in power, ‘Twas found with some degree of dissatisfaction that he was no longer as useful a tool as he had once been. If celebrations like this were to be had more once the Scourge was successful, what use had he as a blade? He could speak and play at court as well as the rest of them, but what was the point if he had no mouth?

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The assassin found himself growing restless, and pushed away from his perch to stalk the halls once more, as the band struck up another dance. He did not see Lady Drelacora break off from her political partner, nor did he see the Lord Redgorget’s approach. ‘Twas had scarcely begun to stalk the outskirts of the dance before Lord Crealis gently caught him by the arm. The assassin turned, poised for cutting remarks and even more cutting blades, a hand drifting to his sheathed rapier, before he met the eye of the Lord.

“You seem to be sulking more than I tonight,” the Lord said, addressing ‘Twas with ease and informality, “if I am intruding upon your work for the Lady, I beg your pardon, but I finally have a moment to myself, and I’ve noticed that you seem to only have yourself.”

A softer, more melodious theme played over the ballroom floor, as again more Darkfallen paired off, this time for a more rigid, organized dance. ‘Twas made no move to respond, watching the Lord speak with curiosity. Lord Crealis looked to the floor, then back to his silent conversation partner, and with tremendous care, bowed his head of faded amber towards ‘Twas, extending his hand to say “if you will not speak, then indulge me a moment, and let’s meet on the floor for one last dance. Then I think, we’ll both have had our fill of this garish place.”

‘Twas lifted his chin, head cocked inquisitively, as he timidly obliged the Lord with healthy suspicion. Side by side, but not hand in hand, ‘Twas and Lord Crealis entered the floor once more, a gaggle of whispers surrounding them like leeches in a lake. Crimson eyes watched with wonder as the Lord moved with his House Assassin as though he were an equal, one of higher standing like himself. For once, ‘Twas cared not for the words muttered by the prying nobility, nor for the looks of scorn they threw him. 

‘Twas had been educated in many a dance, learning every move and position under threat of deprivation, and as such, fell easily into the steps of the dance alongside Lord Crealis. The Lord moved with sudden rigidity compared to that of his dance with Lady Drelacora, his brows pinched in thought, one hand wrapped in a fist. But the pair fell into slow, easy step around one another, stalking the floor in circles with palms raised, a whisper of touch implied.

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“I don’t remember this dance very well. Do you?” The Lord asked, dark red eyes darting from the floor to ‘Twas’ neutral expression. 

‘Twas flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, the red iron rings and claw caps skirting the sides of Lord Crealis’ fingers. He thought for a moment, content to leave the Lord in silence for addressing him with such overfamiliarity, fearing it may be a trick. But the assassin could not help the upward quirk at one corner of his mouth, as he met his gaze and said, “perhaps too well. Follow my lead, and do as I do, and we may just leave the floor alive.”

A smile travelled the length of the Lord’s scruffy mouth, as a look of amusement painted his features upon hearing the assassin’s voice for the very first time. A laugh could do nothing to stop itself from tumbling from his lips, as quiet as it was, “I will have to trust you. But be warned, I may trip over my feet. If I fall flat on my face, leave me and save yourself.”

The dance only lasted so long, but even still, in hushed tones the Assassin and Lord traded witty remarks and verbal blows, as if they were old friends meeting each other after years apart on the battlefield. All gossip that swirled around the room fell upon their deaf ears, even after the two of them left the floor, and parted ways. 

‘Twas found that no matter what he did, the tilt of a small smile would not leave his face, even as he withdrew to the shadows once more. Though as Lady Drelacora returned to the room, her plush lips darker with the crimson jewel tones of a recent feast, Lord Crealis’ nonplused demeanor returned to him, as once more the crook of his arm became occupied. Lady Drelacora shared in the gossip, fawning with the other nobles about her match, and the wealth of opportunities their allegiance would open up. Lord Crealis would pretend to listen and nod along, trading pained and polite smiles with those he was introduced to, yet all the while, when none were looking, he would effortlessly find ‘Twas’ gaze at the far end of the crowd, peeking at the assassin from where he watched in the shadows. And at every meeting of eyes, ‘Twas would bow his head, and offer an encouraging smile, unseen by the hundreds of eyes except the Lord’s.

The night of revelry eventually drew to a close, however, as the San’layn had drunk and danced their fill. Alliances were made, bonds formed and broken, politics traded for politics. Lady Drelacora accomplished what she set out to do, territory thoroughly marked, and power clearly displayed, and so House Bloodwake returned to its manor.

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The Scourge’s war raged across Northrend, and with many victories under its heels. With new purpose bestowed upon him, the General of the Bloody Brigade withdrew from the front to spend time learning the lay of his new land. Lady Drelacora continued her ruthless pursuit of zealots, sights focused on the Argent Crusade as they marched upon the shores of Northrend, her focus turned away from her newest pet for a time. With the Lady of the House gone, ‘Twas found himself in her castle with no one to keep an eye on him. No one, of course, except the Lord Redgorget.

Unadorned, stripped of the jeweled and armored facades that they both wore, ‘Twas and Crealis met face to face once more, as they walked the spacious stone halls of Castle Bloodwake by themselves. ‘Twas was shocked to find that the fearsome and bloodthirsty general of the Scourge’s armies of Death Knights was truly not so fearsome— and Crealis was surprised that the shadowy assassin of his inherited political power had a voice and thoughts of his own, that differed from that of his Lady. Without the pressure of the Crimson Court, ‘Twas and Crealis became fast friends, united by crude humor born of their living pasts, and shared love of martial combat born of their deaths.

Days and nights were spent in deep conversation, as Crealis and ‘Twas discussed any number of topics. Philosophy, art, music, combat— even simpler things, like the coasts of Quel’Thalas, the merchants and their goods, the bawdy atmosphere of Silvermoon City’s taverns. They practiced combat, training and sparring to show strength and for amusement. Slowly, gradually, the pair found they quite enjoyed the other’s company. Without the prying eyes of other darkfallen to see them, ‘Twas and Crealis had the freedom to relax, and drop the masks that were so often demanded of them. The numbed neutrality ‘Twas found he felt for most things melted away like snow under the light of the Sun, and only did so in Crealis’ presence. The warrior and General eased upon carrying his soldier’s bearing, his guard falling moment by moment as he got to know the lowborn assassin, learning the secret mind that sat untouched behind the muzzle of courtly politeness.

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In Lady Drelacora’s continued absence, it wasn’t long before the conversations traded between the Lord and Assassin took on a softer nature. The brush of hands whilst conversing, the locking of eyes whilst passing, quiet words traded at the end of an evening. After a thousand cuts and flayings for speaking out of turn, ‘Twas had never been able to speak his mind more clearly than with Crealis. And the General used as a political stepping stone, a weapon wielded so that his “partner” could climb higher, had never been afforded such simple kindness and caring than by ‘Twas. 

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Still, it came as every shock, when Crealis confided in ‘Twas his unwillingness to return to the frontlines, if it meant leaving him to the castle, or to his work once again severing the links of weaker lordlings. More shocking still, that Crealis would set his hand so neatly about ‘Twas’ waist, as though they were dancing in that ballroom again. A fate was decided upon, chosen freely for the first time, as ‘Twas allowed himself to press his lips to Crealis’, without fear of the repercussions. Crealis held him gently, his titles as Lord or General falling away like paper armor, as he returned the kiss with wanting. In darkness and in secret, the Lord and Assassin upheld their trysts, a bond stronger than any made at Court forged between them.

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Shockwaves were felt down the chains of command amongst the San’layn, however, as rapidly, three of their most precious Princes were felled in battle by mortal heroes. Unease was palpable amongst the Darkfallen, and hollow grief was voiced at these heavy losses.

Emboldened with calming the masses, and having tasted her fill of holy blood in defense of the Scourge, Lady Drelacora returned to her manor. War was encroaching upon Icecrown’s doorstep, and the Lich King curled his fingers of rime for all his best lieutenants to return to the front. Lord Crealis was needed among them.

On the eve of Lady Drelacora’s return, a plot was hatched by Crealis’ tactical brilliance. Crealis found in the Lady’s possession a pair of earrings, forged in red iron with gleaming rubies. With an enchantment placed on them both, as long as the other wore one half of the set, ‘Twas and Crealis could communicate with each other at any distance, at any time, simply by thinking of the other. 

Crealis would return to Icecrown proper, to lead his troops against the forces amassing at his master’s door; and when Lady Drelacora returned, ‘Twas would go back to court, continuing his duties as reconnaissance and assassin, but instead turning his blade upon the most powerful at court. With the Blood Princes slain, the court was weak, and Power ripe for the taking— Lady Drelacora could hardly say no to a tactical advantage. She would get her status, and ‘Twas would take his revenge. With their plan set, and their thoughts never far from each other, ‘Twas and Crealis went their separate ways. 

One by one, players of the Crimson Court began to fall. Unease turned to panic once again, as the lordlings were filled with alarm at the deadly threat taking their allies off of the board. Unseen was ‘Twas the Nightslain, as he enacted brutal Justice against the bloodsuckers that had played roles in his tragedy. All the years of anger and hatred swallowed in favor of survival were unleashed in bloody slaughter, as ‘Twas inflicted wounds akin to the scars he bore from countless hours of torture, much to the amusement of ‘Twas’ Matron. Drelacora’s day would come, one way or another, even if she sat at the highest seat of power when it did.

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With every powerful San’layn ‘Twas cut down, though his Matron’s political power grew, so too did his strength. No drop of precious blood was spilt, as ‘Twas siphoned the blood of the chosen nobility into his own, the iron in their blood strengthening his blade. Whispers of a Fangslayer dispersed through the remaining noble houses, said with fear and distrust. All the while, Lady Drelacora beamed with pride, her role as a Blood Princess all but secured.

Word carried across the channels that Court would be amassing once again— this time in Icecrown Citadel. The fabled ruler of the darkfallen, Blood Queen Lana’thel, could not risk more precious blood being spilt, and called for all her subjects to join her in protecting the Lich King’s sanctum. Lady Drelacora, who’s house had risen cleanly through the ranks as others were disposed, was giddy and sycophantic at the opportunity, when Lord Crealis arrived from the front to return word to her *personally*.

The time to strike at the serpent’s head was drawing nearer. Crealis’ return brought news from the Front, but it also brought reinforcements. Lady Drelacora happily took up her place pressed against the Lord’s side once more, cloyingly sweet as she vied for his attention. But more planning was done in secret, as the Lady could not read the thoughts behind the Lord’s eyes; ‘Twas’ Fangslayer would taste the Matron’s blood soon, and he would have a General’s aid.

Lavish we’re the Lady Sinflame’s personal quarters; almost a mansion in their own right from sheer volume, her chambers were a sanctum of magic, as well as a gaudy and rich sprawl of creature comforts and wealth. The stage was set, on the day before the House was to depart for a Icecrown Citadel; Lady Drelacora would take Crealis to bed, unaware that he had hidden his weapons in her chambers, and ‘Twas would wake her and weaken her for his final strike. 

‘Twas stalked the halls with a predator’s quiet, slinking through the Lady’s rich bedchambers at a snail’s pace. His life, and that of his now lover’s, rested on the edge of a knife; if he could not kill Drelacora, they would never be free. The assassin held his breath as he pressed his back against the wall, seeing that Lady Drelacora had already been awoken, and was moving to wander the halls. There was no time to doubt his strikes, as ‘Twas dropped from his perch and thrusted his blade of red iron through the back of the Matron.

Drelacora screamed in pain and outrage, head turning like a snake’s as her pale hair whipped about her like a twirling skirt, body contorting strangely beneath her nightdress. Perfectly manicured hands, unblemished and fair, elongated and stretched as long, deadly black claws took their place. Her neck continued to lengthen as veins spiderwebbed across her skin, down her arms and shoulders, covering her bare legs, as though she was stripped of all moisture. Her elven fangs only elongated into daggers, jaw unhinged as her eyes opened to a feral intensity. ‘Twas was thrown back from engagement with her by the beat of two leathery wings, the fingers of them seemingly growing from her back as they extended and flapped outward.

“How dare you defy me,” the Blood Matron screamed, voice rattled and frayed in rage, “how dare you reject the gifts I have given you like this!”

The red blade in ‘Twas’ hands was wreathed in crimson, the Lady’s blood begining to glow a horrible light as it encircled the blade like thorns. A clawed hand wrenched the mask from ‘Twas’ face, tossing the courtly muzzle aside as he grinned with fiendish satisfaction at the wounded Matron. “I’ll see too it, that not a drop of our precious blood shall be wasted. Your power will be put to good use.”

The Matron’s scream made the very stone walls tremble like trees in a gale. Shards of ice and rime, wreathed with blood that roiled and rippled like tongues of fire, manifested from the outstretched palms of Drelacora’s hands. Hail and iron rained down upon ‘Twas, thrown with all the fury of a mother betrayed. But no strike met its mark, as ‘Twas danced and twirled around each volley of icicles, keeping the Matron’s attention solely focused on him. All the while she shrieked in rage, her sinewy and dehydrated flesh pulling taught as she conjured larger and larger showers of crystallized blood, sacrificing more and more of her energy.  

Drelacora’s anger was as great and frigid as her magic, her heart as cold and black as ice; but her Power was Finite, and she would exhaust her blood trying to strike ‘Twas down. Melting ice littered the floor, blood flaked off and turned to blackened dust, the mana within expended, as ‘Twas parried and evaded every attack. The once beautiful Matron of House Bloodwake was twisted beyond recognition, her features gaunt and exaggerated, bones poking through her thin white skin at odd angles. Stringy white hair streaked with black fell from her scalp as she panted, fanged jaw agape and eyes blazing with fury. The Matron was nothing more than an animal now, driven to desperation and bloodlust, just as ‘Twas and the other newborn darkfallen had been starved and deprived and made to turn upon one another.

“You wretch, you wastrel,” Drelacora hissed, “you were never meant to be one of the Master’s chosen, you were never meant to be.”

‘Twas twirled his blade with grim contentment, satisfied that he need not even strike more than once to bring his adversary to her knees. “Perhaps the Master should have chosen more carefully then, if a lowborn was able to bring you so low.”

The assassin poised his crimson-wreathed blade, alight with all the blood of the Crimson Court within it, as Crealis emerged from the shadows, the head of his mace raised high above his head. Lady Sinflame was rent asunder, her heart pieced through with the blade of her trusted assassin, and visage destroyed by the hand of her consort. Together, ‘Twas and Crealis ended the unlife of one of the Crimson Court’s most viscous and bloodthirsty players. At last, House Bloodwake was no more, and as Argent Crusade troops marched on Icecrown Citadel, soon the rest of the San’layn would fall.

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But there was no time for celebration, no time to breathe and reflect. The blood of the fallen Matron shown with intensity in Crealis’ eyes, as an animalistic snarl like her own replaced his relieved features. He stalked towards ‘Twas with purpose, and made to swing the head of his mace for the Assassin’s face. ‘Twas barely had enough time to throw his rapier up to block the attack, using all the strength he had to keep him at bay. 

‘Twas’ ears pinned against the sides of his head, eyes wide. “Crealis? It’s over, she’s dead, this is no time for games— what are you doing?”

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“What I should have done ages ago,” the General growled, the hardness of his voice sounding foreign to ‘Twas’ ears, “ending the line, once and for all; no memory of House Bloodwake’s disgrace must stand to tarnish the Master’s name.”

‘Twas parried his mace, throwing it aside with the blade of his rapier as he retreated. “None will remember the House, Crealis, we’re free! Free of her and free of the Lich King! Stop this!!”

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But he did not heed, instead a bestial shout leaving his lips. ‘Twas found he could no longer recognize the man before him, instead only seeing the power hungry and ruthless General of the Scourge that the Court had fabled him to be. A heavy hand, once gentle in its approach, swung again to press the attack on ‘Twas and to render him broken and bloody. Without hesitation, as True Death stared ‘Twas in the face, the assassin ran the mad general through with his blade, pushing it deeper and deeper until his hands around the hilt met Crealis’ flesh.

The Lord’s snarling expression dropped, and all of the strength in his legs melted away like the ice decorating the floor. ‘Twas cried out in dismay as Crealis’ body slumped overtop of him, forcing them both to the floor. Cooled blood gushed over ‘Twas’ hands, as he did not free the blade from his lover’s abdomen, sitting in the pool with his body draped over him. Crimson tears poured from ‘Twas’ eyes, as he screamed at what he had done, fists balled up and beating ineffectually at Crealis’ arms to wake him.

And there ‘Twas stayed, for untold hours, weeping into the crook of his lover’s neck, and cursing his foolishness, the trust he’d placed in him.

All the while unaware, that this was far from the end of their tale.

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No Drop Shall Be Wasted

CW: gritty vampire story, so beware of themes of torture and emotional manipulation and blood.

Life on the northwestern shores of Quel’Thalas, bordering the Eversong Forest, was a simple but pleasurable one. The white sands were always sun-warmed and welcoming, and the sea was filled with bounty. Nestled on those shores, near the Sunsail Anchorage, was a small fishing village. Fishermen and traders alike spent their long days tending to their nets, sailing in to bring fish to shore, weaving baskets and salting their catches for storage and trade with nearby villages or in Silvermoon. A simple, but pleasurable life. When the day’s work was done however, the fisherman would haul up their empty nets to dry, and bring their shares home to their families. One such elf, however, had no family in the village to call his own, and so he often found himself looking out to the Great Sea when he was alone, wondering what lay beyond it.

An Exile from Silvermoon, ‘Twas had found himself in the care of these simple fishermen when he stumbled out onto the beach, dehydrated and covered in blood, beaten black and blue and missing the tips of his ears. After being nursed back to health, ‘Twas decided it was safer to live a simple life, and remained with the fisherman for many decades. In the years he spent there, while he was far from his family, the fisherman and their families were his new home. He enjoyed watching the sunset over the waves, feeling the cooling waters wash over his legs. He had no cares except to rise with the sun, bring in his catch, and tend to his nets when the day was done. And so when the fishermen retired to their homes at night, to be with their spouses and children, ‘Twas walked the shores by himself, looking out to sea as he tried not to long for the family he had lost.

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On certain days however, the fishermen would gather their best catches, and pack a cart to bring to Silvermoon City to sell them in the Bazaar. ‘Twas was remiss to ever enter the city himself, but he would always see the wagon halfway there, walking alongside it on the road.

On one such day, when the Sun was high in the sky, and the flowers of Eversong Woods were fragrant, ‘Twas accompanied the fishermen’s cart with a bag of salted and dried fish over his shoulder. There was something heavy and dark in the air, unseen but felt by the elf. Only a short ways from the city, ‘Twas urged his cohorts to stop a moment, and listen. As they paused their trek, annoyed but relenting, ‘Twas and the fishermen turned their ears to the air, looking back the way they had come. Across the river they had just passed, a dark cloud of Death and Horror was fording through the water. An army of undead, hungry and clawing at its master’s heels, was fast approaching.

‘Twas pushed his friends to leave the cart and their catch, and to flee to the city’s Shepherd’s Gate as fast as they could. Their hawkstrider’s were unhitched from the wagon as those that could fit together clambered onto their backs, and those that couldn’t were forced to stay on foot. ‘Twas had always been fast of foot, and while he was terrified that he would meet death in a Silvermoon, his former home, he would rather meet it there than on the road, at the mercy of an undead horde.

Together they escaped the horde, narrowly making into the Shepherd’s Gate alongside dozens more frantic elven citizens. Guards with tall tower shields and gleaming spears ushered them inside, their terrified visages hidden by their winged helms. The gates were shut, and soon after, panicked voices and slamming fists could be heard on the other side. Families clung to one another, counting their children in the hopes that none were left outside. ‘Twas was outraged by the barbarism of leaving more kin to fend for themselves, but his fellow fishermen urged him to keep his head down, lest he be recognized. Panicking and arguing ensued amongst the scared masses of tradesmen and simple folk, as all at once the din outside the gates ceased. A new, more terrifying noise settled in, as something large on the other side began to try and pry the doors apart.

The trampling horde of frightened elves began to flock deeper into the city, pushing past one another for any attempt to get to safety before the rest, leaving many with bruises and torn clothes as they went. ‘Twas was thrown around by the throng, separated from his companions in the frantic upheaval, covered in sweat and dirt from the cobble roads. It wasn’t long before masses of starving undead flooded Silvermoon City’s streets, and the crowds of lowborn elves were torn to shreds. ‘Twas broke off from the pack, unable to find the fishermen that had saved him many years ago in the panic, and took up a loose heavy brick from the floor as his only weapon of defense. He fled deeper into the city, face dirtied and bloodied and hopefully obscured from recognition, as he looked for a safe alcove to hide. Screams ricocheted off the tall gleaming walls, as the light of the Sun choked by burning smoke turned white towers into long, bloodstained fangs.

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Exhausted, heart pounding, and overwhelmed with grief and fear, ‘Twas wanted to do nothing more than to lay in the tiled streets of the Court of the Sun, even if that meant the hungry churning mass of Undeath would swallow him whole. More panicked elven citizens began to fill the Court, as they all tried to rush to their homes for safety. ‘Twas braced himself against the fountain, watching with slow dawning horror as richly dressed and panicked nobles were sundered by wretched knights in black suits of armor wielding weapons with wicked blades. Some were pounced upon by half-decayed ghouls, whose maws dripped with blood and saliva, while others were only brought low, but not slain. ‘Twas forced his legs beneath him once more, attempting to flee the massacre, but tripped over the scattered debris that littered the streets alongside bodies. The horrid knights and their rotting entourage all turned their focus to him, the last man standing in the bloodbath. ‘Twas could barely utter a scream before he was ambushed. Before the world went dark around him, he could have sworn the knights and their ghouls had pointed ears.

Time unknown began to pass, hours or days spent in darkness. Little by little, ‘Twas’ consciousness returned to him, but light did not. The floor beneath him was hard, cold, and dirty, smelling of refuse and sweet rot. Voices murmured and cried all around him, forced into silent whispers in the absence of the ability to scream. Whatever walls in the chamber were unseen, and the only visible light was that cast by pairs of eyes in hues of blue, indigo, and purple. Dozens upon dozens of elves— Quel’dorei like ‘Twas —had been spared one wretched fate, for another. Heaving and shuddering bodies were packed tightly together in the darkness, all alive, but wounded and traumatized. ‘Twas hugged his arms to himself, curling into a ball as he rested on the dirty floor. But he did not scream, and he did not cry. He couldn’t be sure he was alive, but if he was, he knew he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Just as the darkness began to stretch its fingers around ‘Twas’ mind, the cries of his kin deafening his ears, a silence fell upon the throng like a heavy black veil. Light filtered into the room, faintly visible, but harsh enough in the darkness that it burned to observe. A crimson aura entered the chamber, as a black cluster of figures began to weave through the masses like an adder. Rather than parting, the desperate masses swarmed and crawled along the ground, fawning and bowing at the feet of the heavy robed figures. The din of their frantic please gave form to bargaining and begging: “Please take all the gold you will, just let me go,” “Take me, just spare my family,” “Take my wife and my children but spare me.” But the robed figures said nothing, and moved in silence, uninhibited by the bodies throwing themselves in their path.

As the figures walked through the throng however— their captors, their saviors —there were times when they would halt before one elf in the pack. ‘Twas watched as the black curtain would part, and lithe, graceful hands would extend a dark goblet from within, stretching to offer it down to the Quel’dorei at their feet. One by one, the veiled figures would stop before elves, seemingly at random, and offer them that same goblet to drink. And one by one, the elf in question would take it in hungry, grasping hands, famished as they lapped at it, liquid spilling down their chins, but never depleting the chalice.  

While other elves pleaded for their lives, for a chance at even tasting a drop from that chalice, ‘Twas merely watched in dazed fascination, at the grace with which the robed figures traversed the rancid chamber, and how his kin would claw and push over one another to get to them. As ‘Twas banished any hope that he would be approached, longing to lay in the dirt and refuse and close his eyes one final time, a pale, blemish-free hand, adorned in rings of glittering gemstones, extended to him the black goblet from which select of his kin had been chosen to drink from. He turned his azure eyes up at the empty, vacant black veils in thanks, swearing he saw flashes of crimson behind the fabric, and spared no thought for what was in the chalice.

Something as dark and red and sweet as wine filled his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in its coolness. But as he withdrew his lips after nothing more than a sip, the rich taste gave way to something mealy and metallic. Nevertheless, a warmth filled ‘Twas’ chest and gullet, and he felt full and satisfied as the black robes once again drifted back into the mass. ‘Twas wiped his mouth, licking the wine from his fingers, and once more laid in the dirt, content.

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More time passed. Hours or days, it was uncertain in the dark. The figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, and once more the chamber was swallowed into the belly of darkness. The pleading cries of elven men and women quieted again, only occasionally disturbed by coughs and sputters, or arguing over why no one had thought to share their drink. Soon, more hacking and heaving punctuated the air, joined by quiet murmurings of fear. Panic once more gripped the gathered elves as their neighbors began to fall ill, weak and sluggish.

‘Twas himself too, found that the energy and warmth that had entered his body upon drinking, was beginning to leave him. His stomach cried, burning and wrenching like something in it was trying to escape, or to tear at its empty confines. His bones ached, ricocheting pain throbbed throughout his skull, like it was being stretched and crushed. The nails in his fingers felt as though they would fall out, the tips of them bloody and raw. His long raven black hair fell from his head in chunks, slipping through his torn fingers like sand, leaving uneven hairless patches along his scalp. The pain was immeasurable, the torment unending. Elves screamed in horror between fits of pitching and heaving, outrage filtering through the ranks that whatever had been given to them had started a contagious illness.

As more time passed, those affected finally felt Life leaving their bodies. ‘Twas doubled over in pain, having expelled every last drop of energy from his body, drooling as his gums bled. At long last, as he lay on the dirty floor, the strength he had used to cling to life so desperately was waning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all of these years, he’d have the chance to see his family again. As his eyelids shut, he could hear the sounds of screams being clipped short, and the ripping of clothing; but all that colored ‘Twas’ vision was the blurry, half-remembered face of his mother.

But Death did not come for the waiting elf, at least, not in the form he envisioned. Consciousness left ‘Twas, as cacophony and chaos erupted around him. Elves whose eyes had gone dark as they succumbed to the sickness, suddenly rose to their feet once more in the dark. Like starving beasts, they stalked the prey they had been locked away with. In mere moments, the once sickly elves pounced on one another, violently rending into those that were left defenseless. In the dark, ‘Twas eyes snapped awake, and rather than blackness, he could see the forms of every elf clearly before him in startling light. No screams were heard in his ears, only the pounding of a thousand drumbeats, the anxious breaths of strained lungs, the rushing of blood like water. 

Those that had drunk from the dark chalice were elves no longer, and were instead something new and twisted, something no longer living. Like blades of grass meeting a finer, sharper one, those found lacking were cut down readily and feasted upon by the predators let loose amongst them. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with blood and silence. Some of the hungry new creatures warred with one another over their kills, others writhed in the ecstasy of drinking their fill. 

Crimson light, sourceless and radiant, once more bathed the chamber with illumination, as the figures in robes made their entrance. The survivors of the onslaught lifted their crimson stares to look upon the black robes, as they cast off their veils. Pale elves, dripping with jewels and finery, beautiful and resplendent, waded amongst their new children, this time showered with praise and thanks for their mercy. These regal pale creatures raised their voices, gathering the hungry to them as they said:

“Noble Blood of Quel’Thalas, look well upon the heralds of your New Empire, now that you have tasted the blood of the Old. We are the Princes and Princesses of a new order, and you are our Precious Children. No drop of Precious Blood shall be wasted, and no cup of Lesser Blood shall go undrunk, for we will drain the world of all it’s riches, and build our walls with their iron, for we are the Darkfallen San’layn.”

The throngs of new Darkfallen erupted into cheers and adulation, praising their new masters, enthusiastic to take up new mantels of power. ‘Twas watched in silent horror, observing the new monsters surrounding him, the new monster he had become. In the dark, he could not see the faces of the elves around them, or see their garments; he could only hear their desperate bargaining. Now, as the pitch darkness parted for his new eyes, he saw the true faces of the men and women around him. Magisters, lords and ladies, tacticians and knights, the Nobility of Quel’Thalas, rounded up like animals in a pen, having been starved in a barren room, brought low by animalistic nature, now given way to their hungry selfish desires with new and terrifying power. He knew the looks in their crimson eyes well; he had seen it in the faces of the men that had exiled him from Silvermoon City decades ago, as they severed the pointed tips of his ears, and beat him bloody.

An ear splitting wail pierced the room, as ‘Twas fell to his knees on the filthy blood splattered floor, and wept. A sea of pitiless crimson eyes turned to him then, staring with craven annoyance. One of the San’layn Masters surged forward, striking ‘Twas across the face and sending him to the ground. He groveled at their feet, weeping and beating his fists on the floor, not begging for forgiveness or mercy, but lamenting that he had slaughtered and fed upon the living, that he had been ripped from the world he knew to become a monster. The San’layn looked amongst themselves, and then the groveling ‘Twas, and realized that the clothing he wore was not like their own, finery covered in filth from their conditions, but rather hand-me-down rags, clothing of a simple life with simple means. The San’layn Masters fell to bickering, pointing accusatory fingers. “Who has done this? Who has brought this lowborn into our midst? Who has wasted Blood on the unworthy?”

As the San’layn argued, one among them strode forward, and grasped ‘Twas’ face in her black claws. His wailing quieted as bloody tears streamed down his squashed cheeks, staring up into the shadowed face of the San’layn before him. He was twisted this way and that, as his features were examined, and found wanting.

“Is this not the Magister Eidolon Skygaze? Does he not posses his likeness?” One San’layn argued.

“If so, then why are his clothes ragged and homely? What has become of the real magister?” Another postured.

“Silence,” the San’layn spoke, grasping ‘Twas in her fingers as though he were nothing but a dry and moldy hunk of bread at a feast, “calm yourselves and your sniveling. What is done is done, and cannot be undone. No drop shall be wasted… this is our dark rebirth. If one of lesser birth has been brought into our fold, it would not do to waste the gift that was given.”

“Let me take him,” she argued, as ‘Twas struggled to see her features even with renewed vision, “he is not noble by birth, but he can become noble by bearing. This one can be made useful, if not as a Prince or Lord, then as a Thrall, a tool of our Crimson Court.”

The San’layn Masters and their new lordlings murmured in agreement, jeering and grinning as ‘Twas was dragged off, black claws dug into the flesh of his patchy scalp. He cried and thrashed, resisting his newfound destiny, rejecting the gift that was bestowed.

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While the other newborn Darkfallen were claimed by various houses, stripped of their tattered finery and bathed anew in lavish excess, ‘Twas’ mistaken identity slotted him for a harsher rebirth beneath the Scourge. Instead of richly adorned quarters, ‘Twas’ new home was a cell. Instead of glittering jewelry, his new trappings were iron chains and manacles. Where the hungry nobility acquiesced to their masters’ demands, ‘Twas spat in their faces, the sorrow for such wanton destruction renewed with the vigor of his dark rebirth. He rejected nobility, living or dead, and all that they stood for, for what they had done to him so many years ago, leaving him an exile because of his bastard birth.

But where there was resistance, ‘Twas was met with reprimand. Disobedience was punished severely, with higher tolls than just death. Failing to comply, rejecting blood when offered, was met with torturous treatment, the scars of such riddling every inch of his flesh as his skin was flayed then healed. Bumbling through the artistry and poise demanded of him at court, meant he would be made to drink his fill once left famished, only for bloodletting to drain him of the crimson prize he had taken.

Years passed, following the bloody fall of Silvermoon City, and the corruption of the Sunwell. Years passed, with ‘Twas in the shadowy clutches of the Crimson Court. Eventually, the beatings and bloodletting slowed, as ‘Twas swallowed the poison fed to him, along with his hatred, and became the tool he was meant to become. ‘Twas had become a master of all things courtly; not a noble by birth, but a noble by rearing. He was transformed, and had become a scholar, an artist, as well as an assassin. He excelled where other men of lesser birth would have failed, hiding the scars inflicted by his rearing and failed birth with the talents and bearing he had been taught. ‘Twas was no longer a simple fisherman, or exile from his homeland. Now, he was the Court Assassin, the clawed hand of one Lady Drelacora Sinflame, Matron of house Bloodwake, and player of the Crimson Court; the San’layn Master that had spared his life and raised him from nothingness.

A powerful magister and sorceress of fire in life, Lady Drelacora’s heart was frozen in death. She could freeze the blood in her enemies veins, wield the frigid iron within like daggers, and paralyze her opponents where they stood. Hemomantic and Cryomantic energies in equal measure made her a fearsome opponent, both in the setting of Court, and on the battlefield. As beautiful as she was, radiant and pale, she was not without blemish. The Lady Sinflame had once tasted the burning hands of zealous Paladin of the Silver Hand, who’s Light ate away at her flesh, leaving the right side of her face burned and cracked, her eye useless and unglowing. This scar she wore with honor, her beauty hardly disfigured, as she wanted her kin to know who their true enemy was, and what the Scourge stood to eradicate.

While the San’layn played at the Crimson Court, living in excess and vying for one another’s power, Lady Drelacora also trained her pet to pick off the weakest links in the chain; to secure new alliances, and shift the dynamics of the old. ‘Twas’ view of the nobles around him was ruthless and honed, and though he was beneath the heel of his Matron, she trusted his judgement.

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One such alliance, chosen to be beneficial to Drelacora and House Bloodwake, was securing the hand of a military leader with mighty martial prowess, as well as scholarly talent. Lord Crealis Redgorget, the General of the Bloody Brigade, a San’layn who’s artistry on the battlefield made him an easy choice to educate the Lich King’s Death Knights in the ways of Hemomancy, wielding blood as a weapon. Lord Crealis was a man of impressive stature, chiseled features framed intense eyes that could cut an army down to size in but a glance. A tactician’s sheer brilliance, a warrior’s hulking physique, and a lord’s humorous silver tongue; no better match could have been chosen to wear the crown of House Bloodwake.

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And at their command, an assassin of shadowy renown. A lowborn, who only spoke when spoken too, who stalked silently and unseen through the crowds, even in full view. ‘Twas the Nightslain, who had been plucked from nothing, and shined into something new and sharp, like a reforged blade. His rapier was saved for those at Court who could not measure up to their Master’s demands, as well as those Light-Fearing Paladins that bore down upon the Crimson Court’s fledgling empire in the Frozen North. Blood and Blade were bent to ‘Twas’ will as easily as leaves, as he followed the instructions of his Matron, Masked and Muzzled, like a wolf on a leash.

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Appearances at Court were seldom by Lady Drelacora, the Blood Matron choosing rather to send her second in command. But in celebration of another successful acquisition of territory in Northrend’s Borean Tundra, the San’layn Princes and Lordlings were drawn from their domains to partake in the revelry. Drelacora flaunted the tactician whose arm she hung off of, striking emerald green envy into the black hearts of all the Darkfallen who beheld her. The General Redgorget sneered instead of smiling at those they passed, shifting his weight in discomfort for having been unarmed, and unarmored.

Neutrality was all that ‘Twas felt, as he broke from his Matron’s side to cling to the shadows. A sharpened gaze and impassive visage took in the lavish decor and sycophantic nobles from a shaded perch. He could do nothing but watch and listen, not permitted to speak unless addressed, not permitted to drink unless offered. It was rude to take what was not his, just as it was rude to refuse a drink offered in charity; both would lead to dire consequences, at the hand of his Matron.

The Ballroom of the Crimson Court was filled with music, gem-encrusted bodies swaying along as if possessed. Chalices of ruby liquid were drained and set aside, as hands found their partners and took to the floor. ‘Twas watched with impartiality and numb observance as Lady Drelacora ushered her stilted partner to the floor, Lord Crealis following her whims with some hidden reluctance. But the Lady Sinflame cared not, as the pair of them joined the others throwing their bodies together in dance. All on the floor watched in awe as the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake took to the floor, Lord Crealis’ commanding and fearsome presence parting a clearing for just the two of them. How graceful and light Lady Drelacora was in Lord Crealis’ hands, as he spun her about like a top. A smirk crossed the Lord’s unshaven features as Lady Drelacora giggled in delight, draped down and bending at the waist, throwing her pale head back with a beaming smile.

All in attendance at the Crimson Court paused to observe the pair as they danced.

They were beautiful.

They were deadly.

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Whispers filtered through the chattering San’layn as they left the floor to return to their alcoves of drinking and gossip; House Bloodwake cut a fearsome figure amongst the Court this night, as the Matron’s new right hand was displayed so proudly and openly. ‘Twas listened to their honeyed words of approval and fear over the rapture of cello and organ, taking note of who would be willing to follow his House. As the San’layn— and therefore the Scourge —increased in power, ‘Twas found with some degree of dissatisfaction that he was no longer as useful a tool as he had once been. If celebrations like this were to be had more once the Scourge was successful, what use had he as a blade? He could speak and play at court as well as the rest of them, but what was the point if he had no mouth?

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The assassin found himself growing restless, and pushed away from his perch to stalk the halls once more, as the band struck up another dance. He did not see Lady Drelacora break off from her political partner, nor did he see the Lord Redgorget’s approach. ‘Twas had scarcely begun to stalk the outskirts of the dance before Lord Crealis gently caught him by the arm. The assassin turned, poised for cutting remarks and even more cutting blades, a hand drifting to his sheathed rapier, before he met the eye of the Lord.

“You seem to be sulking more than I tonight,” the Lord said, addressing ‘Twas with ease and informality, “if I am intruding upon your work for the Lady, I beg your pardon, but I finally have a moment to myself, and I’ve noticed that you seem to only have yourself.”

A softer, more melodious theme played over the ballroom floor, as again more Darkfallen paired off, this time for a more rigid, organized dance. ‘Twas made no move to respond, watching the Lord speak with curiosity. Lord Crealis looked to the floor, then back to his silent conversation partner, and with tremendous care, bowed his head of faded amber towards ‘Twas, extending his hand to say “if you will not speak, then indulge me a moment, and let’s meet on the floor for one last dance. Then I think, we’ll both have had our fill of this garish place.”

‘Twas lifted his chin, head cocked inquisitively, as he timidly obliged the Lord with healthy suspicion. Side by side, but not hand in hand, ‘Twas and Lord Crealis entered the floor once more, a gaggle of whispers surrounding them like leeches in a lake. Crimson eyes watched with wonder as the Lord moved with his House Assassin as though he were an equal, one of higher standing like himself. For once, ‘Twas cared not for the words muttered by the prying nobility, nor for the looks of scorn they threw him. 

‘Twas had been educated in many a dance, learning every move and position under threat of deprivation, and as such, fell easily into the steps of the dance alongside Lord Crealis. The Lord moved with sudden rigidity compared to that of his dance with Lady Drelacora, his brows pinched in thought, one hand wrapped in a fist. But the pair fell into slow, easy step around one another, stalking the floor in circles with palms raised, a whisper of touch implied.

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“I don’t remember this dance very well. Do you?” The Lord asked, dark red eyes darting from the floor to ‘Twas’ neutral expression. 

‘Twas flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, the red iron rings and claw caps skirting the sides of Lord Crealis’ fingers. He thought for a moment, content to leave the Lord in silence for addressing him with such overfamiliarity, fearing it may be a trick. But the assassin could not help the upward quirk at one corner of his mouth, as he met his gaze and said, “perhaps too well. Follow my lead, and do as I do, and we may just leave the floor alive.”

A smile travelled the length of the Lord’s scruffy mouth, as a look of amusement painted his features upon hearing the assassin’s voice for the very first time. A laugh could do nothing to stop itself from tumbling from his lips, as quiet as it was, “I will have to trust you. But be warned, I may trip over my feet. If I fall flat on my face, leave me and save yourself.”

The dance only lasted so long, but even still, in hushed tones the Assassin and Lord traded witty remarks and verbal blows, as if they were old friends meeting each other after years apart on the battlefield. All gossip that swirled around the room fell upon their deaf ears, even after the two of them left the floor, and parted ways. 

‘Twas found that no matter what he did, the tilt of a small smile would not leave his face, even as he withdrew to the shadows once more. Though as Lady Drelacora returned to the room, her plush lips darker with the crimson jewel tones of a recent feast, Lord Crealis’ nonplused demeanor returned to him, as once more the crook of his arm became occupied. Lady Drelacora shared in the gossip, fawning with the other nobles about her match, and the wealth of opportunities their allegiance would open up. Lord Crealis would pretend to listen and nod along, trading pained and polite smiles with those he was introduced to, yet all the while, when none were looking, he would effortlessly find ‘Twas’ gaze at the far end of the crowd, peeking at the assassin from where he watched in the shadows. And at every meeting of eyes, ‘Twas would bow his head, and offer an encouraging smile, unseen by the hundreds of eyes except the Lord’s.

The night of revelry eventually drew to a close, however, as the San’layn had drunk and danced their fill. Alliances were made, bonds formed and broken, politics traded for politics. Lady Drelacora accomplished what she set out to do, territory thoroughly marked, and power clearly displayed, and so House Bloodwake returned to its manor.

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The Scourge’s war raged across Northrend, and with many victories under its heels. With new purpose bestowed upon him, the General of the Bloody Brigade withdrew from the front to spend time learning the lay of his new land. Lady Drelacora continued her ruthless pursuit of zealots, sights focused on the Argent Crusade as they marched upon the shores of Northrend, her focus turned away from her newest pet for a time. With the Lady of the House gone, ‘Twas found himself in her castle with no one to keep an eye on him. No one, of course, except the Lord Redgorget.

Unadorned, stripped of the jeweled and armored facades that they both wore, ‘Twas and Crealis met face to face once more, as they walked the spacious stone halls of Castle Bloodwake by themselves. ‘Twas was shocked to find that the fearsome and bloodthirsty general of the Scourge’s armies of Death Knights was truly not so fearsome— and Crealis was surprised that the shadowy assassin of his inherited political power had a voice and thoughts of his own, that differed from that of his Lady. Without the pressure of the Crimson Court, ‘Twas and Crealis became fast friends, united by crude humor born of their living pasts, and shared love of martial combat born of their deaths.

Days and nights were spent in deep conversation, as Crealis and ‘Twas discussed any number of topics. Philosophy, art, music, combat— even simpler things, like the coasts of Quel’Thalas, the merchants and their goods, the bawdy atmosphere of Silvermoon City’s taverns. They practiced combat, training and sparring to show strength and for amusement. Slowly, gradually, the pair found they quite enjoyed the other’s company. Without the prying eyes of other darkfallen to see them, ‘Twas and Crealis had the freedom to relax, and drop the masks that were so often demanded of them. The numbed neutrality ‘Twas found he felt for most things melted away like snow under the light of the Sun, and only did so in Crealis’ presence. The warrior and General eased upon carrying his soldier’s bearing, his guard falling moment by moment as he got to know the lowborn assassin, learning the secret mind that sat untouched behind the muzzle of courtly politeness.

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In Lady Drelacora’s continued absence, it wasn’t long before the conversations traded between the Lord and Assassin took on a softer nature. The brush of hands whilst conversing, the locking of eyes whilst passing, quiet words traded at the end of an evening. After a thousand cuts and flayings for speaking out of turn, ‘Twas had never been able to speak his mind more clearly than with Crealis. And the General used as a political stepping stone, a weapon wielded so that his “partner” could climb higher, had never been afforded such simple kindness and caring than by ‘Twas. 

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Still, it came as every shock, when Crealis confided in ‘Twas his unwillingness to return to the frontlines, if it meant leaving him to the castle, or to his work once again severing the links of weaker lordlings. More shocking still, that Crealis would set his hand so neatly about ‘Twas’ waist, as though they were dancing in that ballroom again. A fate was decided upon, chosen freely for the first time, as ‘Twas allowed himself to press his lips to Crealis’, without fear of the repercussions. Crealis held him gently, his titles as Lord or General falling away like paper armor, as he returned the kiss with wanting. In darkness and in secret, the Lord and Assassin upheld their trysts, a bond stronger than any made at Court forged between them.

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Shockwaves were felt down the chains of command amongst the San’layn, however, as rapidly, three of their most precious Princes were felled in battle by mortal heroes. Unease was palpable amongst the Darkfallen, and hollow grief was voiced at these heavy losses.

Emboldened with calming the masses, and having tasted her fill of holy blood in defense of the Scourge, Lady Drelacora returned to her manor. War was encroaching upon Icecrown’s doorstep, and the Lich King curled his fingers of rime for all his best lieutenants to return to the front. Lord Crealis was needed among them.

On the eve of Lady Drelacora’s return, a plot was hatched by Crealis’ tactical brilliance. Crealis found in the Lady’s possession a pair of earrings, forged in red iron with gleaming rubies. With an enchantment placed on them both, as long as the other wore one half of the set, ‘Twas and Crealis could communicate with each other at any distance, at any time, simply by thinking of the other. 

Crealis would return to Icecrown proper, to lead his troops against the forces amassing at his master’s door; and when Lady Drelacora returned, ‘Twas would go back to court, continuing his duties as reconnaissance and assassin, but instead turning his blade upon the most powerful at court. With the Blood Princes slain, the court was weak, and Power ripe for the taking— Lady Drelacora could hardly say no to a tactical advantage. She would get her status, and ‘Twas would take his revenge. With their plan set, and their thoughts never far from each other, ‘Twas and Crealis went their separate ways. 

One by one, players of the Crimson Court began to fall. Unease turned to panic once again, as the lordlings were filled with alarm at the deadly threat taking their allies off of the board. Unseen was ‘Twas the Nightslain, as he enacted brutal Justice against the bloodsuckers that had played roles in his tragedy. All the years of anger and hatred swallowed in favor of survival were unleashed in bloody slaughter, as ‘Twas inflicted wounds akin to the scars he bore from countless hours of torture, much to the amusement of ‘Twas’ Matron. Drelacora’s day would come, one way or another, even if she sat at the highest seat of power when it did.

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With every powerful San’layn ‘Twas cut down, though his Matron’s political power grew, so too did his strength. No drop of precious blood was spilt, as ‘Twas siphoned the blood of the chosen nobility into his own, the iron in their blood strengthening his blade. Whispers of a Fangslayer dispersed through the remaining noble houses, said with fear and distrust. All the while, Lady Drelacora beamed with pride, her role as a Blood Princess all but secured.

Word carried across the channels that Court would be amassing once again— this time in Icecrown Citadel. The fabled ruler of the darkfallen, Blood Queen Lana’thel, could not risk more precious blood being spilt, and called for all her subjects to join her in protecting the Lich King’s sanctum. Lady Drelacora, who’s house had risen cleanly through the ranks as others were disposed, was giddy and sycophantic at the opportunity, when Lord Crealis arrived from the front to return word to her *personally*.

The time to strike at the serpent’s head was drawing nearer. Crealis’ return brought news from the Front, but it also brought reinforcements. Lady Drelacora happily took up her place pressed against the Lord’s side once more, cloyingly sweet as she vied for his attention. But more planning was done in secret, as the Lady could not read the thoughts behind the Lord’s eyes; ‘Twas’ Fangslayer would taste the Matron’s blood soon, and he would have a General’s aid.

Lavish we’re the Lady Sinflame’s personal quarters; almost a mansion in their own right from sheer volume, her chambers were a sanctum of magic, as well as a gaudy and rich sprawl of creature comforts and wealth. The stage was set, on the day before the House was to depart for a Icecrown Citadel; Lady Drelacora would take Crealis to bed, unaware that he had hidden his weapons in her chambers, and ‘Twas would wake her and weaken her for his final strike. 

‘Twas stalked the halls with a predator’s quiet, slinking through the Lady’s rich bedchambers at a snail’s pace. His life, and that of his now lover’s, rested on the edge of a knife; if he could not kill Drelacora, they would never be free. The assassin held his breath as he pressed his back against the wall, seeing that Lady Drelacora had already been awoken, and was moving to wander the halls. There was no time to doubt his strikes, as ‘Twas dropped from his perch and thrusted his blade of red iron through the back of the Matron.

Drelacora screamed in pain and outrage, head turning like a snake’s as her pale hair whipped about her like a twirling skirt, body contorting strangely beneath her nightdress. Perfectly manicured hands, unblemished and fair, elongated and stretched as long, deadly black claws took their place. Her neck continued to lengthen as veins spiderwebbed across her skin, down her arms and shoulders, covering her bare legs, as though she was stripped of all moisture. Her elven fangs only elongated into daggers, jaw unhinged as her eyes opened to a feral intensity. ‘Twas was thrown back from engagement with her by the beat of two leathery wings, the fingers of them seemingly growing from her back as they extended and flapped outward.

“How dare you defy me,” the Blood Matron screamed, voice rattled and frayed in rage, “how dare you reject the gifts I have given you like this!”

The red blade in ‘Twas’ hands was wreathed in crimson, the Lady’s blood begining to glow a horrible light as it encircled the blade like thorns. A clawed hand wrenched the mask from ‘Twas’ face, tossing the courtly muzzle aside as he grinned with fiendish satisfaction at the wounded Matron. “I’ll see too it, that not a drop of our precious blood shall be wasted. Your power will be put to good use.”

The Matron’s scream made the very stone walls tremble like trees in a gale. Shards of ice and rime, wreathed with blood that roiled and rippled like tongues of fire, manifested from the outstretched palms of Drelacora’s hands. Hail and iron rained down upon ‘Twas, thrown with all the fury of a mother betrayed. But no strike met its mark, as ‘Twas danced and twirled around each volley of icicles, keeping the Matron’s attention solely focused on him. All the while she shrieked in rage, her sinewy and dehydrated flesh pulling taught as she conjured larger and larger showers of crystallized blood, sacrificing more and more of her energy.  

Drelacora’s anger was as great and frigid as her magic, her heart as cold and black as ice; but her Power was Finite, and she would exhaust her blood trying to strike ‘Twas down. Melting ice littered the floor, blood flaked off and turned to blackened dust, the mana within expended, as ‘Twas parried and evaded every attack. The once beautiful Matron of House Bloodwake was twisted beyond recognition, her features gaunt and exaggerated, bones poking through her thin white skin at odd angles. Stringy white hair streaked with black fell from her scalp as she panted, fanged jaw agape and eyes blazing with fury. The Matron was nothing more than an animal now, driven to desperation and bloodlust, just as ‘Twas and the other newborn darkfallen had been starved and deprived and made to turn upon one another.

“You wretch, you wastrel,” Drelacora hissed, “you were never meant to be one of the Master’s chosen, you were never meant to be.”

‘Twas twirled his blade with grim contentment, satisfied that he need not even strike more than once to bring his adversary to her knees. “Perhaps the Master should have chosen more carefully then, if a lowborn was able to bring you so low.”

The assassin poised his crimson-wreathed blade, alight with all the blood of the Crimson Court within it, as Crealis emerged from the shadows, the head of his mace raised high above his head. Lady Sinflame was rent asunder, her heart pieced through with the blade of her trusted assassin, and visage destroyed by the hand of her consort. Together, ‘Twas and Crealis ended the unlife of one of the Crimson Court’s most viscous and bloodthirsty players. At last, House Bloodwake was no more, and as Argent Crusade troops marched on Icecrown Citadel, soon the rest of the San’layn would fall.

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But there was no time for celebration, no time to breathe and reflect. The blood of the fallen Matron shown with intensity in Crealis’ eyes, as an animalistic snarl like her own replaced his relieved features. He stalked towards ‘Twas with purpose, and made to swing the head of his mace for the Assassin’s face. ‘Twas barely had enough time to throw his rapier up to block the attack, using all the strength he had to keep him at bay. 

‘Twas’ ears pinned against the sides of his head, eyes wide. “Crealis? It’s over, she’s dead, this is no time for games— what are you doing?”

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“What I should have done ages ago,” the General growled, the hardness of his voice sounding foreign to ‘Twas’ ears, “ending the line, once and for all; no memory of House Bloodwake’s disgrace must stand to tarnish the Master’s name.”

‘Twas parried his mace, throwing it aside with the blade of his rapier as he retreated. “None will remember the House, Crealis, we’re free! Free of her and free of the Lich King! Stop this!!”

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No Drop Shall Be Wasted

CW: gritty vampire story, so beware of themes of torture and emotional manipulation and blood.

Life on the northwestern shores of Quel’Thalas, bordering the Eversong Forest, was a simple but pleasurable one. The white sands were always sun-warmed and welcoming, and the sea was filled with bounty. Nestled on those shores, near the Sunsail Anchorage, was a small fishing village. Fishermen and traders alike spent their long days tending to their nets, sailing in to bring fish to shore, weaving baskets and salting their catches for storage and trade with nearby villages or in Silvermoon. A simple, but pleasurable life. When the day’s work was done however, the fisherman would haul up their empty nets to dry, and bring their shares home to their families. One such elf, however, had no family in the village to call his own, and so he often found himself looking out to the Great Sea when he was alone, wondering what lay beyond it.

An Exile from Silvermoon, ‘Twas had found himself in the care of these simple fishermen when he stumbled out onto the beach, dehydrated and covered in blood, beaten black and blue and missing the tips of his ears. After being nursed back to health, ‘Twas decided it was safer to live a simple life, and remained with the fisherman for many decades. In the years he spent there, while he was far from his family, the fisherman and their families were his new home. He enjoyed watching the sunset over the waves, feeling the cooling waters wash over his legs. He had no cares except to rise with the sun, bring in his catch, and tend to his nets when the day was done. And so when the fishermen retired to their homes at night, to be with their spouses and children, ‘Twas walked the shores by himself, looking out to sea as he tried not to long for the family he had lost.

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On certain days however, the fishermen would gather their best catches, and pack a cart to bring to Silvermoon City to sell them in the Bazaar. ‘Twas was remiss to ever enter the city himself, but he would always see the wagon halfway there, walking alongside it on the road.

On one such day, when the Sun was high in the sky, and the flowers of Eversong Woods were fragrant, ‘Twas accompanied the fishermen’s cart with a bag of salted and dried fish over his shoulder. There was something heavy and dark in the air, unseen but felt by the elf. Only a short ways from the city, ‘Twas urged his cohorts to stop a moment, and listen. As they paused their trek, annoyed but relenting, ‘Twas and the fishermen turned their ears to the air, looking back the way they had come. Across the river they had just passed, a dark cloud of Death and Horror was fording through the water. An army of undead, hungry and clawing at its master’s heels, was fast approaching.

‘Twas pushed his friends to leave the cart and their catch, and to flee to the city’s Shepherd’s Gate as fast as they could. Their hawkstrider’s were unhitched from the wagon as those that could fit together clambered onto their backs, and those that couldn’t were forced to stay on foot. ‘Twas had always been fast of foot, and while he was terrified that he would meet death in a Silvermoon, his former home, he would rather meet it there than on the road, at the mercy of an undead horde.

Together they escaped the horde, narrowly making into the Shepherd’s Gate alongside dozens more frantic elven citizens. Guards with tall tower shields and gleaming spears ushered them inside, their terrified visages hidden by their winged helms. The gates were shut, and soon after, panicked voices and slamming fists could be heard on the other side. Families clung to one another, counting their children in the hopes that none were left outside. ‘Twas was outraged by the barbarism of leaving more kin to fend for themselves, but his fellow fishermen urged him to keep his head down, lest he be recognized. Panicking and arguing ensued amongst the scared masses of tradesmen and simple folk, as all at once the din outside the gates ceased. A new, more terrifying noise settled in, as something large on the other side began to try and pry the doors apart.

The trampling horde of frightened elves began to flock deeper into the city, pushing past one another for any attempt to get to safety before the rest, leaving many with bruises and torn clothes as they went. ‘Twas was thrown around by the throng, separated from his companions in the frantic upheaval, covered in sweat and dirt from the cobble roads. It wasn’t long before masses of starving undead flooded Silvermoon City’s streets, and the crowds of lowborn elves were torn to shreds. ‘Twas broke off from the pack, unable to find the fishermen that had saved him many years ago in the panic, and took up a loose heavy brick from the floor as his only weapon of defense. He fled deeper into the city, face dirtied and bloodied and hopefully obscured from recognition, as he looked for a safe alcove to hide. Screams ricocheted off the tall gleaming walls, as the light of the Sun choked by burning smoke turned white towers into long, bloodstained fangs.

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Exhausted, heart pounding, and overwhelmed with grief and fear, ‘Twas wanted to do nothing more than to lay in the tiled streets of the Court of the Sun, even if that meant the hungry churning mass of Undeath would swallow him whole. More panicked elven citizens began to fill the Court, as they all tried to rush to their homes for safety. ‘Twas braced himself against the fountain, watching with slow dawning horror as richly dressed and panicked nobles were sundered by wretched knights in black suits of armor wielding weapons with wicked blades. Some were pounced upon by half-decayed ghouls, whose maws dripped with blood and saliva, while others were only brought low, but not slain. ‘Twas forced his legs beneath him once more, attempting to flee the massacre, but tripped over the scattered debris that littered the streets alongside bodies. The horrid knights and their rotting entourage all turned their focus to him, the last man standing in the bloodbath. ‘Twas could barely utter a scream before he was ambushed. Before the world went dark around him, he could have sworn the knights and their ghouls had pointed ears.

Time unknown began to pass, hours or days spent in darkness. Little by little, ‘Twas’ consciousness returned to him, but light did not. The floor beneath him was hard, cold, and dirty, smelling of refuse and sweet rot. Voices murmured and cried all around him, forced into silent whispers in the absence of the ability to scream. Whatever walls in the chamber were unseen, and the only visible light was that cast by pairs of eyes in hues of blue, indigo, and purple. Dozens upon dozens of elves— Quel’dorei like ‘Twas —had been spared one wretched fate, for another. Heaving and shuddering bodies were packed tightly together in the darkness, all alive, but wounded and traumatized. ‘Twas hugged his arms to himself, curling into a ball as he rested on the dirty floor. But he did not scream, and he did not cry. He couldn’t be sure he was alive, but if he was, he knew he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Just as the darkness began to stretch its fingers around ‘Twas’ mind, the cries of his kin deafening his ears, a silence fell upon the throng like a heavy black veil. Light filtered into the room, faintly visible, but harsh enough in the darkness that it burned to observe. A crimson aura entered the chamber, as a black cluster of figures began to weave through the masses like an adder. Rather than parting, the desperate masses swarmed and crawled along the ground, fawning and bowing at the feet of the heavy robed figures. The din of their frantic please gave form to bargaining and begging: “Please take all the gold you will, just let me go,” “Take me, just spare my family,” “Take my wife and my children but spare me.” But the robed figures said nothing, and moved in silence, uninhibited by the bodies throwing themselves in their path.

As the figures walked through the throng however— their captors, their saviors —there were times when they would halt before one elf in the pack. ‘Twas watched as the black curtain would part, and lithe, graceful hands would extend a dark goblet from within, stretching to offer it down to the Quel’dorei at their feet. One by one, the veiled figures would stop before elves, seemingly at random, and offer them that same goblet to drink. And one by one, the elf in question would take it in hungry, grasping hands, famished as they lapped at it, liquid spilling down their chins, but never depleting the chalice.  

While other elves pleaded for their lives, for a chance at even tasting a drop from that chalice, ‘Twas merely watched in dazed fascination, at the grace with which the robed figures traversed the rancid chamber, and how his kin would claw and push over one another to get to them. As ‘Twas banished any hope that he would be approached, longing to lay in the dirt and refuse and close his eyes one final time, a pale, blemish-free hand, adorned in rings of glittering gemstones, extended to him the black goblet from which select of his kin had been chosen to drink from. He turned his azure eyes up at the empty, vacant black veils in thanks, swearing he saw flashes of crimson behind the fabric, and spared no thought for what was in the chalice.

Something as dark and red and sweet as wine filled his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in its coolness. But as he withdrew his lips after nothing more than a sip, the rich taste gave way to something mealy and metallic. Nevertheless, a warmth filled ‘Twas’ chest and gullet, and he felt full and satisfied as the black robes once again drifted back into the mass. ‘Twas wiped his mouth, licking the wine from his fingers, and once more laid in the dirt, content.

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More time passed. Hours or days, it was uncertain in the dark. The figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, and once more the chamber was swallowed into the belly of darkness. The pleading cries of elven men and women quieted again, only occasionally disturbed by coughs and sputters, or arguing over why no one had thought to share their drink. Soon, more hacking and heaving punctuated the air, joined by quiet murmurings of fear. Panic once more gripped the gathered elves as their neighbors began to fall ill, weak and sluggish.

‘Twas himself too, found that the energy and warmth that had entered his body upon drinking, was beginning to leave him. His stomach cried, burning and wrenching like something in it was trying to escape, or to tear at its empty confines. His bones ached, ricocheting pain throbbed throughout his skull, like it was being stretched and crushed. The nails in his fingers felt as though they would fall out, the tips of them bloody and raw. His long raven black hair fell from his head in chunks, slipping through his torn fingers like sand, leaving uneven hairless patches along his scalp. The pain was immeasurable, the torment unending. Elves screamed in horror between fits of pitching and heaving, outrage filtering through the ranks that whatever had been given to them had started a contagious illness.

As more time passed, those affected finally felt Life leaving their bodies. ‘Twas doubled over in pain, having expelled every last drop of energy from his body, drooling as his gums bled. At long last, as he lay on the dirty floor, the strength he had used to cling to life so desperately was waning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all of these years, he’d have the chance to see his family again. As his eyelids shut, he could hear the sounds of screams being clipped short, and the ripping of clothing; but all that colored ‘Twas’ vision was the blurry, half-remembered face of his mother.

But Death did not come for the waiting elf, at least, not in the form he envisioned. Consciousness left ‘Twas, as cacophony and chaos erupted around him. Elves whose eyes had gone dark as they succumbed to the sickness, suddenly rose to their feet once more in the dark. Like starving beasts, they stalked the prey they had been locked away with. In mere moments, the once sickly elves pounced on one another, violently rending into those that were left defenseless. In the dark, ‘Twas eyes snapped awake, and rather than blackness, he could see the forms of every elf clearly before him in startling light. No screams were heard in his ears, only the pounding of a thousand drumbeats, the anxious breaths of strained lungs, the rushing of blood like water. 

Those that had drunk from the dark chalice were elves no longer, and were instead something new and twisted, something no longer living. Like blades of grass meeting a finer, sharper one, those found lacking were cut down readily and feasted upon by the predators let loose amongst them. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with blood and silence. Some of the hungry new creatures warred with one another over their kills, others writhed in the ecstasy of drinking their fill. 

Crimson light, sourceless and radiant, once more bathed the chamber with illumination, as the figures in robes made their entrance. The survivors of the onslaught lifted their crimson stares to look upon the black robes, as they cast off their veils. Pale elves, dripping with jewels and finery, beautiful and resplendent, waded amongst their new children, this time showered with praise and thanks for their mercy. These regal pale creatures raised their voices, gathering the hungry to them as they said:

“Noble Blood of Quel’Thalas, look well upon the heralds of your New Empire, now that you have tasted the blood of the Old. We are the Princes and Princesses of a new order, and you are our Precious Children. No drop of Precious Blood shall be wasted, and no cup of Lesser Blood shall go undrunk, for we will drain the world of all it’s riches, and build our walls with their iron, for we are the Darkfallen San’layn.”

The throngs of new Darkfallen erupted into cheers and adulation, praising their new masters, enthusiastic to take up new mantels of power. ‘Twas watched in silent horror, observing the new monsters surrounding him, the new monster he had become. In the dark, he could not see the faces of the elves around them, or see their garments; he could only hear their desperate bargaining. Now, as the pitch darkness parted for his new eyes, he saw the true faces of the men and women around him. Magisters, lords and ladies, tacticians and knights, the Nobility of Quel’Thalas, rounded up like animals in a pen, having been starved in a barren room, brought low by animalistic nature, now given way to their hungry selfish desires with new and terrifying power. He knew the looks in their crimson eyes well; he had seen it in the faces of the men that had exiled him from Silvermoon City decades ago, as they severed the pointed tips of his ears, and beat him bloody.

An ear splitting wail pierced the room, as ‘Twas fell to his knees on the filthy blood splattered floor, and wept. A sea of pitiless crimson eyes turned to him then, staring with craven annoyance. One of the San’layn Masters surged forward, striking ‘Twas across the face and sending him to the ground. He groveled at their feet, weeping and beating his fists on the floor, not begging for forgiveness or mercy, but lamenting that he had slaughtered and fed upon the living, that he had been ripped from the world he knew to become a monster. The San’layn looked amongst themselves, and then the groveling ‘Twas, and realized that the clothing he wore was not like their own, finery covered in filth from their conditions, but rather hand-me-down rags, clothing of a simple life with simple means. The San’layn Masters fell to bickering, pointing accusatory fingers. “Who has done this? Who has brought this lowborn into our midst? Who has wasted Blood on the unworthy?”

As the San’layn argued, one among them strode forward, and grasped ‘Twas’ face in her black claws. His wailing quieted as bloody tears streamed down his squashed cheeks, staring up into the shadowed face of the San’layn before him. He was twisted this way and that, as his features were examined, and found wanting.

“Is this not the Magister Eidolon Skygaze? Does he not posses his likeness?” One San’layn argued.

“If so, then why are his clothes ragged and homely? What has become of the real magister?” Another postured.

“Silence,” the San’layn spoke, grasping ‘Twas in her fingers as though he were nothing but a dry and moldy hunk of bread at a feast, “calm yourselves and your sniveling. What is done is done, and cannot be undone. No drop shall be wasted… this is our dark rebirth. If one of lesser birth has been brought into our fold, it would not do to waste the gift that was given.”

“Let me take him,” she argued, as ‘Twas struggled to see her features even with renewed vision, “he is not noble by birth, but he can become noble by bearing. This one can be made useful, if not as a Prince or Lord, then as a Thrall, a tool of our Crimson Court.”

The San’layn Masters and their new lordlings murmured in agreement, jeering and grinning as ‘Twas was dragged off, black claws dug into the flesh of his patchy scalp. He cried and thrashed, resisting his newfound destiny, rejecting the gift that was bestowed.

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While the other newborn Darkfallen were claimed by various houses, stripped of their tattered finery and bathed anew in lavish excess, ‘Twas’ mistaken identity slotted him for a harsher rebirth beneath the Scourge. Instead of richly adorned quarters, ‘Twas’ new home was a cell. Instead of glittering jewelry, his new trappings were iron chains and manacles. Where the hungry nobility acquiesced to their masters’ demands, ‘Twas spat in their faces, the sorrow for such wanton destruction renewed with the vigor of his dark rebirth. He rejected nobility, living or dead, and all that they stood for, for what they had done to him so many years ago, leaving him an exile because of his bastard birth.

But where there was resistance, ‘Twas was met with reprimand. Disobedience was punished severely, with higher tolls than just death. Failing to comply, rejecting blood when offered, was met with torturous treatment, the scars of such riddling every inch of his flesh as his skin was flayed then healed. Bumbling through the artistry and poise demanded of him at court, meant he would be made to drink his fill once left famished, only for bloodletting to drain him of the crimson prize he had taken.

Years passed, following the bloody fall of Silvermoon City, and the corruption of the Sunwell. Years passed, with ‘Twas in the shadowy clutches of the Crimson Court. Eventually, the beatings and bloodletting slowed, as ‘Twas swallowed the poison fed to him, along with his hatred, and became the tool he was meant to become. ‘Twas had become a master of all things courtly; not a noble by birth, but a noble by rearing. He was transformed, and had become a scholar, an artist, as well as an assassin. He excelled where other men of lesser birth would have failed, hiding the scars inflicted by his rearing and failed birth with the talents and bearing he had been taught. ‘Twas was no longer a simple fisherman, or exile from his homeland. Now, he was the Court Assassin, the clawed hand of one Lady Drelacora Sinflame, Matron of house Bloodwake, and player of the Crimson Court; the San’layn Master that had spared his life and raised him from nothingness.

A powerful magister and sorceress of fire in life, Lady Drelacora’s heart was frozen in death. She could freeze the blood in her enemies veins, wield the frigid iron within like daggers, and paralyze her opponents where they stood. Hemomantic and Cryomantic energies in equal measure made her a fearsome opponent, both in the setting of Court, and on the battlefield. As beautiful as she was, radiant and pale, she was not without blemish. The Lady Sinflame had once tasted the burning hands of zealous Paladin of the Silver Hand, who’s Light ate away at her flesh, leaving the right side of her face burned and cracked, her eye useless and unglowing. This scar she wore with honor, her beauty hardly disfigured, as she wanted her kin to know who their true enemy was, and what the Scourge stood to eradicate.

While the San’layn played at the Crimson Court, living in excess and vying for one another’s power, Lady Drelacora also trained her pet to pick off the weakest links in the chain; to secure new alliances, and shift the dynamics of the old. ‘Twas’ view of the nobles around him was ruthless and honed, and though he was beneath the heel of his Matron, she trusted his judgement.

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One such alliance, chosen to be beneficial to Drelacora and House Bloodwake, was securing the hand of a military leader with mighty martial prowess, as well as scholarly talent. Lord Crealis Redgorget, the General of the Bloody Brigade, a San’layn who’s artistry on the battlefield made him an easy choice to educate the Lich King’s Death Knights in the ways of Hemomancy, wielding blood as a weapon. Lord Crealis was a man of impressive stature, chiseled features framed intense eyes that could cut an army down to size in but a glance. A tactician’s sheer brilliance, a warrior’s hulking physique, and a lord’s humorous silver tongue; no better match could have been chosen to wear the crown of House Bloodwake.

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And at their command, an assassin of shadowy renown. A lowborn, who only spoke when spoken too, who stalked silently and unseen through the crowds, even in full view. ‘Twas the Nightslain, who had been plucked from nothing, and shined into something new and sharp, like a reforged blade. His rapier was saved for those at Court who could not measure up to their Master’s demands, as well as those Light-Fearing Paladins that bore down upon the Crimson Court’s fledgling empire in the Frozen North. Blood and Blade were bent to ‘Twas’ will as easily as leaves, as he followed the instructions of his Matron, Masked and Muzzled, like a wolf on a leash.

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Appearances at Court were seldom by Lady Drelacora, the Blood Matron choosing rather to send her second in command. But in celebration of another successful acquisition of territory in Northrend’s Borean Tundra, the San’layn Princes and Lordlings were drawn from their domains to partake in the revelry. Drelacora flaunted the tactician whose arm she hung off of, striking emerald green envy into the black hearts of all the Darkfallen who beheld her. The General Redgorget sneered instead of smiling at those they passed, shifting his weight in discomfort for having been unarmed, and unarmored.

Neutrality was all that ‘Twas felt, as he broke from his Matron’s side to cling to the shadows. A sharpened gaze and impassive visage took in the lavish decor and sycophantic nobles from a shaded perch. He could do nothing but watch and listen, not permitted to speak unless addressed, not permitted to drink unless offered. It was rude to take what was not his, just as it was rude to refuse a drink offered in charity; both would lead to dire consequences, at the hand of his Matron.

The Ballroom of the Crimson Court was filled with music, gem-encrusted bodies swaying along as if possessed. Chalices of ruby liquid were drained and set aside, as hands found their partners and took to the floor. ‘Twas watched with impartiality and numb observance as Lady Drelacora ushered her stilted partner to the floor, Lord Crealis following her whims with some hidden reluctance. But the Lady Sinflame cared not, as the pair of them joined the others throwing their bodies together in dance. All on the floor watched in awe as the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake took to the floor, Lord Crealis’ commanding and fearsome presence parting a clearing for just the two of them. How graceful and light Lady Drelacora was in Lord Crealis’ hands, as he spun her about like a top. A smirk crossed the Lord’s unshaven features as Lady Drelacora giggled in delight, draped down and bending at the waist, throwing her pale head back with a beaming smile.

All in attendance at the Crimson Court paused to observe the pair as they danced.

They were beautiful.

They were deadly.

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Whispers filtered through the chattering San’layn as they left the floor to return to their alcoves of drinking and gossip; House Bloodwake cut a fearsome figure amongst the Court this night, as the Matron’s new right hand was displayed so proudly and openly. ‘Twas listened to their honeyed words of approval and fear over the rapture of cello and organ, taking note of who would be willing to follow his House. As the San’layn— and therefore the Scourge —increased in power, ‘Twas found with some degree of dissatisfaction that he was no longer as useful a tool as he had once been. If celebrations like this were to be had more once the Scourge was successful, what use had he as a blade? He could speak and play at court as well as the rest of them, but what was the point if he had no mouth?

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The assassin found himself growing restless, and pushed away from his perch to stalk the halls once more, as the band struck up another dance. He did not see Lady Drelacora break off from her political partner, nor did he see the Lord Redgorget’s approach. ‘Twas had scarcely begun to stalk the outskirts of the dance before Lord Crealis gently caught him by the arm. The assassin turned, poised for cutting remarks and even more cutting blades, a hand drifting to his sheathed rapier, before he met the eye of the Lord.

“You seem to be sulking more than I tonight,” the Lord said, addressing ‘Twas with ease and informality, “if I am intruding upon your work for the Lady, I beg your pardon, but I finally have a moment to myself, and I’ve noticed that you seem to only have yourself.”

A softer, more melodious theme played over the ballroom floor, as again more Darkfallen paired off, this time for a more rigid, organized dance. ‘Twas made no move to respond, watching the Lord speak with curiosity. Lord Crealis looked to the floor, then back to his silent conversation partner, and with tremendous care, bowed his head of faded amber towards ‘Twas, extending his hand to say “if you will not speak, then indulge me a moment, and let’s meet on the floor for one last dance. Then I think, we’ll both have had our fill of this garish place.”

‘Twas lifted his chin, head cocked inquisitively, as he timidly obliged the Lord with healthy suspicion. Side by side, but not hand in hand, ‘Twas and Lord Crealis entered the floor once more, a gaggle of whispers surrounding them like leeches in a lake. Crimson eyes watched with wonder as the Lord moved with his House Assassin as though he were an equal, one of higher standing like himself. For once, ‘Twas cared not for the words muttered by the prying nobility, nor for the looks of scorn they threw him. 

‘Twas had been educated in many a dance, learning every move and position under threat of deprivation, and as such, fell easily into the steps of the dance alongside Lord Crealis. The Lord moved with sudden rigidity compared to that of his dance with Lady Drelacora, his brows pinched in thought, one hand wrapped in a fist. But the pair fell into slow, easy step around one another, stalking the floor in circles with palms raised, a whisper of touch implied.

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“I don’t remember this dance very well. Do you?” The Lord asked, dark red eyes darting from the floor to ‘Twas’ neutral expression. 

‘Twas flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, the red iron rings and claw caps skirting the sides of Lord Crealis’ fingers. He thought for a moment, content to leave the Lord in silence for addressing him with such overfamiliarity, fearing it may be a trick. But the assassin could not help the upward quirk at one corner of his mouth, as he met his gaze and said, “perhaps too well. Follow my lead, and do as I do, and we may just leave the floor alive.”

A smile travelled the length of the Lord’s scruffy mouth, as a look of amusement painted his features upon hearing the assassin’s voice for the very first time. A laugh could do nothing to stop itself from tumbling from his lips, as quiet as it was, “I will have to trust you. But be warned, I may trip over my feet. If I fall flat on my face, leave me and save yourself.”

The dance only lasted so long, but even still, in hushed tones the Assassin and Lord traded witty remarks and verbal blows, as if they were old friends meeting each other after years apart on the battlefield. All gossip that swirled around the room fell upon their deaf ears, even after the two of them left the floor, and parted ways. 

‘Twas found that no matter what he did, the tilt of a small smile would not leave his face, even as he withdrew to the shadows once more. Though as Lady Drelacora returned to the room, her plush lips darker with the crimson jewel tones of a recent feast, Lord Crealis’ nonplused demeanor returned to him, as once more the crook of his arm became occupied. Lady Drelacora shared in the gossip, fawning with the other nobles about her match, and the wealth of opportunities their allegiance would open up. Lord Crealis would pretend to listen and nod along, trading pained and polite smiles with those he was introduced to, yet all the while, when none were looking, he would effortlessly find ‘Twas’ gaze at the far end of the crowd, peeking at the assassin from where he watched in the shadows. And at every meeting of eyes, ‘Twas would bow his head, and offer an encouraging smile, unseen by the hundreds of eyes except the Lord’s.

The night of revelry eventually drew to a close, however, as the San’layn had drunk and danced their fill. Alliances were made, bonds formed and broken, politics traded for politics. Lady Drelacora accomplished what she set out to do, territory thoroughly marked, and power clearly displayed, and so House Bloodwake returned to its manor.

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The Scourge’s war raged across Northrend, and with many victories under its heels. With new purpose bestowed upon him, the General of the Bloody Brigade withdrew from the front to spend time learning the lay of his new land. Lady Drelacora continued her ruthless pursuit of zealots, sights focused on the Argent Crusade as they marched upon the shores of Northrend, her focus turned away from her newest pet for a time. With the Lady of the House gone, ‘Twas found himself in her castle with no one to keep an eye on him. No one, of course, except the Lord Redgorget.

Unadorned, stripped of the jeweled and armored facades that they both wore, ‘Twas and Crealis met face to face once more, as they walked the spacious stone halls of Castle Bloodwake by themselves. ‘Twas was shocked to find that the fearsome and bloodthirsty general of the Scourge’s armies of Death Knights was truly not so fearsome— and Crealis was surprised that the shadowy assassin of his inherited political power had a voice and thoughts of his own, that differed from that of his Lady. Without the pressure of the Crimson Court, ‘Twas and Crealis became fast friends, united by crude humor born of their living pasts, and shared love of martial combat born of their deaths.

Days and nights were spent in deep conversation, as Crealis and ‘Twas discussed any number of topics. Philosophy, art, music, combat— even simpler things, like the coasts of Quel’Thalas, the merchants and their goods, the bawdy atmosphere of Silvermoon City’s taverns. They practiced combat, training and sparring to show strength and for amusement. Slowly, gradually, the pair found they quite enjoyed the other’s company. Without the prying eyes of other darkfallen to see them, ‘Twas and Crealis had the freedom to relax, and drop the masks that were so often demanded of them. The numbed neutrality ‘Twas found he felt for most things melted away like snow under the light of the Sun, and only did so in Crealis’ presence. The warrior and General eased upon carrying his soldier’s bearing, his guard falling moment by moment as he got to know the lowborn assassin, learning the secret mind that sat untouched behind the muzzle of courtly politeness.

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In Lady Drelacora’s continued absence, it wasn’t long before the conversations traded between the Lord and Assassin took on a softer nature. The brush of hands whilst conversing, the locking of eyes whilst passing, quiet words traded at the end of an evening. After a thousand cuts and flayings for speaking out of turn, ‘Twas had never been able to speak his mind more clearly than with Crealis. And the General used as a political stepping stone, a weapon wielded so that his “partner” could climb higher, had never been afforded such simple kindness and caring than by ‘Twas. 

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Still, it came as every shock, when Crealis confided in ‘Twas his unwillingness to return to the frontlines, if it meant leaving him to the castle, or to his work once again severing the links of weaker lordlings. More shocking still, that Crealis would set his hand so neatly about ‘Twas’ waist, as though they were dancing in that ballroom again. A fate was decided upon, chosen freely for the first time, as ‘Twas allowed himself to press his lips to Crealis’, without fear of the repercussions. Crealis held him gently, his titles as Lord or General falling away like paper armor, as he returned the kiss with wanting. In darkness and in secret, the Lord and Assassin upheld their trysts, a bond stronger than any made at Court forged between them.

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Shockwaves were felt down the chains of command amongst the San’layn, however, as rapidly, three of their most precious Princes were felled in battle by mortal heroes. Unease was palpable amongst the Darkfallen, and hollow grief was voiced at these heavy losses.

Emboldened with calming the masses, and having tasted her fill of holy blood in defense of the Scourge, Lady Drelacora returned to her manor. War was encroaching upon Icecrown’s doorstep, and the Lich King curled his fingers of rime for all his best lieutenants to return to the front. Lord Crealis was needed among them.

On the eve of Lady Drelacora’s return, a plot was hatched by Crealis’ tactical brilliance. Crealis found in the Lady’s possession a pair of earrings, forged in red iron with gleaming rubies. With an enchantment placed on them both, as long as the other wore one half of the set, ‘Twas and Crealis could communicate with each other at any distance, at any time, simply by thinking of the other. 

Crealis would return to Icecrown proper, to lead his troops against the forces amassing at his master’s door; and when Lady Drelacora returned, ‘Twas would go back to court, continuing his duties as reconnaissance and assassin, but instead turning his blade upon the most powerful at court. With the Blood Princes slain, the court was weak, and Power ripe for the taking— Lady Drelacora could hardly say no to a tactical advantage. She would get her status, and ‘Twas would take his revenge. With their plan set, and their thoughts never far from each other, ‘Twas and Crealis went their separate ways. 

One by one, players of the Crimson Court began to fall. Unease turned to panic once again, as the lordlings were filled with alarm at the deadly threat taking their allies off of the board. Unseen was ‘Twas the Nightslain, as he enacted brutal Justice against the bloodsuckers that had played roles in his tragedy. All the years of anger and hatred swallowed in favor of survival were unleashed in bloody slaughter, as ‘Twas inflicted wounds akin to the scars he bore from countless hours of torture, much to the amusement of ‘Twas’ Matron. Drelacora’s day would come, one way or another, even if she sat at the highest seat of power when it did.

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With every powerful San’layn ‘Twas cut down, though his Matron’s political power grew, so too did his strength. No drop of precious blood was spilt, as ‘Twas siphoned the blood of the chosen nobility into his own, the iron in their blood strengthening his blade. Whispers of a Fangslayer dispersed through the remaining noble houses, said with fear and distrust. All the while, Lady Drelacora beamed with pride, her role as a Blood Princess all but secured.

Word carried across the channels that Court would be amassing once again— this time in Icecrown Citadel. The fabled ruler of the darkfallen, Blood Queen Lana’thel, could not risk more precious blood being spilt, and called for all her subjects to join her in protecting the Lich King’s sanctum. Lady Drelacora, who’s house had risen cleanly through the ranks as others were disposed, was giddy and sycophantic at the opportunity, when Lord Crealis arrived from the front to return word to her *personally*.

The time to strike at the serpent’s head was drawing nearer. Crealis’ return brought news from the Front, but it also brought reinforcements. Lady Drelacora happily took up her place pressed against the Lord’s side once more, cloyingly sweet as she vied for his attention. But more planning was done in secret, as the Lady could not read the thoughts behind the Lord’s eyes; ‘Twas’ Fangslayer would taste the Matron’s blood soon, and he would have a General’s aid.

Lavish we’re the Lady Sinflame’s personal quarters; almost a mansion in their own right from sheer volume, her chambers were a sanctum of magic, as well as a gaudy and rich sprawl of creature comforts and wealth. The stage was set, on the day before the House was to depart for a Icecrown Citadel; Lady Drelacora would take Crealis to bed, unaware that he had hidden his weapons in her chambers, and ‘Twas would wake her and weaken her for his final strike. 

‘Twas stalked the halls with a predator’s quiet, slinking through the Lady’s rich bedchambers at a snail’s pace. His life, and that of his now lover’s, rested on the edge of a knife; if he could not kill Drelacora, they would never be free. The assassin held his breath as he pressed his back against the wall, seeing that Lady Drelacora had already been awoken, and was moving to wander the halls. There was no time to doubt his strikes, as ‘Twas dropped from his perch and thrusted his blade of red iron through the back of the Matron.

Drelacora screamed in pain and outrage, head turning like a snake’s as her pale hair whipped about her like a twirling skirt, body contorting strangely beneath her nightdress. Perfectly manicured hands, unblemished and fair, elongated and stretched as long, deadly black claws took their place. Her neck continued to lengthen as veins spiderwebbed across her skin, down her arms and shoulders, covering her bare legs, as though she was stripped of all moisture. Her elven fangs only elongated into daggers, jaw unhinged as her eyes opened to a feral intensity. ‘Twas was thrown back from engagement with her by the beat of two leathery wings, the fingers of them seemingly growing from her back as they extended and flapped outward.

“How dare you defy me,” the Blood Matron screamed, voice rattled and frayed in rage, “how dare you reject the gifts I have given you like this!”

The red blade in ‘Twas’ hands was wreathed in crimson, the Lady’s blood begining to glow a horrible light as it encircled the blade like thorns. A clawed hand wrenched the mask from ‘Twas’ face, tossing the courtly muzzle aside as he grinned with fiendish satisfaction at the wounded Matron. “I’ll see too it, that not a drop of our precious blood shall be wasted. Your power will be put to good use.”

The Matron’s scream made the very stone walls tremble like trees in a gale. Shards of ice and rime, wreathed with blood that roiled and rippled like tongues of fire, manifested from the outstretched palms of Drelacora’s hands. Hail and iron rained down upon ‘Twas, thrown with all the fury of a mother betrayed. But no strike met its mark, as ‘Twas danced and twirled around each volley of icicles, keeping the Matron’s attention solely focused on him. All the while she shrieked in rage, her sinewy and dehydrated flesh pulling taught as she conjured larger and larger showers of crystallized blood, sacrificing more and more of her energy.  

Drelacora’s anger was as great and frigid as her magic, her heart as cold and black as ice; but her Power was Finite, and she would exhaust her blood trying to strike ‘Twas down. Melting ice littered the floor, blood flaked off and turned to blackened dust, the mana within expended, as ‘Twas parried and evaded every attack. The once beautiful Matron of House Bloodwake was twisted beyond recognition, her features gaunt and exaggerated, bones poking through her thin white skin at odd angles. Stringy white hair streaked with black fell from her scalp as she panted, fanged jaw agape and eyes blazing with fury. The Matron was nothing more than an animal now, driven to desperation and bloodlust, just as ‘Twas and the other newborn darkfallen had been starved and deprived and made to turn upon one another.

“You wretch, you wastrel,” Drelacora hissed, “you were never meant to be one of the Master’s chosen, you were never meant to be.”

‘Twas twirled his blade with grim contentment, satisfied that he need not even strike more than once to bring his adversary to her knees. “Perhaps the Master should have chosen more carefully then, if a lowborn was able to bring you so low.”

The assassin poised his crimson-wreathed blade, alight with all the blood of the Crimson Court within it, as Crealis emerged from the shadows, the head of his mace raised high above his head. Lady Sinflame was rent asunder, her heart pieced through with the blade of her trusted assassin, and visage destroyed by the hand of her consort. Together, ‘Twas and Crealis ended the unlife of one of the Crimson Court’s most viscous and bloodthirsty players. At last, House Bloodwake was no more, and as Argent Crusade troops marched on Icecrown Citadel, soon the rest of the San’layn would fall.

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But there was no time for celebration, no time to breathe and reflect. The blood of the fallen Matron shown with intensity in Crealis’ eyes, as an animalistic snarl like her own replaced his relieved features. He stalked towards ‘Twas with purpose, and made to swing the head of his mace for the Assassin’s face. ‘Twas barely had enough time to throw his rapier up to block the attack, using all the strength he had to keep him at bay. 

‘Twas’ ears pinned against the sides of his head, eyes wide. “Crealis? It’s over, she’s dead, this is no time for games— what are you doing?”

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No Drop Shall Be Wasted

CW: gritty vampire story, so beware of themes of torture and emotional manipulation and blood.

Life on the northwestern shores of Quel’Thalas, bordering the Eversong Forest, was a simple but pleasurable one. The white sands were always sun-warmed and welcoming, and the sea was filled with bounty. Nestled on those shores, near the Sunsail Anchorage, was a small fishing village. Fishermen and traders alike spent their long days tending to their nets, sailing in to bring fish to shore, weaving baskets and salting their catches for storage and trade with nearby villages or in Silvermoon. A simple, but pleasurable life. When the day’s work was done however, the fisherman would haul up their empty nets to dry, and bring their shares home to their families. One such elf, however, had no family in the village to call his own, and so he often found himself looking out to the Great Sea when he was alone, wondering what lay beyond it.

An Exile from Silvermoon, ‘Twas had found himself in the care of these simple fishermen when he stumbled out onto the beach, dehydrated and covered in blood, beaten black and blue and missing the tips of his ears. After being nursed back to health, ‘Twas decided it was safer to live a simple life, and remained with the fisherman for many decades. In the years he spent there, while he was far from his family, the fisherman and their families were his new home. He enjoyed watching the sunset over the waves, feeling the cooling waters wash over his legs. He had no cares except to rise with the sun, bring in his catch, and tend to his nets when the day was done. And so when the fishermen retired to their homes at night, to be with their spouses and children, ‘Twas walked the shores by himself, looking out to sea as he tried not to long for the family he had lost.

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On certain days however, the fishermen would gather their best catches, and pack a cart to bring to Silvermoon City to sell them in the Bazaar. ‘Twas was remiss to ever enter the city himself, but he would always see the wagon halfway there, walking alongside it on the road.

On one such day, when the Sun was high in the sky, and the flowers of Eversong Woods were fragrant, ‘Twas accompanied the fishermen’s cart with a bag of salted and dried fish over his shoulder. There was something heavy and dark in the air, unseen but felt by the elf. Only a short ways from the city, ‘Twas urged his cohorts to stop a moment, and listen. As they paused their trek, annoyed but relenting, ‘Twas and the fishermen turned their ears to the air, looking back the way they had come. Across the river they had just passed, a dark cloud of Death and Horror was fording through the water. An army of undead, hungry and clawing at its master’s heels, was fast approaching.

‘Twas pushed his friends to leave the cart and their catch, and to flee to the city’s Shepherd’s Gate as fast as they could. Their hawkstrider’s were unhitched from the wagon as those that could fit together clambered onto their backs, and those that couldn’t were forced to stay on foot. ‘Twas had always been fast of foot, and while he was terrified that he would meet death in a Silvermoon, his former home, he would rather meet it there than on the road, at the mercy of an undead horde.

Together they escaped the horde, narrowly making into the Shepherd’s Gate alongside dozens more frantic elven citizens. Guards with tall tower shields and gleaming spears ushered them inside, their terrified visages hidden by their winged helms. The gates were shut, and soon after, panicked voices and slamming fists could be heard on the other side. Families clung to one another, counting their children in the hopes that none were left outside. ‘Twas was outraged by the barbarism of leaving more kin to fend for themselves, but his fellow fishermen urged him to keep his head down, lest he be recognized. Panicking and arguing ensued amongst the scared masses of tradesmen and simple folk, as all at once the din outside the gates ceased. A new, more terrifying noise settled in, as something large on the other side began to try and pry the doors apart.

The trampling horde of frightened elves began to flock deeper into the city, pushing past one another for any attempt to get to safety before the rest, leaving many with bruises and torn clothes as they went. ‘Twas was thrown around by the throng, separated from his companions in the frantic upheaval, covered in sweat and dirt from the cobble roads. It wasn’t long before masses of starving undead flooded Silvermoon City’s streets, and the crowds of lowborn elves were torn to shreds. ‘Twas broke off from the pack, unable to find the fishermen that had saved him many years ago in the panic, and took up a loose heavy brick from the floor as his only weapon of defense. He fled deeper into the city, face dirtied and bloodied and hopefully obscured from recognition, as he looked for a safe alcove to hide. Screams ricocheted off the tall gleaming walls, as the light of the Sun choked by burning smoke turned white towers into long, bloodstained fangs.

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Exhausted, heart pounding, and overwhelmed with grief and fear, ‘Twas wanted to do nothing more than to lay in the tiled streets of the Court of the Sun, even if that meant the hungry churning mass of Undeath would swallow him whole. More panicked elven citizens began to fill the Court, as they all tried to rush to their homes for safety. ‘Twas braced himself against the fountain, watching with slow dawning horror as richly dressed and panicked nobles were sundered by wretched knights in black suits of armor wielding weapons with wicked blades. Some were pounced upon by half-decayed ghouls, whose maws dripped with blood and saliva, while others were only brought low, but not slain. ‘Twas forced his legs beneath him once more, attempting to flee the massacre, but tripped over the scattered debris that littered the streets alongside bodies. The horrid knights and their rotting entourage all turned their focus to him, the last man standing in the bloodbath. ‘Twas could barely utter a scream before he was ambushed. Before the world went dark around him, he could have sworn the knights and their ghouls had pointed ears.

Time unknown began to pass, hours or days spent in darkness. Little by little, ‘Twas’ consciousness returned to him, but light did not. The floor beneath him was hard, cold, and dirty, smelling of refuse and sweet rot. Voices murmured and cried all around him, forced into silent whispers in the absence of the ability to scream. Whatever walls in the chamber were unseen, and the only visible light was that cast by pairs of eyes in hues of blue, indigo, and purple. Dozens upon dozens of elves— Quel’dorei like ‘Twas —had been spared one wretched fate, for another. Heaving and shuddering bodies were packed tightly together in the darkness, all alive, but wounded and traumatized. ‘Twas hugged his arms to himself, curling into a ball as he rested on the dirty floor. But he did not scream, and he did not cry. He couldn’t be sure he was alive, but if he was, he knew he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Just as the darkness began to stretch its fingers around ‘Twas’ mind, the cries of his kin deafening his ears, a silence fell upon the throng like a heavy black veil. Light filtered into the room, faintly visible, but harsh enough in the darkness that it burned to observe. A crimson aura entered the chamber, as a black cluster of figures began to weave through the masses like an adder. Rather than parting, the desperate masses swarmed and crawled along the ground, fawning and bowing at the feet of the heavy robed figures. The din of their frantic please gave form to bargaining and begging: “Please take all the gold you will, just let me go,” “Take me, just spare my family,” “Take my wife and my children but spare me.” But the robed figures said nothing, and moved in silence, uninhibited by the bodies throwing themselves in their path.

As the figures walked through the throng however— their captors, their saviors —there were times when they would halt before one elf in the pack. ‘Twas watched as the black curtain would part, and lithe, graceful hands would extend a dark goblet from within, stretching to offer it down to the Quel’dorei at their feet. One by one, the veiled figures would stop before elves, seemingly at random, and offer them that same goblet to drink. And one by one, the elf in question would take it in hungry, grasping hands, famished as they lapped at it, liquid spilling down their chins, but never depleting the chalice.  

While other elves pleaded for their lives, for a chance at even tasting a drop from that chalice, ‘Twas merely watched in dazed fascination, at the grace with which the robed figures traversed the rancid chamber, and how his kin would claw and push over one another to get to them. As ‘Twas banished any hope that he would be approached, longing to lay in the dirt and refuse and close his eyes one final time, a pale, blemish-free hand, adorned in rings of glittering gemstones, extended to him the black goblet from which select of his kin had been chosen to drink from. He turned his azure eyes up at the empty, vacant black veils in thanks, swearing he saw flashes of crimson behind the fabric, and spared no thought for what was in the chalice.

Something as dark and red and sweet as wine filled his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in its coolness. But as he withdrew his lips after nothing more than a sip, the rich taste gave way to something mealy and metallic. Nevertheless, a warmth filled ‘Twas’ chest and gullet, and he felt full and satisfied as the black robes once again drifted back into the mass. ‘Twas wiped his mouth, licking the wine from his fingers, and once more laid in the dirt, content.

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More time passed. Hours or days, it was uncertain in the dark. The figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, and once more the chamber was swallowed into the belly of darkness. The pleading cries of elven men and women quieted again, only occasionally disturbed by coughs and sputters, or arguing over why no one had thought to share their drink. Soon, more hacking and heaving punctuated the air, joined by quiet murmurings of fear. Panic once more gripped the gathered elves as their neighbors began to fall ill, weak and sluggish.

‘Twas himself too, found that the energy and warmth that had entered his body upon drinking, was beginning to leave him. His stomach cried, burning and wrenching like something in it was trying to escape, or to tear at its empty confines. His bones ached, ricocheting pain throbbed throughout his skull, like it was being stretched and crushed. The nails in his fingers felt as though they would fall out, the tips of them bloody and raw. His long raven black hair fell from his head in chunks, slipping through his torn fingers like sand, leaving uneven hairless patches along his scalp. The pain was immeasurable, the torment unending. Elves screamed in horror between fits of pitching and heaving, outrage filtering through the ranks that whatever had been given to them had started a contagious illness.

As more time passed, those affected finally felt Life leaving their bodies. ‘Twas doubled over in pain, having expelled every last drop of energy from his body, drooling as his gums bled. At long last, as he lay on the dirty floor, the strength he had used to cling to life so desperately was waning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all of these years, he’d have the chance to see his family again. As his eyelids shut, he could hear the sounds of screams being clipped short, and the ripping of clothing; but all that colored ‘Twas’ vision was the blurry, half-remembered face of his mother.

But Death did not come for the waiting elf, at least, not in the form he envisioned. Consciousness left ‘Twas, as cacophony and chaos erupted around him. Elves whose eyes had gone dark as they succumbed to the sickness, suddenly rose to their feet once more in the dark. Like starving beasts, they stalked the prey they had been locked away with. In mere moments, the once sickly elves pounced on one another, violently rending into those that were left defenseless. In the dark, ‘Twas eyes snapped awake, and rather than blackness, he could see the forms of every elf clearly before him in startling light. No screams were heard in his ears, only the pounding of a thousand drumbeats, the anxious breaths of strained lungs, the rushing of blood like water. 

Those that had drunk from the dark chalice were elves no longer, and were instead something new and twisted, something no longer living. Like blades of grass meeting a finer, sharper one, those found lacking were cut down readily and feasted upon by the predators let loose amongst them. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with blood and silence. Some of the hungry new creatures warred with one another over their kills, others writhed in the ecstasy of drinking their fill. 

Crimson light, sourceless and radiant, once more bathed the chamber with illumination, as the figures in robes made their entrance. The survivors of the onslaught lifted their crimson stares to look upon the black robes, as they cast off their veils. Pale elves, dripping with jewels and finery, beautiful and resplendent, waded amongst their new children, this time showered with praise and thanks for their mercy. These regal pale creatures raised their voices, gathering the hungry to them as they said:

“Noble Blood of Quel’Thalas, look well upon the heralds of your New Empire, now that you have tasted the blood of the Old. We are the Princes and Princesses of a new order, and you are our Precious Children. No drop of Precious Blood shall be wasted, and no cup of Lesser Blood shall go undrunk, for we will drain the world of all it’s riches, and build our walls with their iron, for we are the Darkfallen San’layn.”

The throngs of new Darkfallen erupted into cheers and adulation, praising their new masters, enthusiastic to take up new mantels of power. ‘Twas watched in silent horror, observing the new monsters surrounding him, the new monster he had become. In the dark, he could not see the faces of the elves around them, or see their garments; he could only hear their desperate bargaining. Now, as the pitch darkness parted for his new eyes, he saw the true faces of the men and women around him. Magisters, lords and ladies, tacticians and knights, the Nobility of Quel’Thalas, rounded up like animals in a pen, having been starved in a barren room, brought low by animalistic nature, now given way to their hungry selfish desires with new and terrifying power. He knew the looks in their crimson eyes well; he had seen it in the faces of the men that had exiled him from Silvermoon City decades ago, as they severed the pointed tips of his ears, and beat him bloody.

An ear splitting wail pierced the room, as ‘Twas fell to his knees on the filthy blood splattered floor, and wept. A sea of pitiless crimson eyes turned to him then, staring with craven annoyance. One of the San’layn Masters surged forward, striking ‘Twas across the face and sending him to the ground. He groveled at their feet, weeping and beating his fists on the floor, not begging for forgiveness or mercy, but lamenting that he had slaughtered and fed upon the living, that he had been ripped from the world he knew to become a monster. The San’layn looked amongst themselves, and then the groveling ‘Twas, and realized that the clothing he wore was not like their own, finery covered in filth from their conditions, but rather hand-me-down rags, clothing of a simple life with simple means. The San’layn Masters fell to bickering, pointing accusatory fingers. “Who has done this? Who has brought this lowborn into our midst? Who has wasted Blood on the unworthy?”

As the San’layn argued, one among them strode forward, and grasped ‘Twas’ face in her black claws. His wailing quieted as bloody tears streamed down his squashed cheeks, staring up into the shadowed face of the San’layn before him. He was twisted this way and that, as his features were examined, and found wanting.

“Is this not the Magister Eidolon Skygaze? Does he not posses his likeness?” One San’layn argued.

“If so, then why are his clothes ragged and homely? What has become of the real magister?” Another postured.

“Silence,” the San’layn spoke, grasping ‘Twas in her fingers as though he were nothing but a dry and moldy hunk of bread at a feast, “calm yourselves and your sniveling. What is done is done, and cannot be undone. No drop shall be wasted… this is our dark rebirth. If one of lesser birth has been brought into our fold, it would not do to waste the gift that was given.”

“Let me take him,” she argued, as ‘Twas struggled to see her features even with renewed vision, “he is not noble by birth, but he can become noble by bearing. This one can be made useful, if not as a Prince or Lord, then as a Thrall, a tool of our Crimson Court.”

The San’layn Masters and their new lordlings murmured in agreement, jeering and grinning as ‘Twas was dragged off, black claws dug into the flesh of his patchy scalp. He cried and thrashed, resisting his newfound destiny, rejecting the gift that was bestowed.

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While the other newborn Darkfallen were claimed by various houses, stripped of their tattered finery and bathed anew in lavish excess, ‘Twas’ mistaken identity slotted him for a harsher rebirth beneath the Scourge. Instead of richly adorned quarters, ‘Twas’ new home was a cell. Instead of glittering jewelry, his new trappings were iron chains and manacles. Where the hungry nobility acquiesced to their masters’ demands, ‘Twas spat in their faces, the sorrow for such wanton destruction renewed with the vigor of his dark rebirth. He rejected nobility, living or dead, and all that they stood for, for what they had done to him so many years ago, leaving him an exile because of his bastard birth.

But where there was resistance, ‘Twas was met with reprimand. Disobedience was punished severely, with higher tolls than just death. Failing to comply, rejecting blood when offered, was met with torturous treatment, the scars of such riddling every inch of his flesh as his skin was flayed then healed. Bumbling through the artistry and poise demanded of him at court, meant he would be made to drink his fill once left famished, only for bloodletting to drain him of the crimson prize he had taken.

Years passed, following the bloody fall of Silvermoon City, and the corruption of the Sunwell. Years passed, with ‘Twas in the shadowy clutches of the Crimson Court. Eventually, the beatings and bloodletting slowed, as ‘Twas swallowed the poison fed to him, along with his hatred, and became the tool he was meant to become. ‘Twas had become a master of all things courtly; not a noble by birth, but a noble by rearing. He was transformed, and had become a scholar, an artist, as well as an assassin. He excelled where other men of lesser birth would have failed, hiding the scars inflicted by his rearing and failed birth with the talents and bearing he had been taught. ‘Twas was no longer a simple fisherman, or exile from his homeland. Now, he was the Court Assassin, the clawed hand of one Lady Drelacora Sinflame, Matron of house Bloodwake, and player of the Crimson Court; the San’layn Master that had spared his life and raised him from nothingness.

A powerful magister and sorceress of fire in life, Lady Drelacora’s heart was frozen in death. She could freeze the blood in her enemies veins, wield the frigid iron within like daggers, and paralyze her opponents where they stood. Hemomantic and Cryomantic energies in equal measure made her a fearsome opponent, both in the setting of Court, and on the battlefield. As beautiful as she was, radiant and pale, she was not without blemish. The Lady Sinflame had once tasted the burning hands of zealous Paladin of the Silver Hand, who’s Light ate away at her flesh, leaving the right side of her face burned and cracked, her eye useless and unglowing. This scar she wore with honor, her beauty hardly disfigured, as she wanted her kin to know who their true enemy was, and what the Scourge stood to eradicate.

While the San’layn played at the Crimson Court, living in excess and vying for one another’s power, Lady Drelacora also trained her pet to pick off the weakest links in the chain; to secure new alliances, and shift the dynamics of the old. ‘Twas’ view of the nobles around him was ruthless and honed, and though he was beneath the heel of his Matron, she trusted his judgement.

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One such alliance, chosen to be beneficial to Drelacora and House Bloodwake, was securing the hand of a military leader with mighty martial prowess, as well as scholarly talent. Lord Crealis Redgorget, the General of the Bloody Brigade, a San’layn who’s artistry on the battlefield made him an easy choice to educate the Lich King’s Death Knights in the ways of Hemomancy, wielding blood as a weapon. Lord Crealis was a man of impressive stature, chiseled features framed intense eyes that could cut an army down to size in but a glance. A tactician’s sheer brilliance, a warrior’s hulking physique, and a lord’s humorous silver tongue; no better match could have been chosen to wear the crown of House Bloodwake.

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And at their command, an assassin of shadowy renown. A lowborn, who only spoke when spoken too, who stalked silently and unseen through the crowds, even in full view. ‘Twas the Nightslain, who had been plucked from nothing, and shined into something new and sharp, like a reforged blade. His rapier was saved for those at Court who could not measure up to their Master’s demands, as well as those Light-Fearing Paladins that bore down upon the Crimson Court’s fledgling empire in the Frozen North. Blood and Blade were bent to ‘Twas’ will as easily as leaves, as he followed the instructions of his Matron, Masked and Muzzled, like a wolf on a leash.

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Appearances at Court were seldom by Lady Drelacora, the Blood Matron choosing rather to send her second in command. But in celebration of another successful acquisition of territory in Northrend’s Borean Tundra, the San’layn Princes and Lordlings were drawn from their domains to partake in the revelry. Drelacora flaunted the tactician whose arm she hung off of, striking emerald green envy into the black hearts of all the Darkfallen who beheld her. The General Redgorget sneered instead of smiling at those they passed, shifting his weight in discomfort for having been unarmed, and unarmored.

Neutrality was all that ‘Twas felt, as he broke from his Matron’s side to cling to the shadows. A sharpened gaze and impassive visage took in the lavish decor and sycophantic nobles from a shaded perch. He could do nothing but watch and listen, not permitted to speak unless addressed, not permitted to drink unless offered. It was rude to take what was not his, just as it was rude to refuse a drink offered in charity; both would lead to dire consequences, at the hand of his Matron.

The Ballroom of the Crimson Court was filled with music, gem-encrusted bodies swaying along as if possessed. Chalices of ruby liquid were drained and set aside, as hands found their partners and took to the floor. ‘Twas watched with impartiality and numb observance as Lady Drelacora ushered her stilted partner to the floor, Lord Crealis following her whims with some hidden reluctance. But the Lady Sinflame cared not, as the pair of them joined the others throwing their bodies together in dance. All on the floor watched in awe as the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake took to the floor, Lord Crealis’ commanding and fearsome presence parting a clearing for just the two of them. How graceful and light Lady Drelacora was in Lord Crealis’ hands, as he spun her about like a top. A smirk crossed the Lord’s unshaven features as Lady Drelacora giggled in delight, draped down and bending at the waist, throwing her pale head back with a beaming smile.

All in attendance at the Crimson Court paused to observe the pair as they danced.

They were beautiful.

They were deadly.

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Whispers filtered through the chattering San’layn as they left the floor to return to their alcoves of drinking and gossip; House Bloodwake cut a fearsome figure amongst the Court this night, as the Matron’s new right hand was displayed so proudly and openly. ‘Twas listened to their honeyed words of approval and fear over the rapture of cello and organ, taking note of who would be willing to follow his House. As the San’layn— and therefore the Scourge —increased in power, ‘Twas found with some degree of dissatisfaction that he was no longer as useful a tool as he had once been. If celebrations like this were to be had more once the Scourge was successful, what use had he as a blade? He could speak and play at court as well as the rest of them, but what was the point if he had no mouth?

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The assassin found himself growing restless, and pushed away from his perch to stalk the halls once more, as the band struck up another dance. He did not see Lady Drelacora break off from her political partner, nor did he see the Lord Redgorget’s approach. ‘Twas had scarcely begun to stalk the outskirts of the dance before Lord Crealis gently caught him by the arm. The assassin turned, poised for cutting remarks and even more cutting blades, a hand drifting to his sheathed rapier, before he met the eye of the Lord.

“You seem to be sulking more than I tonight,” the Lord said, addressing ‘Twas with ease and informality, “if I am intruding upon your work for the Lady, I beg your pardon, but I finally have a moment to myself, and I’ve noticed that you seem to only have yourself.”

A softer, more melodious theme played over the ballroom floor, as again more Darkfallen paired off, this time for a more rigid, organized dance. ‘Twas made no move to respond, watching the Lord speak with curiosity. Lord Crealis looked to the floor, then back to his silent conversation partner, and with tremendous care, bowed his head of faded amber towards ‘Twas, extending his hand to say “if you will not speak, then indulge me a moment, and let’s meet on the floor for one last dance. Then I think, we’ll both have had our fill of this garish place.”

‘Twas lifted his chin, head cocked inquisitively, as he timidly obliged the Lord with healthy suspicion. Side by side, but not hand in hand, ‘Twas and Lord Crealis entered the floor once more, a gaggle of whispers surrounding them like leeches in a lake. Crimson eyes watched with wonder as the Lord moved with his House Assassin as though he were an equal, one of higher standing like himself. For once, ‘Twas cared not for the words muttered by the prying nobility, nor for the looks of scorn they threw him. 

‘Twas had been educated in many a dance, learning every move and position under threat of deprivation, and as such, fell easily into the steps of the dance alongside Lord Crealis. The Lord moved with sudden rigidity compared to that of his dance with Lady Drelacora, his brows pinched in thought, one hand wrapped in a fist. But the pair fell into slow, easy step around one another, stalking the floor in circles with palms raised, a whisper of touch implied.

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“I don’t remember this dance very well. Do you?” The Lord asked, dark red eyes darting from the floor to ‘Twas’ neutral expression. 

‘Twas flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, the red iron rings and claw caps skirting the sides of Lord Crealis’ fingers. He thought for a moment, content to leave the Lord in silence for addressing him with such overfamiliarity, fearing it may be a trick. But the assassin could not help the upward quirk at one corner of his mouth, as he met his gaze and said, “perhaps too well. Follow my lead, and do as I do, and we may just leave the floor alive.”

A smile travelled the length of the Lord’s scruffy mouth, as a look of amusement painted his features upon hearing the assassin’s voice for the very first time. A laugh could do nothing to stop itself from tumbling from his lips, as quiet as it was, “I will have to trust you. But be warned, I may trip over my feet. If I fall flat on my face, leave me and save yourself.”

The dance only lasted so long, but even still, in hushed tones the Assassin and Lord traded witty remarks and verbal blows, as if they were old friends meeting each other after years apart on the battlefield. All gossip that swirled around the room fell upon their deaf ears, even after the two of them left the floor, and parted ways. 

‘Twas found that no matter what he did, the tilt of a small smile would not leave his face, even as he withdrew to the shadows once more. Though as Lady Drelacora returned to the room, her plush lips darker with the crimson jewel tones of a recent feast, Lord Crealis’ nonplused demeanor returned to him, as once more the crook of his arm became occupied. Lady Drelacora shared in the gossip, fawning with the other nobles about her match, and the wealth of opportunities their allegiance would open up. Lord Crealis would pretend to listen and nod along, trading pained and polite smiles with those he was introduced to, yet all the while, when none were looking, he would effortlessly find ‘Twas’ gaze at the far end of the crowd, peeking at the assassin from where he watched in the shadows. And at every meeting of eyes, ‘Twas would bow his head, and offer an encouraging smile, unseen by the hundreds of eyes except the Lord’s.

The night of revelry eventually drew to a close, however, as the San’layn had drunk and danced their fill. Alliances were made, bonds formed and broken, politics traded for politics. Lady Drelacora accomplished what she set out to do, territory thoroughly marked, and power clearly displayed, and so House Bloodwake returned to its manor.

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The Scourge’s war raged across Northrend, and with many victories under its heels. With new purpose bestowed upon him, the General of the Bloody Brigade withdrew from the front to spend time learning the lay of his new land. Lady Drelacora continued her ruthless pursuit of zealots, sights focused on the Argent Crusade as they marched upon the shores of Northrend, her focus turned away from her newest pet for a time. With the Lady of the House gone, ‘Twas found himself in her castle with no one to keep an eye on him. No one, of course, except the Lord Redgorget.

Unadorned, stripped of the jeweled and armored facades that they both wore, ‘Twas and Crealis met face to face once more, as they walked the spacious stone halls of Castle Bloodwake by themselves. ‘Twas was shocked to find that the fearsome and bloodthirsty general of the Scourge’s armies of Death Knights was truly not so fearsome— and Crealis was surprised that the shadowy assassin of his inherited political power had a voice and thoughts of his own, that differed from that of his Lady. Without the pressure of the Crimson Court, ‘Twas and Crealis became fast friends, united by crude humor born of their living pasts, and shared love of martial combat born of their deaths.

Days and nights were spent in deep conversation, as Crealis and ‘Twas discussed any number of topics. Philosophy, art, music, combat— even simpler things, like the coasts of Quel’Thalas, the merchants and their goods, the bawdy atmosphere of Silvermoon City’s taverns. They practiced combat, training and sparring to show strength and for amusement. Slowly, gradually, the pair found they quite enjoyed the other’s company. Without the prying eyes of other darkfallen to see them, ‘Twas and Crealis had the freedom to relax, and drop the masks that were so often demanded of them. The numbed neutrality ‘Twas found he felt for most things melted away like snow under the light of the Sun, and only did so in Crealis’ presence. The warrior and General eased upon carrying his soldier’s bearing, his guard falling moment by moment as he got to know the lowborn assassin, learning the secret mind that sat untouched behind the muzzle of courtly politeness.

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In Lady Drelacora’s continued absence, it wasn’t long before the conversations traded between the Lord and Assassin took on a softer nature. The brush of hands whilst conversing, the locking of eyes whilst passing, quiet words traded at the end of an evening. After a thousand cuts and flayings for speaking out of turn, ‘Twas had never been able to speak his mind more clearly than with Crealis. And the General used as a political stepping stone, a weapon wielded so that his “partner” could climb higher, had never been afforded such simple kindness and caring than by ‘Twas. 

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Still, it came as every shock, when Crealis confided in ‘Twas his unwillingness to return to the frontlines, if it meant leaving him to the castle, or to his work once again severing the links of weaker lordlings. More shocking still, that Crealis would set his hand so neatly about ‘Twas’ waist, as though they were dancing in that ballroom again. A fate was decided upon, chosen freely for the first time, as ‘Twas allowed himself to press his lips to Crealis’, without fear of the repercussions. Crealis held him gently, his titles as Lord or General falling away like paper armor, as he returned the kiss with wanting. In darkness and in secret, the Lord and Assassin upheld their trysts, a bond stronger than any made at Court forged between them.

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Shockwaves were felt down the chains of command amongst the San’layn, however, as rapidly, three of their most precious Princes were felled in battle by mortal heroes. Unease was palpable amongst the Darkfallen, and hollow grief was voiced at these heavy losses.

Emboldened with calming the masses, and having tasted her fill of holy blood in defense of the Scourge, Lady Drelacora returned to her manor. War was encroaching upon Icecrown’s doorstep, and the Lich King curled his fingers of rime for all his best lieutenants to return to the front. Lord Crealis was needed among them.

On the eve of Lady Drelacora’s return, a plot was hatched by Crealis’ tactical brilliance. Crealis found in the Lady’s possession a pair of earrings, forged in red iron with gleaming rubies. With an enchantment placed on them both, as long as the other wore one half of the set, ‘Twas and Crealis could communicate with each other at any distance, at any time, simply by thinking of the other. 

Crealis would return to Icecrown proper, to lead his troops against the forces amassing at his master’s door; and when Lady Drelacora returned, ‘Twas would go back to court, continuing his duties as reconnaissance and assassin, but instead turning his blade upon the most powerful at court. With the Blood Princes slain, the court was weak, and Power ripe for the taking— Lady Drelacora could hardly say no to a tactical advantage. She would get her status, and ‘Twas would take his revenge. With their plan set, and their thoughts never far from each other, ‘Twas and Crealis went their separate ways. 

One by one, players of the Crimson Court began to fall. Unease turned to panic once again, as the lordlings were filled with alarm at the deadly threat taking their allies off of the board. Unseen was ‘Twas the Nightslain, as he enacted brutal Justice against the bloodsuckers that had played roles in his tragedy. All the years of anger and hatred swallowed in favor of survival were unleashed in bloody slaughter, as ‘Twas inflicted wounds akin to the scars he bore from countless hours of torture, much to the amusement of ‘Twas’ Matron. Drelacora’s day would come, one way or another, even if she sat at the highest seat of power when it did.

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With every powerful San’layn ‘Twas cut down, though his Matron’s political power grew, so too did his strength. No drop of precious blood was spilt, as ‘Twas siphoned the blood of the chosen nobility into his own, the iron in their blood strengthening his blade. Whispers of a Fangslayer dispersed through the remaining noble houses, said with fear and distrust. All the while, Lady Drelacora beamed with pride, her role as a Blood Princess all but secured.

Word carried across the channels that Court would be amassing once again— this time in Icecrown Citadel. The fabled ruler of the darkfallen, Blood Queen Lana’thel, could not risk more precious blood being spilt, and called for all her subjects to join her in protecting the Lich King’s sanctum. Lady Drelacora, who’s house had risen cleanly through the ranks as others were disposed, was giddy and sycophantic at the opportunity, when Lord Crealis arrived from the front to return word to her *personally*.

The time to strike at the serpent’s head was drawing nearer. Crealis’ return brought news from the Front, but it also brought reinforcements. Lady Drelacora happily took up her place pressed against the Lord’s side once more, cloyingly sweet as she vied for his attention. But more planning was done in secret, as the Lady could not read the thoughts behind the Lord’s eyes; ‘Twas’ Fangslayer would taste the Matron’s blood soon, and he would have a General’s aid.

Lavish we’re the Lady Sinflame’s personal quarters; almost a mansion in their own right from sheer volume, her chambers were a sanctum of magic, as well as a gaudy and rich sprawl of creature comforts and wealth. The stage was set, on the day before the House was to depart for a Icecrown Citadel; Lady Drelacora would take Crealis to bed, unaware that he had hidden his weapons in her chambers, and ‘Twas would wake her and weaken her for his final strike. 

‘Twas stalked the halls with a predator’s quiet, slinking through the Lady’s rich bedchambers at a snail’s pace. His life, and that of his now lover’s, rested on the edge of a knife; if he could not kill Drelacora, they would never be free. The assassin held his breath as he pressed his back against the wall, seeing that Lady Drelacora had already been awoken, and was moving to wander the halls. There was no time to doubt his strikes, as ‘Twas dropped from his perch and thrusted his blade of red iron through the back of the Matron.

Drelacora screamed in pain and outrage, head turning like a snake’s as her pale hair whipped about her like a twirling skirt, body contorting strangely beneath her nightdress. Perfectly manicured hands, unblemished and fair, elongated and stretched as long, deadly black claws took their place. Her neck continued to lengthen as veins spiderwebbed across her skin, down her arms and shoulders, covering her bare legs, as though she was stripped of all moisture. Her elven fangs only elongated into daggers, jaw unhinged as her eyes opened to a feral intensity. ‘Twas was thrown back from engagement with her by the beat of two leathery wings, the fingers of them seemingly growing from her back as they extended and flapped outward.

“How dare you defy me,” the Blood Matron screamed, voice rattled and frayed in rage, “how dare you reject the gifts I have given you like this!”

The red blade in ‘Twas’ hands was wreathed in crimson, the Lady’s blood begining to glow a horrible light as it encircled the blade like thorns. A clawed hand wrenched the mask from ‘Twas’ face, tossing the courtly muzzle aside as he grinned with fiendish satisfaction at the wounded Matron. “I’ll see too it, that not a drop of our precious blood shall be wasted. Your power will be put to good use.”

The Matron’s scream made the very stone walls tremble like trees in a gale. Shards of ice and rime, wreathed with blood that roiled and rippled like tongues of fire, manifested from the outstretched palms of Drelacora’s hands. Hail and iron rained down upon ‘Twas, thrown with all the fury of a mother betrayed. But no strike met its mark, as ‘Twas danced and twirled around each volley of icicles, keeping the Matron’s attention solely focused on him. All the while she shrieked in rage, her sinewy and dehydrated flesh pulling taught as she conjured larger and larger showers of crystallized blood, sacrificing more and more of her energy.  

Drelacora’s anger was as great and frigid as her magic, her heart as cold and black as ice; but her Power was Finite, and she would exhaust her blood trying to strike ‘Twas down. Melting ice littered the floor, blood flaked off and turned to blackened dust, the mana within expended, as ‘Twas parried and evaded every attack. The once beautiful Matron of House Bloodwake was twisted beyond recognition, her features gaunt and exaggerated, bones poking through her thin white skin at odd angles. Stringy white hair streaked with black fell from her scalp as she panted, fanged jaw agape and eyes blazing with fury. The Matron was nothing more than an animal now, driven to desperation and bloodlust, just as ‘Twas and the other newborn darkfallen had been starved and deprived and made to turn upon one another.

“You wretch, you wastrel,” Drelacora hissed, “you were never meant to be one of the Master’s chosen, you were never meant to be.”

‘Twas twirled his blade with grim contentment, satisfied that he need not even strike more than once to bring his adversary to her knees. “Perhaps the Master should have chosen more carefully then, if a lowborn was able to bring you so low.”

The assassin poised his crimson-wreathed blade, alight with all the blood of the Crimson Court within it, as Crealis emerged from the shadows, the head of his mace raised high above his head. Lady Sinflame was rent asunder, her heart pieced through with the blade of her trusted assassin, and visage destroyed by the hand of her consort. Together, ‘Twas and Crealis ended the unlife of one of the Crimson Court’s most viscous and bloodthirsty players. At last, House Bloodwake was no more, and as Argent Crusade troops marched on Icecrown Citadel, soon the rest of the San’layn would fall.

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No Drop Shall Be Wasted

CW: gritty vampire story, so beware of themes of torture and emotional manipulation and blood.

Life on the northwestern shores of Quel’Thalas, bordering the Eversong Forest, was a simple but pleasurable one. The white sands were always sun-warmed and welcoming, and the sea was filled with bounty. Nestled on those shores, near the Sunsail Anchorage, was a small fishing village. Fishermen and traders alike spent their long days tending to their nets, sailing in to bring fish to shore, weaving baskets and salting their catches for storage and trade with nearby villages or in Silvermoon. A simple, but pleasurable life. When the day’s work was done however, the fisherman would haul up their empty nets to dry, and bring their shares home to their families. One such elf, however, had no family in the village to call his own, and so he often found himself looking out to the Great Sea when he was alone, wondering what lay beyond it.

An Exile from Silvermoon, ‘Twas had found himself in the care of these simple fishermen when he stumbled out onto the beach, dehydrated and covered in blood, beaten black and blue and missing the tips of his ears. After being nursed back to health, ‘Twas decided it was safer to live a simple life, and remained with the fisherman for many decades. In the years he spent there, while he was far from his family, the fisherman and their families were his new home. He enjoyed watching the sunset over the waves, feeling the cooling waters wash over his legs. He had no cares except to rise with the sun, bring in his catch, and tend to his nets when the day was done. And so when the fishermen retired to their homes at night, to be with their spouses and children, ‘Twas walked the shores by himself, looking out to sea as he tried not to long for the family he had lost.

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On certain days however, the fishermen would gather their best catches, and pack a cart to bring to Silvermoon City to sell them in the Bazaar. ‘Twas was remiss to ever enter the city himself, but he would always see the wagon halfway there, walking alongside it on the road.

On one such day, when the Sun was high in the sky, and the flowers of Eversong Woods were fragrant, ‘Twas accompanied the fishermen’s cart with a bag of salted and dried fish over his shoulder. There was something heavy and dark in the air, unseen but felt by the elf. Only a short ways from the city, ‘Twas urged his cohorts to stop a moment, and listen. As they paused their trek, annoyed but relenting, ‘Twas and the fishermen turned their ears to the air, looking back the way they had come. Across the river they had just passed, a dark cloud of Death and Horror was fording through the water. An army of undead, hungry and clawing at its master’s heels, was fast approaching.

‘Twas pushed his friends to leave the cart and their catch, and to flee to the city’s Shepherd’s Gate as fast as they could. Their hawkstrider’s were unhitched from the wagon as those that could fit together clambered onto their backs, and those that couldn’t were forced to stay on foot. ‘Twas had always been fast of foot, and while he was terrified that he would meet death in a Silvermoon, his former home, he would rather meet it there than on the road, at the mercy of an undead horde.

Together they escaped the horde, narrowly making into the Shepherd’s Gate alongside dozens more frantic elven citizens. Guards with tall tower shields and gleaming spears ushered them inside, their terrified visages hidden by their winged helms. The gates were shut, and soon after, panicked voices and slamming fists could be heard on the other side. Families clung to one another, counting their children in the hopes that none were left outside. ‘Twas was outraged by the barbarism of leaving more kin to fend for themselves, but his fellow fishermen urged him to keep his head down, lest he be recognized. Panicking and arguing ensued amongst the scared masses of tradesmen and simple folk, as all at once the din outside the gates ceased. A new, more terrifying noise settled in, as something large on the other side began to try and pry the doors apart.

The trampling horde of frightened elves began to flock deeper into the city, pushing past one another for any attempt to get to safety before the rest, leaving many with bruises and torn clothes as they went. ‘Twas was thrown around by the throng, separated from his companions in the frantic upheaval, covered in sweat and dirt from the cobble roads. It wasn’t long before masses of starving undead flooded Silvermoon City’s streets, and the crowds of lowborn elves were torn to shreds. ‘Twas broke off from the pack, unable to find the fishermen that had saved him many years ago in the panic, and took up a loose heavy brick from the floor as his only weapon of defense. He fled deeper into the city, face dirtied and bloodied and hopefully obscured from recognition, as he looked for a safe alcove to hide. Screams ricocheted off the tall gleaming walls, as the light of the Sun choked by burning smoke turned white towers into long, bloodstained fangs.

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Exhausted, heart pounding, and overwhelmed with grief and fear, ‘Twas wanted to do nothing more than to lay in the tiled streets of the Court of the Sun, even if that meant the hungry churning mass of Undeath would swallow him whole. More panicked elven citizens began to fill the Court, as they all tried to rush to their homes for safety. ‘Twas braced himself against the fountain, watching with slow dawning horror as richly dressed and panicked nobles were sundered by wretched knights in black suits of armor wielding weapons with wicked blades. Some were pounced upon by half-decayed ghouls, whose maws dripped with blood and saliva, while others were only brought low, but not slain. ‘Twas forced his legs beneath him once more, attempting to flee the massacre, but tripped over the scattered debris that littered the streets alongside bodies. The horrid knights and their rotting entourage all turned their focus to him, the last man standing in the bloodbath. ‘Twas could barely utter a scream before he was ambushed. Before the world went dark around him, he could have sworn the knights and their ghouls had pointed ears.

Time unknown began to pass, hours or days spent in darkness. Little by little, ‘Twas’ consciousness returned to him, but light did not. The floor beneath him was hard, cold, and dirty, smelling of refuse and sweet rot. Voices murmured and cried all around him, forced into silent whispers in the absence of the ability to scream. Whatever walls in the chamber were unseen, and the only visible light was that cast by pairs of eyes in hues of blue, indigo, and purple. Dozens upon dozens of elves— Quel’dorei like ‘Twas —had been spared one wretched fate, for another. Heaving and shuddering bodies were packed tightly together in the darkness, all alive, but wounded and traumatized. ‘Twas hugged his arms to himself, curling into a ball as he rested on the dirty floor. But he did not scream, and he did not cry. He couldn’t be sure he was alive, but if he was, he knew he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Just as the darkness began to stretch its fingers around ‘Twas’ mind, the cries of his kin deafening his ears, a silence fell upon the throng like a heavy black veil. Light filtered into the room, faintly visible, but harsh enough in the darkness that it burned to observe. A crimson aura entered the chamber, as a black cluster of figures began to weave through the masses like an adder. Rather than parting, the desperate masses swarmed and crawled along the ground, fawning and bowing at the feet of the heavy robed figures. The din of their frantic please gave form to bargaining and begging: “Please take all the gold you will, just let me go,” “Take me, just spare my family,” “Take my wife and my children but spare me.” But the robed figures said nothing, and moved in silence, uninhibited by the bodies throwing themselves in their path.

As the figures walked through the throng however— their captors, their saviors —there were times when they would halt before one elf in the pack. ‘Twas watched as the black curtain would part, and lithe, graceful hands would extend a dark goblet from within, stretching to offer it down to the Quel’dorei at their feet. One by one, the veiled figures would stop before elves, seemingly at random, and offer them that same goblet to drink. And one by one, the elf in question would take it in hungry, grasping hands, famished as they lapped at it, liquid spilling down their chins, but never depleting the chalice.  

While other elves pleaded for their lives, for a chance at even tasting a drop from that chalice, ‘Twas merely watched in dazed fascination, at the grace with which the robed figures traversed the rancid chamber, and how his kin would claw and push over one another to get to them. As ‘Twas banished any hope that he would be approached, longing to lay in the dirt and refuse and close his eyes one final time, a pale, blemish-free hand, adorned in rings of glittering gemstones, extended to him the black goblet from which select of his kin had been chosen to drink from. He turned his azure eyes up at the empty, vacant black veils in thanks, swearing he saw flashes of crimson behind the fabric, and spared no thought for what was in the chalice.

Something as dark and red and sweet as wine filled his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in its coolness. But as he withdrew his lips after nothing more than a sip, the rich taste gave way to something mealy and metallic. Nevertheless, a warmth filled ‘Twas’ chest and gullet, and he felt full and satisfied as the black robes once again drifted back into the mass. ‘Twas wiped his mouth, licking the wine from his fingers, and once more laid in the dirt, content.

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More time passed. Hours or days, it was uncertain in the dark. The figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, and once more the chamber was swallowed into the belly of darkness. The pleading cries of elven men and women quieted again, only occasionally disturbed by coughs and sputters, or arguing over why no one had thought to share their drink. Soon, more hacking and heaving punctuated the air, joined by quiet murmurings of fear. Panic once more gripped the gathered elves as their neighbors began to fall ill, weak and sluggish.

‘Twas himself too, found that the energy and warmth that had entered his body upon drinking, was beginning to leave him. His stomach cried, burning and wrenching like something in it was trying to escape, or to tear at its empty confines. His bones ached, ricocheting pain throbbed throughout his skull, like it was being stretched and crushed. The nails in his fingers felt as though they would fall out, the tips of them bloody and raw. His long raven black hair fell from his head in chunks, slipping through his torn fingers like sand, leaving uneven hairless patches along his scalp. The pain was immeasurable, the torment unending. Elves screamed in horror between fits of pitching and heaving, outrage filtering through the ranks that whatever had been given to them had started a contagious illness.

As more time passed, those affected finally felt Life leaving their bodies. ‘Twas doubled over in pain, having expelled every last drop of energy from his body, drooling as his gums bled. At long last, as he lay on the dirty floor, the strength he had used to cling to life so desperately was waning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all of these years, he’d have the chance to see his family again. As his eyelids shut, he could hear the sounds of screams being clipped short, and the ripping of clothing; but all that colored ‘Twas’ vision was the blurry, half-remembered face of his mother.

But Death did not come for the waiting elf, at least, not in the form he envisioned. Consciousness left ‘Twas, as cacophony and chaos erupted around him. Elves whose eyes had gone dark as they succumbed to the sickness, suddenly rose to their feet once more in the dark. Like starving beasts, they stalked the prey they had been locked away with. In mere moments, the once sickly elves pounced on one another, violently rending into those that were left defenseless. In the dark, ‘Twas eyes snapped awake, and rather than blackness, he could see the forms of every elf clearly before him in startling light. No screams were heard in his ears, only the pounding of a thousand drumbeats, the anxious breaths of strained lungs, the rushing of blood like water. 

Those that had drunk from the dark chalice were elves no longer, and were instead something new and twisted, something no longer living. Like blades of grass meeting a finer, sharper one, those found lacking were cut down readily and feasted upon by the predators let loose amongst them. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with blood and silence. Some of the hungry new creatures warred with one another over their kills, others writhed in the ecstasy of drinking their fill. 

Crimson light, sourceless and radiant, once more bathed the chamber with illumination, as the figures in robes made their entrance. The survivors of the onslaught lifted their crimson stares to look upon the black robes, as they cast off their veils. Pale elves, dripping with jewels and finery, beautiful and resplendent, waded amongst their new children, this time showered with praise and thanks for their mercy. These regal pale creatures raised their voices, gathering the hungry to them as they said:

“Noble Blood of Quel’Thalas, look well upon the heralds of your New Empire, now that you have tasted the blood of the Old. We are the Princes and Princesses of a new order, and you are our Precious Children. No drop of Precious Blood shall be wasted, and no cup of Lesser Blood shall go undrunk, for we will drain the world of all it’s riches, and build our walls with their iron, for we are the Darkfallen San’layn.”

The throngs of new Darkfallen erupted into cheers and adulation, praising their new masters, enthusiastic to take up new mantels of power. ‘Twas watched in silent horror, observing the new monsters surrounding him, the new monster he had become. In the dark, he could not see the faces of the elves around them, or see their garments; he could only hear their desperate bargaining. Now, as the pitch darkness parted for his new eyes, he saw the true faces of the men and women around him. Magisters, lords and ladies, tacticians and knights, the Nobility of Quel’Thalas, rounded up like animals in a pen, having been starved in a barren room, brought low by animalistic nature, now given way to their hungry selfish desires with new and terrifying power. He knew the looks in their crimson eyes well; he had seen it in the faces of the men that had exiled him from Silvermoon City decades ago, as they severed the pointed tips of his ears, and beat him bloody.

An ear splitting wail pierced the room, as ‘Twas fell to his knees on the filthy blood splattered floor, and wept. A sea of pitiless crimson eyes turned to him then, staring with craven annoyance. One of the San’layn Masters surged forward, striking ‘Twas across the face and sending him to the ground. He groveled at their feet, weeping and beating his fists on the floor, not begging for forgiveness or mercy, but lamenting that he had slaughtered and fed upon the living, that he had been ripped from the world he knew to become a monster. The San’layn looked amongst themselves, and then the groveling ‘Twas, and realized that the clothing he wore was not like their own, finery covered in filth from their conditions, but rather hand-me-down rags, clothing of a simple life with simple means. The San’layn Masters fell to bickering, pointing accusatory fingers. “Who has done this? Who has brought this lowborn into our midst? Who has wasted Blood on the unworthy?”

As the San’layn argued, one among them strode forward, and grasped ‘Twas’ face in her black claws. His wailing quieted as bloody tears streamed down his squashed cheeks, staring up into the shadowed face of the San’layn before him. He was twisted this way and that, as his features were examined, and found wanting.

“Is this not the Magister Eidolon Skygaze? Does he not posses his likeness?” One San’layn argued.

“If so, then why are his clothes ragged and homely? What has become of the real magister?” Another postured.

“Silence,” the San’layn spoke, grasping ‘Twas in her fingers as though he were nothing but a dry and moldy hunk of bread at a feast, “calm yourselves and your sniveling. What is done is done, and cannot be undone. No drop shall be wasted… this is our dark rebirth. If one of lesser birth has been brought into our fold, it would not do to waste the gift that was given.”

“Let me take him,” she argued, as ‘Twas struggled to see her features even with renewed vision, “he is not noble by birth, but he can become noble by bearing. This one can be made useful, if not as a Prince or Lord, then as a Thrall, a tool of our Crimson Court.”

The San’layn Masters and their new lordlings murmured in agreement, jeering and grinning as ‘Twas was dragged off, black claws dug into the flesh of his patchy scalp. He cried and thrashed, resisting his newfound destiny, rejecting the gift that was bestowed.

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While the other newborn Darkfallen were claimed by various houses, stripped of their tattered finery and bathed anew in lavish excess, ‘Twas’ mistaken identity slotted him for a harsher rebirth beneath the Scourge. Instead of richly adorned quarters, ‘Twas’ new home was a cell. Instead of glittering jewelry, his new trappings were iron chains and manacles. Where the hungry nobility acquiesced to their masters’ demands, ‘Twas spat in their faces, the sorrow for such wanton destruction renewed with the vigor of his dark rebirth. He rejected nobility, living or dead, and all that they stood for, for what they had done to him so many years ago, leaving him an exile because of his bastard birth.

But where there was resistance, ‘Twas was met with reprimand. Disobedience was punished severely, with higher tolls than just death. Failing to comply, rejecting blood when offered, was met with torturous treatment, the scars of such riddling every inch of his flesh as his skin was flayed then healed. Bumbling through the artistry and poise demanded of him at court, meant he would be made to drink his fill once left famished, only for bloodletting to drain him of the crimson prize he had taken.

Years passed, following the bloody fall of Silvermoon City, and the corruption of the Sunwell. Years passed, with ‘Twas in the shadowy clutches of the Crimson Court. Eventually, the beatings and bloodletting slowed, as ‘Twas swallowed the poison fed to him, along with his hatred, and became the tool he was meant to become. ‘Twas had become a master of all things courtly; not a noble by birth, but a noble by rearing. He was transformed, and had become a scholar, an artist, as well as an assassin. He excelled where other men of lesser birth would have failed, hiding the scars inflicted by his rearing and failed birth with the talents and bearing he had been taught. ‘Twas was no longer a simple fisherman, or exile from his homeland. Now, he was the Court Assassin, the clawed hand of one Lady Drelacora Sinflame, Matron of house Bloodwake, and player of the Crimson Court; the San’layn Master that had spared his life and raised him from nothingness.

A powerful magister and sorceress of fire in life, Lady Drelacora’s heart was frozen in death. She could freeze the blood in her enemies veins, wield the frigid iron within like daggers, and paralyze her opponents where they stood. Hemomantic and Cryomantic energies in equal measure made her a fearsome opponent, both in the setting of Court, and on the battlefield. As beautiful as she was, radiant and pale, she was not without blemish. The Lady Sinflame had once tasted the burning hands of zealous Paladin of the Silver Hand, who’s Light ate away at her flesh, leaving the right side of her face burned and cracked, her eye useless and unglowing. This scar she wore with honor, her beauty hardly disfigured, as she wanted her kin to know who their true enemy was, and what the Scourge stood to eradicate.

While the San’layn played at the Crimson Court, living in excess and vying for one another’s power, Lady Drelacora also trained her pet to pick off the weakest links in the chain; to secure new alliances, and shift the dynamics of the old. ‘Twas’ view of the nobles around him was ruthless and honed, and though he was beneath the heel of his Matron, she trusted his judgement.

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One such alliance, chosen to be beneficial to Drelacora and House Bloodwake, was securing the hand of a military leader with mighty martial prowess, as well as scholarly talent. Lord Crealis Redgorget, the General of the Bloody Brigade, a San’layn who’s artistry on the battlefield made him an easy choice to educate the Lich King’s Death Knights in the ways of Hemomancy, wielding blood as a weapon. Lord Crealis was a man of impressive stature, chiseled features framed intense eyes that could cut an army down to size in but a glance. A tactician’s sheer brilliance, a warrior’s hulking physique, and a lord’s humorous silver tongue; no better match could have been chosen to wear the crown of House Bloodwake.

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And at their command, an assassin of shadowy renown. A lowborn, who only spoke when spoken too, who stalked silently and unseen through the crowds, even in full view. ‘Twas the Nightslain, who had been plucked from nothing, and shined into something new and sharp, like a reforged blade. His rapier was saved for those at Court who could not measure up to their Master’s demands, as well as those Light-Fearing Paladins that bore down upon the Crimson Court’s fledgling empire in the Frozen North. Blood and Blade were bent to ‘Twas’ will as easily as leaves, as he followed the instructions of his Matron, Masked and Muzzled, like a wolf on a leash.

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Appearances at Court were seldom by Lady Drelacora, the Blood Matron choosing rather to send her second in command. But in celebration of another successful acquisition of territory in Northrend’s Borean Tundra, the San’layn Princes and Lordlings were drawn from their domains to partake in the revelry. Drelacora flaunted the tactician whose arm she hung off of, striking emerald green envy into the black hearts of all the Darkfallen who beheld her. The General Redgorget sneered instead of smiling at those they passed, shifting his weight in discomfort for having been unarmed, and unarmored.

Neutrality was all that ‘Twas felt, as he broke from his Matron’s side to cling to the shadows. A sharpened gaze and impassive visage took in the lavish decor and sycophantic nobles from a shaded perch. He could do nothing but watch and listen, not permitted to speak unless addressed, not permitted to drink unless offered. It was rude to take what was not his, just as it was rude to refuse a drink offered in charity; both would lead to dire consequences, at the hand of his Matron.

The Ballroom of the Crimson Court was filled with music, gem-encrusted bodies swaying along as if possessed. Chalices of ruby liquid were drained and set aside, as hands found their partners and took to the floor. ‘Twas watched with impartiality and numb observance as Lady Drelacora ushered her stilted partner to the floor, Lord Crealis following her whims with some hidden reluctance. But the Lady Sinflame cared not, as the pair of them joined the others throwing their bodies together in dance. All on the floor watched in awe as the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake took to the floor, Lord Crealis’ commanding and fearsome presence parting a clearing for just the two of them. How graceful and light Lady Drelacora was in Lord Crealis’ hands, as he spun her about like a top. A smirk crossed the Lord’s unshaven features as Lady Drelacora giggled in delight, draped down and bending at the waist, throwing her pale head back with a beaming smile.

All in attendance at the Crimson Court paused to observe the pair as they danced.

They were beautiful.

They were deadly.

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Whispers filtered through the chattering San’layn as they left the floor to return to their alcoves of drinking and gossip; House Bloodwake cut a fearsome figure amongst the Court this night, as the Matron’s new right hand was displayed so proudly and openly. ‘Twas listened to their honeyed words of approval and fear over the rapture of cello and organ, taking note of who would be willing to follow his House. As the San’layn— and therefore the Scourge —increased in power, ‘Twas found with some degree of dissatisfaction that he was no longer as useful a tool as he had once been. If celebrations like this were to be had more once the Scourge was successful, what use had he as a blade? He could speak and play at court as well as the rest of them, but what was the point if he had no mouth?

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The assassin found himself growing restless, and pushed away from his perch to stalk the halls once more, as the band struck up another dance. He did not see Lady Drelacora break off from her political partner, nor did he see the Lord Redgorget’s approach. ‘Twas had scarcely begun to stalk the outskirts of the dance before Lord Crealis gently caught him by the arm. The assassin turned, poised for cutting remarks and even more cutting blades, a hand drifting to his sheathed rapier, before he met the eye of the Lord.

“You seem to be sulking more than I tonight,” the Lord said, addressing ‘Twas with ease and informality, “if I am intruding upon your work for the Lady, I beg your pardon, but I finally have a moment to myself, and I’ve noticed that you seem to only have yourself.”

A softer, more melodious theme played over the ballroom floor, as again more Darkfallen paired off, this time for a more rigid, organized dance. ‘Twas made no move to respond, watching the Lord speak with curiosity. Lord Crealis looked to the floor, then back to his silent conversation partner, and with tremendous care, bowed his head of faded amber towards ‘Twas, extending his hand to say “if you will not speak, then indulge me a moment, and let’s meet on the floor for one last dance. Then I think, we’ll both have had our fill of this garish place.”

‘Twas lifted his chin, head cocked inquisitively, as he timidly obliged the Lord with healthy suspicion. Side by side, but not hand in hand, ‘Twas and Lord Crealis entered the floor once more, a gaggle of whispers surrounding them like leeches in a lake. Crimson eyes watched with wonder as the Lord moved with his House Assassin as though he were an equal, one of higher standing like himself. For once, ‘Twas cared not for the words muttered by the prying nobility, nor for the looks of scorn they threw him. 

‘Twas had been educated in many a dance, learning every move and position under threat of deprivation, and as such, fell easily into the steps of the dance alongside Lord Crealis. The Lord moved with sudden rigidity compared to that of his dance with Lady Drelacora, his brows pinched in thought, one hand wrapped in a fist. But the pair fell into slow, easy step around one another, stalking the floor in circles with palms raised, a whisper of touch implied.

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“I don’t remember this dance very well. Do you?” The Lord asked, dark red eyes darting from the floor to ‘Twas’ neutral expression. 

‘Twas flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, the red iron rings and claw caps skirting the sides of Lord Crealis’ fingers. He thought for a moment, content to leave the Lord in silence for addressing him with such overfamiliarity, fearing it may be a trick. But the assassin could not help the upward quirk at one corner of his mouth, as he met his gaze and said, “perhaps too well. Follow my lead, and do as I do, and we may just leave the floor alive.”

A smile travelled the length of the Lord’s scruffy mouth, as a look of amusement painted his features upon hearing the assassin’s voice for the very first time. A laugh could do nothing to stop itself from tumbling from his lips, as quiet as it was, “I will have to trust you. But be warned, I may trip over my feet. If I fall flat on my face, leave me and save yourself.”

The dance only lasted so long, but even still, in hushed tones the Assassin and Lord traded witty remarks and verbal blows, as if they were old friends meeting each other after years apart on the battlefield. All gossip that swirled around the room fell upon their deaf ears, even after the two of them left the floor, and parted ways. 

‘Twas found that no matter what he did, the tilt of a small smile would not leave his face, even as he withdrew to the shadows once more. Though as Lady Drelacora returned to the room, her plush lips darker with the crimson jewel tones of a recent feast, Lord Crealis’ nonplused demeanor returned to him, as once more the crook of his arm became occupied. Lady Drelacora shared in the gossip, fawning with the other nobles about her match, and the wealth of opportunities their allegiance would open up. Lord Crealis would pretend to listen and nod along, trading pained and polite smiles with those he was introduced to, yet all the while, when none were looking, he would effortlessly find ‘Twas’ gaze at the far end of the crowd, peeking at the assassin from where he watched in the shadows. And at every meeting of eyes, ‘Twas would bow his head, and offer an encouraging smile, unseen by the hundreds of eyes except the Lord’s.

The night of revelry eventually drew to a close, however, as the San’layn had drunk and danced their fill. Alliances were made, bonds formed and broken, politics traded for politics. Lady Drelacora accomplished what she set out to do, territory thoroughly marked, and power clearly displayed, and so House Bloodwake returned to its manor.

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The Scourge’s war raged across Northrend, and with many victories under its heels. With new purpose bestowed upon him, the General of the Bloody Brigade withdrew from the front to spend time learning the lay of his new land. Lady Drelacora continued her ruthless pursuit of zealots, sights focused on the Argent Crusade as they marched upon the shores of Northrend, her focus turned away from her newest pet for a time. With the Lady of the House gone, ‘Twas found himself in her castle with no one to keep an eye on him. No one, of course, except the Lord Redgorget.

Unadorned, stripped of the jeweled and armored facades that they both wore, ‘Twas and Crealis met face to face once more, as they walked the spacious stone halls of Castle Bloodwake by themselves. ‘Twas was shocked to find that the fearsome and bloodthirsty general of the Scourge’s armies of Death Knights was truly not so fearsome— and Crealis was surprised that the shadowy assassin of his inherited political power had a voice and thoughts of his own, that differed from that of his Lady. Without the pressure of the Crimson Court, ‘Twas and Crealis became fast friends, united by crude humor born of their living pasts, and shared love of martial combat born of their deaths.

Days and nights were spent in deep conversation, as Crealis and ‘Twas discussed any number of topics. Philosophy, art, music, combat— even simpler things, like the coasts of Quel’Thalas, the merchants and their goods, the bawdy atmosphere of Silvermoon City’s taverns. They practiced combat, training and sparring to show strength and for amusement. Slowly, gradually, the pair found they quite enjoyed the other’s company. Without the prying eyes of other darkfallen to see them, ‘Twas and Crealis had the freedom to relax, and drop the masks that were so often demanded of them. The numbed neutrality ‘Twas found he felt for most things melted away like snow under the light of the Sun, and only did so in Crealis’ presence. The warrior and General eased upon carrying his soldier’s bearing, his guard falling moment by moment as he got to know the lowborn assassin, learning the secret mind that sat untouched behind the muzzle of courtly politeness.

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In Lady Drelacora’s continued absence, it wasn’t long before the conversations traded between the Lord and Assassin took on a softer nature. The brush of hands whilst conversing, the locking of eyes whilst passing, quiet words traded at the end of an evening. After a thousand cuts and flayings for speaking out of turn, ‘Twas had never been able to speak his mind more clearly than with Crealis. And the General used as a political stepping stone, a weapon wielded so that his “partner” could climb higher, had never been afforded such simple kindness and caring than by ‘Twas. 

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Still, it came as every shock, when Crealis confided in ‘Twas his unwillingness to return to the frontlines, if it meant leaving him to the castle, or to his work once again severing the links of weaker lordlings. More shocking still, that Crealis would set his hand so neatly about ‘Twas’ waist, as though they were dancing in that ballroom again. A fate was decided upon, chosen freely for the first time, as ‘Twas allowed himself to press his lips to Crealis’, without fear of the repercussions. Crealis held him gently, his titles as Lord or General falling away like paper armor, as he returned the kiss with wanting. In darkness and in secret, the Lord and Assassin upheld their trysts, a bond stronger than any made at Court forged between them.

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Shockwaves were felt down the chains of command amongst the San’layn, however, as rapidly, three of their most precious Princes were felled in battle by mortal heroes. Unease was palpable amongst the Darkfallen, and hollow grief was voiced at these heavy losses.

Emboldened with calming the masses, and having tasted her fill of holy blood in defense of the Scourge, Lady Drelacora returned to her manor. War was encroaching upon Icecrown’s doorstep, and the Lich King curled his fingers of rime for all his best lieutenants to return to the front. Lord Crealis was needed among them.

On the eve of Lady Drelacora’s return, a plot was hatched by Crealis’ tactical brilliance. Crealis found in the Lady’s possession a pair of earrings, forged in red iron with gleaming rubies. With an enchantment placed on them both, as long as the other wore one half of the set, ‘Twas and Crealis could communicate with each other at any distance, at any time, simply by thinking of the other. 

Crealis would return to Icecrown proper, to lead his troops against the forces amassing at his master’s door; and when Lady Drelacora returned, ‘Twas would go back to court, continuing his duties as reconnaissance and assassin, but instead turning his blade upon the most powerful at court. With the Blood Princes slain, the court was weak, and Power ripe for the taking— Lady Drelacora could hardly say no to a tactical advantage. She would get her status, and ‘Twas would take his revenge. With their plan set, and their thoughts never far from each other, ‘Twas and Crealis went their separate ways. 

One by one, players of the Crimson Court began to fall. Unease turned to panic once again, as the lordlings were filled with alarm at the deadly threat taking their allies off of the board. Unseen was ‘Twas the Nightslain, as he enacted brutal Justice against the bloodsuckers that had played roles in his tragedy. All the years of anger and hatred swallowed in favor of survival were unleashed in bloody slaughter, as ‘Twas inflicted wounds akin to the scars he bore from countless hours of torture, much to the amusement of ‘Twas’ Matron. Drelacora’s day would come, one way or another, even if she sat at the highest seat of power when it did.

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No Drop Shall Be Wasted

CW: gritty vampire story, so beware of themes of torture and emotional manipulation and blood.

Life on the northwestern shores of Quel’Thalas, bordering the Eversong Forest, was a simple but pleasurable one. The white sands were always sun-warmed and welcoming, and the sea was filled with bounty. Nestled on those shores, near the Sunsail Anchorage, was a small fishing village. Fishermen and traders alike spent their long days tending to their nets, sailing in to bring fish to shore, weaving baskets and salting their catches for storage and trade with nearby villages or in Silvermoon. A simple, but pleasurable life. When the day’s work was done however, the fisherman would haul up their empty nets to dry, and bring their shares home to their families. One such elf, however, had no family in the village to call his own, and so he often found himself looking out to the Great Sea when he was alone, wondering what lay beyond it.

An Exile from Silvermoon, ‘Twas had found himself in the care of these simple fishermen when he stumbled out onto the beach, dehydrated and covered in blood, beaten black and blue and missing the tips of his ears. After being nursed back to health, ‘Twas decided it was safer to live a simple life, and remained with the fisherman for many decades. In the years he spent there, while he was far from his family, the fisherman and their families were his new home. He enjoyed watching the sunset over the waves, feeling the cooling waters wash over his legs. He had no cares except to rise with the sun, bring in his catch, and tend to his nets when the day was done. And so when the fishermen retired to their homes at night, to be with their spouses and children, ‘Twas walked the shores by himself, looking out to sea as he tried not to long for the family he had lost.

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On certain days however, the fishermen would gather their best catches, and pack a cart to bring to Silvermoon City to sell them in the Bazaar. ‘Twas was remiss to ever enter the city himself, but he would always see the wagon halfway there, walking alongside it on the road.

On one such day, when the Sun was high in the sky, and the flowers of Eversong Woods were fragrant, ‘Twas accompanied the fishermen’s cart with a bag of salted and dried fish over his shoulder. There was something heavy and dark in the air, unseen but felt by the elf. Only a short ways from the city, ‘Twas urged his cohorts to stop a moment, and listen. As they paused their trek, annoyed but relenting, ‘Twas and the fishermen turned their ears to the air, looking back the way they had come. Across the river they had just passed, a dark cloud of Death and Horror was fording through the water. An army of undead, hungry and clawing at its master’s heels, was fast approaching.

‘Twas pushed his friends to leave the cart and their catch, and to flee to the city’s Shepherd’s Gate as fast as they could. Their hawkstrider’s were unhitched from the wagon as those that could fit together clambered onto their backs, and those that couldn’t were forced to stay on foot. ‘Twas had always been fast of foot, and while he was terrified that he would meet death in a Silvermoon, his former home, he would rather meet it there than on the road, at the mercy of an undead horde.

Together they escaped the horde, narrowly making into the Shepherd’s Gate alongside dozens more frantic elven citizens. Guards with tall tower shields and gleaming spears ushered them inside, their terrified visages hidden by their winged helms. The gates were shut, and soon after, panicked voices and slamming fists could be heard on the other side. Families clung to one another, counting their children in the hopes that none were left outside. ‘Twas was outraged by the barbarism of leaving more kin to fend for themselves, but his fellow fishermen urged him to keep his head down, lest he be recognized. Panicking and arguing ensued amongst the scared masses of tradesmen and simple folk, as all at once the din outside the gates ceased. A new, more terrifying noise settled in, as something large on the other side began to try and pry the doors apart.

The trampling horde of frightened elves began to flock deeper into the city, pushing past one another for any attempt to get to safety before the rest, leaving many with bruises and torn clothes as they went. ‘Twas was thrown around by the throng, separated from his companions in the frantic upheaval, covered in sweat and dirt from the cobble roads. It wasn’t long before masses of starving undead flooded Silvermoon City’s streets, and the crowds of lowborn elves were torn to shreds. ‘Twas broke off from the pack, unable to find the fishermen that had saved him many years ago in the panic, and took up a loose heavy brick from the floor as his only weapon of defense. He fled deeper into the city, face dirtied and bloodied and hopefully obscured from recognition, as he looked for a safe alcove to hide. Screams ricocheted off the tall gleaming walls, as the light of the Sun choked by burning smoke turned white towers into long, bloodstained fangs.

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Exhausted, heart pounding, and overwhelmed with grief and fear, ‘Twas wanted to do nothing more than to lay in the tiled streets of the Court of the Sun, even if that meant the hungry churning mass of Undeath would swallow him whole. More panicked elven citizens began to fill the Court, as they all tried to rush to their homes for safety. ‘Twas braced himself against the fountain, watching with slow dawning horror as richly dressed and panicked nobles were sundered by wretched knights in black suits of armor wielding weapons with wicked blades. Some were pounced upon by half-decayed ghouls, whose maws dripped with blood and saliva, while others were only brought low, but not slain. ‘Twas forced his legs beneath him once more, attempting to flee the massacre, but tripped over the scattered debris that littered the streets alongside bodies. The horrid knights and their rotting entourage all turned their focus to him, the last man standing in the bloodbath. ‘Twas could barely utter a scream before he was ambushed. Before the world went dark around him, he could have sworn the knights and their ghouls had pointed ears.

Time unknown began to pass, hours or days spent in darkness. Little by little, ‘Twas’ consciousness returned to him, but light did not. The floor beneath him was hard, cold, and dirty, smelling of refuse and sweet rot. Voices murmured and cried all around him, forced into silent whispers in the absence of the ability to scream. Whatever walls in the chamber were unseen, and the only visible light was that cast by pairs of eyes in hues of blue, indigo, and purple. Dozens upon dozens of elves— Quel’dorei like ‘Twas —had been spared one wretched fate, for another. Heaving and shuddering bodies were packed tightly together in the darkness, all alive, but wounded and traumatized. ‘Twas hugged his arms to himself, curling into a ball as he rested on the dirty floor. But he did not scream, and he did not cry. He couldn’t be sure he was alive, but if he was, he knew he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Just as the darkness began to stretch its fingers around ‘Twas’ mind, the cries of his kin deafening his ears, a silence fell upon the throng like a heavy black veil. Light filtered into the room, faintly visible, but harsh enough in the darkness that it burned to observe. A crimson aura entered the chamber, as a black cluster of figures began to weave through the masses like an adder. Rather than parting, the desperate masses swarmed and crawled along the ground, fawning and bowing at the feet of the heavy robed figures. The din of their frantic please gave form to bargaining and begging: “Please take all the gold you will, just let me go,” “Take me, just spare my family,” “Take my wife and my children but spare me.” But the robed figures said nothing, and moved in silence, uninhibited by the bodies throwing themselves in their path.

As the figures walked through the throng however— their captors, their saviors —there were times when they would halt before one elf in the pack. ‘Twas watched as the black curtain would part, and lithe, graceful hands would extend a dark goblet from within, stretching to offer it down to the Quel’dorei at their feet. One by one, the veiled figures would stop before elves, seemingly at random, and offer them that same goblet to drink. And one by one, the elf in question would take it in hungry, grasping hands, famished as they lapped at it, liquid spilling down their chins, but never depleting the chalice.  

While other elves pleaded for their lives, for a chance at even tasting a drop from that chalice, ‘Twas merely watched in dazed fascination, at the grace with which the robed figures traversed the rancid chamber, and how his kin would claw and push over one another to get to them. As ‘Twas banished any hope that he would be approached, longing to lay in the dirt and refuse and close his eyes one final time, a pale, blemish-free hand, adorned in rings of glittering gemstones, extended to him the black goblet from which select of his kin had been chosen to drink from. He turned his azure eyes up at the empty, vacant black veils in thanks, swearing he saw flashes of crimson behind the fabric, and spared no thought for what was in the chalice.

Something as dark and red and sweet as wine filled his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in its coolness. But as he withdrew his lips after nothing more than a sip, the rich taste gave way to something mealy and metallic. Nevertheless, a warmth filled ‘Twas’ chest and gullet, and he felt full and satisfied as the black robes once again drifted back into the mass. ‘Twas wiped his mouth, licking the wine from his fingers, and once more laid in the dirt, content.

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More time passed. Hours or days, it was uncertain in the dark. The figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, and once more the chamber was swallowed into the belly of darkness. The pleading cries of elven men and women quieted again, only occasionally disturbed by coughs and sputters, or arguing over why no one had thought to share their drink. Soon, more hacking and heaving punctuated the air, joined by quiet murmurings of fear. Panic once more gripped the gathered elves as their neighbors began to fall ill, weak and sluggish.

‘Twas himself too, found that the energy and warmth that had entered his body upon drinking, was beginning to leave him. His stomach cried, burning and wrenching like something in it was trying to escape, or to tear at its empty confines. His bones ached, ricocheting pain throbbed throughout his skull, like it was being stretched and crushed. The nails in his fingers felt as though they would fall out, the tips of them bloody and raw. His long raven black hair fell from his head in chunks, slipping through his torn fingers like sand, leaving uneven hairless patches along his scalp. The pain was immeasurable, the torment unending. Elves screamed in horror between fits of pitching and heaving, outrage filtering through the ranks that whatever had been given to them had started a contagious illness.

As more time passed, those affected finally felt Life leaving their bodies. ‘Twas doubled over in pain, having expelled every last drop of energy from his body, drooling as his gums bled. At long last, as he lay on the dirty floor, the strength he had used to cling to life so desperately was waning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all of these years, he’d have the chance to see his family again. As his eyelids shut, he could hear the sounds of screams being clipped short, and the ripping of clothing; but all that colored ‘Twas’ vision was the blurry, half-remembered face of his mother.

But Death did not come for the waiting elf, at least, not in the form he envisioned. Consciousness left ‘Twas, as cacophony and chaos erupted around him. Elves whose eyes had gone dark as they succumbed to the sickness, suddenly rose to their feet once more in the dark. Like starving beasts, they stalked the prey they had been locked away with. In mere moments, the once sickly elves pounced on one another, violently rending into those that were left defenseless. In the dark, ‘Twas eyes snapped awake, and rather than blackness, he could see the forms of every elf clearly before him in startling light. No screams were heard in his ears, only the pounding of a thousand drumbeats, the anxious breaths of strained lungs, the rushing of blood like water. 

Those that had drunk from the dark chalice were elves no longer, and were instead something new and twisted, something no longer living. Like blades of grass meeting a finer, sharper one, those found lacking were cut down readily and feasted upon by the predators let loose amongst them. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with blood and silence. Some of the hungry new creatures warred with one another over their kills, others writhed in the ecstasy of drinking their fill. 

Crimson light, sourceless and radiant, once more bathed the chamber with illumination, as the figures in robes made their entrance. The survivors of the onslaught lifted their crimson stares to look upon the black robes, as they cast off their veils. Pale elves, dripping with jewels and finery, beautiful and resplendent, waded amongst their new children, this time showered with praise and thanks for their mercy. These regal pale creatures raised their voices, gathering the hungry to them as they said:

“Noble Blood of Quel’Thalas, look well upon the heralds of your New Empire, now that you have tasted the blood of the Old. We are the Princes and Princesses of a new order, and you are our Precious Children. No drop of Precious Blood shall be wasted, and no cup of Lesser Blood shall go undrunk, for we will drain the world of all it’s riches, and build our walls with their iron, for we are the Darkfallen San’layn.”

The throngs of new Darkfallen erupted into cheers and adulation, praising their new masters, enthusiastic to take up new mantels of power. ‘Twas watched in silent horror, observing the new monsters surrounding him, the new monster he had become. In the dark, he could not see the faces of the elves around them, or see their garments; he could only hear their desperate bargaining. Now, as the pitch darkness parted for his new eyes, he saw the true faces of the men and women around him. Magisters, lords and ladies, tacticians and knights, the Nobility of Quel’Thalas, rounded up like animals in a pen, having been starved in a barren room, brought low by animalistic nature, now given way to their hungry selfish desires with new and terrifying power. He knew the looks in their crimson eyes well; he had seen it in the faces of the men that had exiled him from Silvermoon City decades ago, as they severed the pointed tips of his ears, and beat him bloody.

An ear splitting wail pierced the room, as ‘Twas fell to his knees on the filthy blood splattered floor, and wept. A sea of pitiless crimson eyes turned to him then, staring with craven annoyance. One of the San’layn Masters surged forward, striking ‘Twas across the face and sending him to the ground. He groveled at their feet, weeping and beating his fists on the floor, not begging for forgiveness or mercy, but lamenting that he had slaughtered and fed upon the living, that he had been ripped from the world he knew to become a monster. The San’layn looked amongst themselves, and then the groveling ‘Twas, and realized that the clothing he wore was not like their own, finery covered in filth from their conditions, but rather hand-me-down rags, clothing of a simple life with simple means. The San’layn Masters fell to bickering, pointing accusatory fingers. “Who has done this? Who has brought this lowborn into our midst? Who has wasted Blood on the unworthy?”

As the San’layn argued, one among them strode forward, and grasped ‘Twas’ face in her black claws. His wailing quieted as bloody tears streamed down his squashed cheeks, staring up into the shadowed face of the San’layn before him. He was twisted this way and that, as his features were examined, and found wanting.

“Is this not the Magister Eidolon Skygaze? Does he not posses his likeness?” One San’layn argued.

“If so, then why are his clothes ragged and homely? What has become of the real magister?” Another postured.

“Silence,” the San’layn spoke, grasping ‘Twas in her fingers as though he were nothing but a dry and moldy hunk of bread at a feast, “calm yourselves and your sniveling. What is done is done, and cannot be undone. No drop shall be wasted… this is our dark rebirth. If one of lesser birth has been brought into our fold, it would not do to waste the gift that was given.”

“Let me take him,” she argued, as ‘Twas struggled to see her features even with renewed vision, “he is not noble by birth, but he can become noble by bearing. This one can be made useful, if not as a Prince or Lord, then as a Thrall, a tool of our Crimson Court.”

The San’layn Masters and their new lordlings murmured in agreement, jeering and grinning as ‘Twas was dragged off, black claws dug into the flesh of his patchy scalp. He cried and thrashed, resisting his newfound destiny, rejecting the gift that was bestowed.

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While the other newborn Darkfallen were claimed by various houses, stripped of their tattered finery and bathed anew in lavish excess, ‘Twas’ mistaken identity slotted him for a harsher rebirth beneath the Scourge. Instead of richly adorned quarters, ‘Twas’ new home was a cell. Instead of glittering jewelry, his new trappings were iron chains and manacles. Where the hungry nobility acquiesced to their masters’ demands, ‘Twas spat in their faces, the sorrow for such wanton destruction renewed with the vigor of his dark rebirth. He rejected nobility, living or dead, and all that they stood for, for what they had done to him so many years ago, leaving him an exile because of his bastard birth.

But where there was resistance, ‘Twas was met with reprimand. Disobedience was punished severely, with higher tolls than just death. Failing to comply, rejecting blood when offered, was met with torturous treatment, the scars of such riddling every inch of his flesh as his skin was flayed then healed. Bumbling through the artistry and poise demanded of him at court, meant he would be made to drink his fill once left famished, only for bloodletting to drain him of the crimson prize he had taken.

Years passed, following the bloody fall of Silvermoon City, and the corruption of the Sunwell. Years passed, with ‘Twas in the shadowy clutches of the Crimson Court. Eventually, the beatings and bloodletting slowed, as ‘Twas swallowed the poison fed to him, along with his hatred, and became the tool he was meant to become. ‘Twas had become a master of all things courtly; not a noble by birth, but a noble by rearing. He was transformed, and had become a scholar, an artist, as well as an assassin. He excelled where other men of lesser birth would have failed, hiding the scars inflicted by his rearing and failed birth with the talents and bearing he had been taught. ‘Twas was no longer a simple fisherman, or exile from his homeland. Now, he was the Court Assassin, the clawed hand of one Lady Drelacora Sinflame, Matron of house Bloodwake, and player of the Crimson Court; the San’layn Master that had spared his life and raised him from nothingness.

A powerful magister and sorceress of fire in life, Lady Drelacora’s heart was frozen in death. She could freeze the blood in her enemies veins, wield the frigid iron within like daggers, and paralyze her opponents where they stood. Hemomantic and Cryomantic energies in equal measure made her a fearsome opponent, both in the setting of Court, and on the battlefield. As beautiful as she was, radiant and pale, she was not without blemish. The Lady Sinflame had once tasted the burning hands of zealous Paladin of the Silver Hand, who’s Light ate away at her flesh, leaving the right side of her face burned and cracked, her eye useless and unglowing. This scar she wore with honor, her beauty hardly disfigured, as she wanted her kin to know who their true enemy was, and what the Scourge stood to eradicate.

While the San’layn played at the Crimson Court, living in excess and vying for one another’s power, Lady Drelacora also trained her pet to pick off the weakest links in the chain; to secure new alliances, and shift the dynamics of the old. ‘Twas’ view of the nobles around him was ruthless and honed, and though he was beneath the heel of his Matron, she trusted his judgement.

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One such alliance, chosen to be beneficial to Drelacora and House Bloodwake, was securing the hand of a military leader with mighty martial prowess, as well as scholarly talent. Lord Crealis Redgorget, the General of the Bloody Brigade, a San’layn who’s artistry on the battlefield made him an easy choice to educate the Lich King’s Death Knights in the ways of Hemomancy, wielding blood as a weapon. Lord Crealis was a man of impressive stature, chiseled features framed intense eyes that could cut an army down to size in but a glance. A tactician’s sheer brilliance, a warrior’s hulking physique, and a lord’s humorous silver tongue; no better match could have been chosen to wear the crown of House Bloodwake.

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And at their command, an assassin of shadowy renown. A lowborn, who only spoke when spoken too, who stalked silently and unseen through the crowds, even in full view. ‘Twas the Nightslain, who had been plucked from nothing, and shined into something new and sharp, like a reforged blade. His rapier was saved for those at Court who could not measure up to their Master’s demands, as well as those Light-Fearing Paladins that bore down upon the Crimson Court’s fledgling empire in the Frozen North. Blood and Blade were bent to ‘Twas’ will as easily as leaves, as he followed the instructions of his Matron, Masked and Muzzled, like a wolf on a leash.

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Appearances at Court were seldom by Lady Drelacora, the Blood Matron choosing rather to send her second in command. But in celebration of another successful acquisition of territory in Northrend’s Borean Tundra, the San’layn Princes and Lordlings were drawn from their domains to partake in the revelry. Drelacora flaunted the tactician whose arm she hung off of, striking emerald green envy into the black hearts of all the Darkfallen who beheld her. The General Redgorget sneered instead of smiling at those they passed, shifting his weight in discomfort for having been unarmed, and unarmored.

Neutrality was all that ‘Twas felt, as he broke from his Matron’s side to cling to the shadows. A sharpened gaze and impassive visage took in the lavish decor and sycophantic nobles from a shaded perch. He could do nothing but watch and listen, not permitted to speak unless addressed, not permitted to drink unless offered. It was rude to take what was not his, just as it was rude to refuse a drink offered in charity; both would lead to dire consequences, at the hand of his Matron.

The Ballroom of the Crimson Court was filled with music, gem-encrusted bodies swaying along as if possessed. Chalices of ruby liquid were drained and set aside, as hands found their partners and took to the floor. ‘Twas watched with impartiality and numb observance as Lady Drelacora ushered her stilted partner to the floor, Lord Crealis following her whims with some hidden reluctance. But the Lady Sinflame cared not, as the pair of them joined the others throwing their bodies together in dance. All on the floor watched in awe as the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake took to the floor, Lord Crealis’ commanding and fearsome presence parting a clearing for just the two of them. How graceful and light Lady Drelacora was in Lord Crealis’ hands, as he spun her about like a top. A smirk crossed the Lord’s unshaven features as Lady Drelacora giggled in delight, draped down and bending at the waist, throwing her pale head back with a beaming smile.

All in attendance at the Crimson Court paused to observe the pair as they danced.

They were beautiful.

They were deadly.

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Whispers filtered through the chattering San’layn as they left the floor to return to their alcoves of drinking and gossip; House Bloodwake cut a fearsome figure amongst the Court this night, as the Matron’s new right hand was displayed so proudly and openly. ‘Twas listened to their honeyed words of approval and fear over the rapture of cello and organ, taking note of who would be willing to follow his House. As the San’layn— and therefore the Scourge —increased in power, ‘Twas found with some degree of dissatisfaction that he was no longer as useful a tool as he had once been. If celebrations like this were to be had more once the Scourge was successful, what use had he as a blade? He could speak and play at court as well as the rest of them, but what was the point if he had no mouth?

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The assassin found himself growing restless, and pushed away from his perch to stalk the halls once more, as the band struck up another dance. He did not see Lady Drelacora break off from her political partner, nor did he see the Lord Redgorget’s approach. ‘Twas had scarcely begun to stalk the outskirts of the dance before Lord Crealis gently caught him by the arm. The assassin turned, poised for cutting remarks and even more cutting blades, a hand drifting to his sheathed rapier, before he met the eye of the Lord.

“You seem to be sulking more than I tonight,” the Lord said, addressing ‘Twas with ease and informality, “if I am intruding upon your work for the Lady, I beg your pardon, but I finally have a moment to myself, and I’ve noticed that you seem to only have yourself.”

A softer, more melodious theme played over the ballroom floor, as again more Darkfallen paired off, this time for a more rigid, organized dance. ‘Twas made no move to respond, watching the Lord speak with curiosity. Lord Crealis looked to the floor, then back to his silent conversation partner, and with tremendous care, bowed his head of faded amber towards ‘Twas, extending his hand to say “if you will not speak, then indulge me a moment, and let’s meet on the floor for one last dance. Then I think, we’ll both have had our fill of this garish place.”

‘Twas lifted his chin, head cocked inquisitively, as he timidly obliged the Lord with healthy suspicion. Side by side, but not hand in hand, ‘Twas and Lord Crealis entered the floor once more, a gaggle of whispers surrounding them like leeches in a lake. Crimson eyes watched with wonder as the Lord moved with his House Assassin as though he were an equal, one of higher standing like himself. For once, ‘Twas cared not for the words muttered by the prying nobility, nor for the looks of scorn they threw him. 

‘Twas had been educated in many a dance, learning every move and position under threat of deprivation, and as such, fell easily into the steps of the dance alongside Lord Crealis. The Lord moved with sudden rigidity compared to that of his dance with Lady Drelacora, his brows pinched in thought, one hand wrapped in a fist. But the pair fell into slow, easy step around one another, stalking the floor in circles with palms raised, a whisper of touch implied.

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“I don’t remember this dance very well. Do you?” The Lord asked, dark red eyes darting from the floor to ‘Twas’ neutral expression. 

‘Twas flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, the red iron rings and claw caps skirting the sides of Lord Crealis’ fingers. He thought for a moment, content to leave the Lord in silence for addressing him with such overfamiliarity, fearing it may be a trick. But the assassin could not help the upward quirk at one corner of his mouth, as he met his gaze and said, “perhaps too well. Follow my lead, and do as I do, and we may just leave the floor alive.”

A smile travelled the length of the Lord’s scruffy mouth, as a look of amusement painted his features upon hearing the assassin’s voice for the very first time. A laugh could do nothing to stop itself from tumbling from his lips, as quiet as it was, “I will have to trust you. But be warned, I may trip over my feet. If I fall flat on my face, leave me and save yourself.”

The dance only lasted so long, but even still, in hushed tones the Assassin and Lord traded witty remarks and verbal blows, as if they were old friends meeting each other after years apart on the battlefield. All gossip that swirled around the room fell upon their deaf ears, even after the two of them left the floor, and parted ways. 

‘Twas found that no matter what he did, the tilt of a small smile would not leave his face, even as he withdrew to the shadows once more. Though as Lady Drelacora returned to the room, her plush lips darker with the crimson jewel tones of a recent feast, Lord Crealis’ nonplused demeanor returned to him, as once more the crook of his arm became occupied. Lady Drelacora shared in the gossip, fawning with the other nobles about her match, and the wealth of opportunities their allegiance would open up. Lord Crealis would pretend to listen and nod along, trading pained and polite smiles with those he was introduced to, yet all the while, when none were looking, he would effortlessly find ‘Twas’ gaze at the far end of the crowd, peeking at the assassin from where he watched in the shadows. And at every meeting of eyes, ‘Twas would bow his head, and offer an encouraging smile, unseen by the hundreds of eyes except the Lord’s.

The night of revelry eventually drew to a close, however, as the San’layn had drunk and danced their fill. Alliances were made, bonds formed and broken, politics traded for politics. Lady Drelacora accomplished what she set out to do, territory thoroughly marked, and power clearly displayed, and so House Bloodwake returned to its manor.

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The Scourge’s war raged across Northrend, and with many victories under its heels. With new purpose bestowed upon him, the General of the Bloody Brigade withdrew from the front to spend time learning the lay of his new land. Lady Drelacora continued her ruthless pursuit of zealots, sights focused on the Argent Crusade as they marched upon the shores of Northrend, her focus turned away from her newest pet for a time. With the Lady of the House gone, ‘Twas found himself in her castle with no one to keep an eye on him. No one, of course, except the Lord Redgorget.

Unadorned, stripped of the jeweled and armored facades that they both wore, ‘Twas and Crealis met face to face once more, as they walked the spacious stone halls of Castle Bloodwake by themselves. ‘Twas was shocked to find that the fearsome and bloodthirsty general of the Scourge’s armies of Death Knights was truly not so fearsome— and Crealis was surprised that the shadowy assassin of his inherited political power had a voice and thoughts of his own, that differed from that of his Lady. Without the pressure of the Crimson Court, ‘Twas and Crealis became fast friends, united by crude humor born of their living pasts, and shared love of martial combat born of their deaths.

Days and nights were spent in deep conversation, as Crealis and ‘Twas discussed any number of topics. Philosophy, art, music, combat— even simpler things, like the coasts of Quel’Thalas, the merchants and their goods, the bawdy atmosphere of Silvermoon City’s taverns. They practiced combat, training and sparring to show strength and for amusement. Slowly, gradually, the pair found they quite enjoyed the other’s company. Without the prying eyes of other darkfallen to see them, ‘Twas and Crealis had the freedom to relax, and drop the masks that were so often demanded of them. The numbed neutrality ‘Twas found he felt for most things melted away like snow under the light of the Sun, and only did so in Crealis’ presence. The warrior and General eased upon carrying his soldier’s bearing, his guard falling moment by moment as he got to know the lowborn assassin, learning the secret mind that sat untouched behind the muzzle of courtly politeness.

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In Lady Drelacora’s continued absence, it wasn’t long before the conversations traded between the Lord and Assassin took on a softer nature. The brush of hands whilst conversing, the locking of eyes whilst passing, quiet words traded at the end of an evening. After a thousand cuts and flayings for speaking out of turn, ‘Twas had never been able to speak his mind more clearly than with Crealis. And the General used as a political stepping stone, a weapon wielded so that his “partner” could climb higher, had never been afforded such simple kindness and caring than by ‘Twas. 

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Still, it came as every shock, when Crealis confided in ‘Twas his unwillingness to return to the frontlines, if it meant leaving him to the castle, or to his work once again severing the links of weaker lordlings. More shocking still, that Crealis would set his hand so neatly about ‘Twas’ waist, as though they were dancing in that ballroom again. A fate was decided upon, chosen freely for the first time, as ‘Twas allowed himself to press his lips to Crealis’, without fear of the repercussions. Crealis held him gently, his titles as Lord or General falling away like paper armor, as he returned the kiss with wanting. In darkness and in secret, the Lord and Assassin upheld their trysts, a bond stronger than any made at Court forged between them.

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No Drop Shall Be Wasted

CW: gritty vampire story, so beware of themes of torture and emotional manipulation and blood.

Life on the northwestern shores of Quel’Thalas, bordering the Eversong Forest, was a simple but pleasurable one. The white sands were always sun-warmed and welcoming, and the sea was filled with bounty. Nestled on those shores, near the Sunsail Anchorage, was a small fishing village. Fishermen and traders alike spent their long days tending to their nets, sailing in to bring fish to shore, weaving baskets and salting their catches for storage and trade with nearby villages or in Silvermoon. A simple, but pleasurable life. When the day’s work was done however, the fisherman would haul up their empty nets to dry, and bring their shares home to their families. One such elf, however, had no family in the village to call his own, and so he often found himself looking out to the Great Sea when he was alone, wondering what lay beyond it.

An Exile from Silvermoon, ‘Twas had found himself in the care of these simple fishermen when he stumbled out onto the beach, dehydrated and covered in blood, beaten black and blue and missing the tips of his ears. After being nursed back to health, ‘Twas decided it was safer to live a simple life, and remained with the fisherman for many decades. In the years he spent there, while he was far from his family, the fisherman and their families were his new home. He enjoyed watching the sunset over the waves, feeling the cooling waters wash over his legs. He had no cares except to rise with the sun, bring in his catch, and tend to his nets when the day was done. And so when the fishermen retired to their homes at night, to be with their spouses and children, ‘Twas walked the shores by himself, looking out to sea as he tried not to long for the family he had lost.

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On certain days however, the fishermen would gather their best catches, and pack a cart to bring to Silvermoon City to sell them in the Bazaar. ‘Twas was remiss to ever enter the city himself, but he would always see the wagon halfway there, walking alongside it on the road.

On one such day, when the Sun was high in the sky, and the flowers of Eversong Woods were fragrant, ‘Twas accompanied the fishermen’s cart with a bag of salted and dried fish over his shoulder. There was something heavy and dark in the air, unseen but felt by the elf. Only a short ways from the city, ‘Twas urged his cohorts to stop a moment, and listen. As they paused their trek, annoyed but relenting, ‘Twas and the fishermen turned their ears to the air, looking back the way they had come. Across the river they had just passed, a dark cloud of Death and Horror was fording through the water. An army of undead, hungry and clawing at its master’s heels, was fast approaching.

‘Twas pushed his friends to leave the cart and their catch, and to flee to the city’s Shepherd’s Gate as fast as they could. Their hawkstrider’s were unhitched from the wagon as those that could fit together clambered onto their backs, and those that couldn’t were forced to stay on foot. ‘Twas had always been fast of foot, and while he was terrified that he would meet death in a Silvermoon, his former home, he would rather meet it there than on the road, at the mercy of an undead horde.

Together they escaped the horde, narrowly making into the Shepherd’s Gate alongside dozens more frantic elven citizens. Guards with tall tower shields and gleaming spears ushered them inside, their terrified visages hidden by their winged helms. The gates were shut, and soon after, panicked voices and slamming fists could be heard on the other side. Families clung to one another, counting their children in the hopes that none were left outside. ‘Twas was outraged by the barbarism of leaving more kin to fend for themselves, but his fellow fishermen urged him to keep his head down, lest he be recognized. Panicking and arguing ensued amongst the scared masses of tradesmen and simple folk, as all at once the din outside the gates ceased. A new, more terrifying noise settled in, as something large on the other side began to try and pry the doors apart.

The trampling horde of frightened elves began to flock deeper into the city, pushing past one another for any attempt to get to safety before the rest, leaving many with bruises and torn clothes as they went. ‘Twas was thrown around by the throng, separated from his companions in the frantic upheaval, covered in sweat and dirt from the cobble roads. It wasn’t long before masses of starving undead flooded Silvermoon City’s streets, and the crowds of lowborn elves were torn to shreds. ‘Twas broke off from the pack, unable to find the fishermen that had saved him many years ago in the panic, and took up a loose heavy brick from the floor as his only weapon of defense. He fled deeper into the city, face dirtied and bloodied and hopefully obscured from recognition, as he looked for a safe alcove to hide. Screams ricocheted off the tall gleaming walls, as the light of the Sun choked by burning smoke turned white towers into long, bloodstained fangs.

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Exhausted, heart pounding, and overwhelmed with grief and fear, ‘Twas wanted to do nothing more than to lay in the tiled streets of the Court of the Sun, even if that meant the hungry churning mass of Undeath would swallow him whole. More panicked elven citizens began to fill the Court, as they all tried to rush to their homes for safety. ‘Twas braced himself against the fountain, watching with slow dawning horror as richly dressed and panicked nobles were sundered by wretched knights in black suits of armor wielding weapons with wicked blades. Some were pounced upon by half-decayed ghouls, whose maws dripped with blood and saliva, while others were only brought low, but not slain. ‘Twas forced his legs beneath him once more, attempting to flee the massacre, but tripped over the scattered debris that littered the streets alongside bodies. The horrid knights and their rotting entourage all turned their focus to him, the last man standing in the bloodbath. ‘Twas could barely utter a scream before he was ambushed. Before the world went dark around him, he could have sworn the knights and their ghouls had pointed ears.

Time unknown began to pass, hours or days spent in darkness. Little by little, ‘Twas’ consciousness returned to him, but light did not. The floor beneath him was hard, cold, and dirty, smelling of refuse and sweet rot. Voices murmured and cried all around him, forced into silent whispers in the absence of the ability to scream. Whatever walls in the chamber were unseen, and the only visible light was that cast by pairs of eyes in hues of blue, indigo, and purple. Dozens upon dozens of elves— Quel’dorei like ‘Twas —had been spared one wretched fate, for another. Heaving and shuddering bodies were packed tightly together in the darkness, all alive, but wounded and traumatized. ‘Twas hugged his arms to himself, curling into a ball as he rested on the dirty floor. But he did not scream, and he did not cry. He couldn’t be sure he was alive, but if he was, he knew he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Just as the darkness began to stretch its fingers around ‘Twas’ mind, the cries of his kin deafening his ears, a silence fell upon the throng like a heavy black veil. Light filtered into the room, faintly visible, but harsh enough in the darkness that it burned to observe. A crimson aura entered the chamber, as a black cluster of figures began to weave through the masses like an adder. Rather than parting, the desperate masses swarmed and crawled along the ground, fawning and bowing at the feet of the heavy robed figures. The din of their frantic please gave form to bargaining and begging: “Please take all the gold you will, just let me go,” “Take me, just spare my family,” “Take my wife and my children but spare me.” But the robed figures said nothing, and moved in silence, uninhibited by the bodies throwing themselves in their path.

As the figures walked through the throng however— their captors, their saviors —there were times when they would halt before one elf in the pack. ‘Twas watched as the black curtain would part, and lithe, graceful hands would extend a dark goblet from within, stretching to offer it down to the Quel’dorei at their feet. One by one, the veiled figures would stop before elves, seemingly at random, and offer them that same goblet to drink. And one by one, the elf in question would take it in hungry, grasping hands, famished as they lapped at it, liquid spilling down their chins, but never depleting the chalice.  

While other elves pleaded for their lives, for a chance at even tasting a drop from that chalice, ‘Twas merely watched in dazed fascination, at the grace with which the robed figures traversed the rancid chamber, and how his kin would claw and push over one another to get to them. As ‘Twas banished any hope that he would be approached, longing to lay in the dirt and refuse and close his eyes one final time, a pale, blemish-free hand, adorned in rings of glittering gemstones, extended to him the black goblet from which select of his kin had been chosen to drink from. He turned his azure eyes up at the empty, vacant black veils in thanks, swearing he saw flashes of crimson behind the fabric, and spared no thought for what was in the chalice.

Something as dark and red and sweet as wine filled his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in its coolness. But as he withdrew his lips after nothing more than a sip, the rich taste gave way to something mealy and metallic. Nevertheless, a warmth filled ‘Twas’ chest and gullet, and he felt full and satisfied as the black robes once again drifted back into the mass. ‘Twas wiped his mouth, licking the wine from his fingers, and once more laid in the dirt, content.

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More time passed. Hours or days, it was uncertain in the dark. The figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, and once more the chamber was swallowed into the belly of darkness. The pleading cries of elven men and women quieted again, only occasionally disturbed by coughs and sputters, or arguing over why no one had thought to share their drink. Soon, more hacking and heaving punctuated the air, joined by quiet murmurings of fear. Panic once more gripped the gathered elves as their neighbors began to fall ill, weak and sluggish.

‘Twas himself too, found that the energy and warmth that had entered his body upon drinking, was beginning to leave him. His stomach cried, burning and wrenching like something in it was trying to escape, or to tear at its empty confines. His bones ached, ricocheting pain throbbed throughout his skull, like it was being stretched and crushed. The nails in his fingers felt as though they would fall out, the tips of them bloody and raw. His long raven black hair fell from his head in chunks, slipping through his torn fingers like sand, leaving uneven hairless patches along his scalp. The pain was immeasurable, the torment unending. Elves screamed in horror between fits of pitching and heaving, outrage filtering through the ranks that whatever had been given to them had started a contagious illness.

As more time passed, those affected finally felt Life leaving their bodies. ‘Twas doubled over in pain, having expelled every last drop of energy from his body, drooling as his gums bled. At long last, as he lay on the dirty floor, the strength he had used to cling to life so desperately was waning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all of these years, he’d have the chance to see his family again. As his eyelids shut, he could hear the sounds of screams being clipped short, and the ripping of clothing; but all that colored ‘Twas’ vision was the blurry, half-remembered face of his mother.

But Death did not come for the waiting elf, at least, not in the form he envisioned. Consciousness left ‘Twas, as cacophony and chaos erupted around him. Elves whose eyes had gone dark as they succumbed to the sickness, suddenly rose to their feet once more in the dark. Like starving beasts, they stalked the prey they had been locked away with. In mere moments, the once sickly elves pounced on one another, violently rending into those that were left defenseless. In the dark, ‘Twas eyes snapped awake, and rather than blackness, he could see the forms of every elf clearly before him in startling light. No screams were heard in his ears, only the pounding of a thousand drumbeats, the anxious breaths of strained lungs, the rushing of blood like water. 

Those that had drunk from the dark chalice were elves no longer, and were instead something new and twisted, something no longer living. Like blades of grass meeting a finer, sharper one, those found lacking were cut down readily and feasted upon by the predators let loose amongst them. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with blood and silence. Some of the hungry new creatures warred with one another over their kills, others writhed in the ecstasy of drinking their fill. 

Crimson light, sourceless and radiant, once more bathed the chamber with illumination, as the figures in robes made their entrance. The survivors of the onslaught lifted their crimson stares to look upon the black robes, as they cast off their veils. Pale elves, dripping with jewels and finery, beautiful and resplendent, waded amongst their new children, this time showered with praise and thanks for their mercy. These regal pale creatures raised their voices, gathering the hungry to them as they said:

“Noble Blood of Quel’Thalas, look well upon the heralds of your New Empire, now that you have tasted the blood of the Old. We are the Princes and Princesses of a new order, and you are our Precious Children. No drop of Precious Blood shall be wasted, and no cup of Lesser Blood shall go undrunk, for we will drain the world of all it’s riches, and build our walls with their iron, for we are the Darkfallen San’layn.”

The throngs of new Darkfallen erupted into cheers and adulation, praising their new masters, enthusiastic to take up new mantels of power. ‘Twas watched in silent horror, observing the new monsters surrounding him, the new monster he had become. In the dark, he could not see the faces of the elves around them, or see their garments; he could only hear their desperate bargaining. Now, as the pitch darkness parted for his new eyes, he saw the true faces of the men and women around him. Magisters, lords and ladies, tacticians and knights, the Nobility of Quel’Thalas, rounded up like animals in a pen, having been starved in a barren room, brought low by animalistic nature, now given way to their hungry selfish desires with new and terrifying power. He knew the looks in their crimson eyes well; he had seen it in the faces of the men that had exiled him from Silvermoon City decades ago, as they severed the pointed tips of his ears, and beat him bloody.

An ear splitting wail pierced the room, as ‘Twas fell to his knees on the filthy blood splattered floor, and wept. A sea of pitiless crimson eyes turned to him then, staring with craven annoyance. One of the San’layn Masters surged forward, striking ‘Twas across the face and sending him to the ground. He groveled at their feet, weeping and beating his fists on the floor, not begging for forgiveness or mercy, but lamenting that he had slaughtered and fed upon the living, that he had been ripped from the world he knew to become a monster. The San’layn looked amongst themselves, and then the groveling ‘Twas, and realized that the clothing he wore was not like their own, finery covered in filth from their conditions, but rather hand-me-down rags, clothing of a simple life with simple means. The San’layn Masters fell to bickering, pointing accusatory fingers. “Who has done this? Who has brought this lowborn into our midst? Who has wasted Blood on the unworthy?”

As the San’layn argued, one among them strode forward, and grasped ‘Twas’ face in her black claws. His wailing quieted as bloody tears streamed down his squashed cheeks, staring up into the shadowed face of the San’layn before him. He was twisted this way and that, as his features were examined, and found wanting.

“Is this not the Magister Eidolon Skygaze? Does he not posses his likeness?” One San’layn argued.

“If so, then why are his clothes ragged and homely? What has become of the real magister?” Another postured.

“Silence,” the San’layn spoke, grasping ‘Twas in her fingers as though he were nothing but a dry and moldy hunk of bread at a feast, “calm yourselves and your sniveling. What is done is done, and cannot be undone. No drop shall be wasted… this is our dark rebirth. If one of lesser birth has been brought into our fold, it would not do to waste the gift that was given.”

“Let me take him,” she argued, as ‘Twas struggled to see her features even with renewed vision, “he is not noble by birth, but he can become noble by bearing. This one can be made useful, if not as a Prince or Lord, then as a Thrall, a tool of our Crimson Court.”

The San’layn Masters and their new lordlings murmured in agreement, jeering and grinning as ‘Twas was dragged off, black claws dug into the flesh of his patchy scalp. He cried and thrashed, resisting his newfound destiny, rejecting the gift that was bestowed.

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While the other newborn Darkfallen were claimed by various houses, stripped of their tattered finery and bathed anew in lavish excess, ‘Twas’ mistaken identity slotted him for a harsher rebirth beneath the Scourge. Instead of richly adorned quarters, ‘Twas’ new home was a cell. Instead of glittering jewelry, his new trappings were iron chains and manacles. Where the hungry nobility acquiesced to their masters’ demands, ‘Twas spat in their faces, the sorrow for such wanton destruction renewed with the vigor of his dark rebirth. He rejected nobility, living or dead, and all that they stood for, for what they had done to him so many years ago, leaving him an exile because of his bastard birth.

But where there was resistance, ‘Twas was met with reprimand. Disobedience was punished severely, with higher tolls than just death. Failing to comply, rejecting blood when offered, was met with torturous treatment, the scars of such riddling every inch of his flesh as his skin was flayed then healed. Bumbling through the artistry and poise demanded of him at court, meant he would be made to drink his fill once left famished, only for bloodletting to drain him of the crimson prize he had taken.

Years passed, following the bloody fall of Silvermoon City, and the corruption of the Sunwell. Years passed, with ‘Twas in the shadowy clutches of the Crimson Court. Eventually, the beatings and bloodletting slowed, as ‘Twas swallowed the poison fed to him, along with his hatred, and became the tool he was meant to become. ‘Twas had become a master of all things courtly; not a noble by birth, but a noble by rearing. He was transformed, and had become a scholar, an artist, as well as an assassin. He excelled where other men of lesser birth would have failed, hiding the scars inflicted by his rearing and failed birth with the talents and bearing he had been taught. ‘Twas was no longer a simple fisherman, or exile from his homeland. Now, he was the Court Assassin, the clawed hand of one Lady Drelacora Sinflame, Matron of house Bloodwake, and player of the Crimson Court; the San’layn Master that had spared his life and raised him from nothingness.

A powerful magister and sorceress of fire in life, Lady Drelacora’s heart was frozen in death. She could freeze the blood in her enemies veins, wield the frigid iron within like daggers, and paralyze her opponents where they stood. Hemomantic and Cryomantic energies in equal measure made her a fearsome opponent, both in the setting of Court, and on the battlefield. As beautiful as she was, radiant and pale, she was not without blemish. The Lady Sinflame had once tasted the burning hands of zealous Paladin of the Silver Hand, who’s Light ate away at her flesh, leaving the right side of her face burned and cracked, her eye useless and unglowing. This scar she wore with honor, her beauty hardly disfigured, as she wanted her kin to know who their true enemy was, and what the Scourge stood to eradicate.

While the San’layn played at the Crimson Court, living in excess and vying for one another’s power, Lady Drelacora also trained her pet to pick off the weakest links in the chain; to secure new alliances, and shift the dynamics of the old. ‘Twas’ view of the nobles around him was ruthless and honed, and though he was beneath the heel of his Matron, she trusted his judgement.

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One such alliance, chosen to be beneficial to Drelacora and House Bloodwake, was securing the hand of a military leader with mighty martial prowess, as well as scholarly talent. Lord Crealis Redgorget, the General of the Bloody Brigade, a San’layn who’s artistry on the battlefield made him an easy choice to educate the Lich King’s Death Knights in the ways of Hemomancy, wielding blood as a weapon. Lord Crealis was a man of impressive stature, chiseled features framed intense eyes that could cut an army down to size in but a glance. A tactician’s sheer brilliance, a warrior’s hulking physique, and a lord’s humorous silver tongue; no better match could have been chosen to wear the crown of House Bloodwake.

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And at their command, an assassin of shadowy renown. A lowborn, who only spoke when spoken too, who stalked silently and unseen through the crowds, even in full view. ‘Twas the Nightslain, who had been plucked from nothing, and shined into something new and sharp, like a reforged blade. His rapier was saved for those at Court who could not measure up to their Master’s demands, as well as those Light-Fearing Paladins that bore down upon the Crimson Court’s fledgling empire in the Frozen North. Blood and Blade were bent to ‘Twas’ will as easily as leaves, as he followed the instructions of his Matron, Masked and Muzzled, like a wolf on a leash.

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Appearances at Court were seldom by Lady Drelacora, the Blood Matron choosing rather to send her second in command. But in celebration of another successful acquisition of territory in Northrend’s Borean Tundra, the San’layn Princes and Lordlings were drawn from their domains to partake in the revelry. Drelacora flaunted the tactician whose arm she hung off of, striking emerald green envy into the black hearts of all the Darkfallen who beheld her. The General Redgorget sneered instead of smiling at those they passed, shifting his weight in discomfort for having been unarmed, and unarmored.

Neutrality was all that ‘Twas felt, as he broke from his Matron’s side to cling to the shadows. A sharpened gaze and impassive visage took in the lavish decor and sycophantic nobles from a shaded perch. He could do nothing but watch and listen, not permitted to speak unless addressed, not permitted to drink unless offered. It was rude to take what was not his, just as it was rude to refuse a drink offered in charity; both would lead to dire consequences, at the hand of his Matron.

The Ballroom of the Crimson Court was filled with music, gem-encrusted bodies swaying along as if possessed. Chalices of ruby liquid were drained and set aside, as hands found their partners and took to the floor. ‘Twas watched with impartiality and numb observance as Lady Drelacora ushered her stilted partner to the floor, Lord Crealis following her whims with some hidden reluctance. But the Lady Sinflame cared not, as the pair of them joined the others throwing their bodies together in dance. All on the floor watched in awe as the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake took to the floor, Lord Crealis’ commanding and fearsome presence parting a clearing for just the two of them. How graceful and light Lady Drelacora was in Lord Crealis’ hands, as he spun her about like a top. A smirk crossed the Lord’s unshaven features as Lady Drelacora giggled in delight, draped down and bending at the waist, throwing her pale head back with a beaming smile.

All in attendance at the Crimson Court paused to observe the pair as they danced.

They were beautiful.

They were deadly.

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Whispers filtered through the chattering San’layn as they left the floor to return to their alcoves of drinking and gossip; House Bloodwake cut a fearsome figure amongst the Court this night, as the Matron’s new right hand was displayed so proudly and openly. ‘Twas listened to their honeyed words of approval and fear over the rapture of cello and organ, taking note of who would be willing to follow his House. As the San’layn— and therefore the Scourge —increased in power, ‘Twas found with some degree of dissatisfaction that he was no longer as useful a tool as he had once been. If celebrations like this were to be had more once the Scourge was successful, what use had he as a blade? He could speak and play at court as well as the rest of them, but what was the point if he had no mouth?

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The assassin found himself growing restless, and pushed away from his perch to stalk the halls once more, as the band struck up another dance. He did not see Lady Drelacora break off from her political partner, nor did he see the Lord Redgorget’s approach. ‘Twas had scarcely begun to stalk the outskirts of the dance before Lord Crealis gently caught him by the arm. The assassin turned, poised for cutting remarks and even more cutting blades, a hand drifting to his sheathed rapier, before he met the eye of the Lord.

“You seem to be sulking more than I tonight,” the Lord said, addressing ‘Twas with ease and informality, “if I am intruding upon your work for the Lady, I beg your pardon, but I finally have a moment to myself, and I’ve noticed that you seem to only have yourself.”

A softer, more melodious theme played over the ballroom floor, as again more Darkfallen paired off, this time for a more rigid, organized dance. ‘Twas made no move to respond, watching the Lord speak with curiosity. Lord Crealis looked to the floor, then back to his silent conversation partner, and with tremendous care, bowed his head of faded amber towards ‘Twas, extending his hand to say “if you will not speak, then indulge me a moment, and let’s meet on the floor for one last dance. Then I think, we’ll both have had our fill of this garish place.”

‘Twas lifted his chin, head cocked inquisitively, as he timidly obliged the Lord with healthy suspicion. Side by side, but not hand in hand, ‘Twas and Lord Crealis entered the floor once more, a gaggle of whispers surrounding them like leeches in a lake. Crimson eyes watched with wonder as the Lord moved with his House Assassin as though he were an equal, one of higher standing like himself. For once, ‘Twas cared not for the words muttered by the prying nobility, nor for the looks of scorn they threw him. 

‘Twas had been educated in many a dance, learning every move and position under threat of deprivation, and as such, fell easily into the steps of the dance alongside Lord Crealis. The Lord moved with sudden rigidity compared to that of his dance with Lady Drelacora, his brows pinched in thought, one hand wrapped in a fist. But the pair fell into slow, easy step around one another, stalking the floor in circles with palms raised, a whisper of touch implied.

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“I don’t remember this dance very well. Do you?” The Lord asked, dark red eyes darting from the floor to ‘Twas’ neutral expression. 

‘Twas flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, the red iron rings and claw caps skirting the sides of Lord Crealis’ fingers. He thought for a moment, content to leave the Lord in silence for addressing him with such overfamiliarity, fearing it may be a trick. But the assassin could not help the upward quirk at one corner of his mouth, as he met his gaze and said, “perhaps too well. Follow my lead, and do as I do, and we may just leave the floor alive.”

A smile travelled the length of the Lord’s scruffy mouth, as a look of amusement painted his features upon hearing the assassin’s voice for the very first time. A laugh could do nothing to stop itself from tumbling from his lips, as quiet as it was, “I will have to trust you. But be warned, I may trip over my feet. If I fall flat on my face, leave me and save yourself.”

The dance only lasted so long, but even still, in hushed tones the Assassin and Lord traded witty remarks and verbal blows, as if they were old friends meeting each other after years apart on the battlefield. All gossip that swirled around the room fell upon their deaf ears, even after the two of them left the floor, and parted ways. 

‘Twas found that no matter what he did, the tilt of a small smile would not leave his face, even as he withdrew to the shadows once more. Though as Lady Drelacora returned to the room, her plush lips darker with the crimson jewel tones of a recent feast, Lord Crealis’ nonplused demeanor returned to him, as once more the crook of his arm became occupied. Lady Drelacora shared in the gossip, fawning with the other nobles about her match, and the wealth of opportunities their allegiance would open up. Lord Crealis would pretend to listen and nod along, trading pained and polite smiles with those he was introduced to, yet all the while, when none were looking, he would effortlessly find ‘Twas’ gaze at the far end of the crowd, peeking at the assassin from where he watched in the shadows. And at every meeting of eyes, ‘Twas would bow his head, and offer an encouraging smile, unseen by the hundreds of eyes except the Lord’s.

The night of revelry eventually drew to a close, however, as the San’layn had drunk and danced their fill. Alliances were made, bonds formed and broken, politics traded for politics. Lady Drelacora accomplished what she set out to do, territory thoroughly marked, and power clearly displayed, and so House Bloodwake returned to its manor.

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The Scourge’s war raged across Northrend, and with many victories under its heels. With new purpose bestowed upon him, the General of the Bloody Brigade withdrew from the front to spend time learning the lay of his new land. Lady Drelacora continued her ruthless pursuit of zealots, sights focused on the Argent Crusade as they marched upon the shores of Northrend, her focus turned away from her newest pet for a time. With the Lady of the House gone, ‘Twas found himself in her castle with no one to keep an eye on him. No one, of course, except the Lord Redgorget.

Unadorned, stripped of the jeweled and armored facades that they both wore, ‘Twas and Crealis met face to face once more, as they walked the spacious stone halls of Castle Bloodwake by themselves. ‘Twas was shocked to find that the fearsome and bloodthirsty general of the Scourge’s armies of Death Knights was truly not so fearsome— and Crealis was surprised that the shadowy assassin of his inherited political power had a voice and thoughts of his own, that differed from that of his Lady. Without the pressure of the Crimson Court, ‘Twas and Crealis became fast friends, united by crude humor born of their living pasts, and shared love of martial combat born of their deaths.

Days and nights were spent in deep conversation, as Crealis and ‘Twas discussed any number of topics. Philosophy, art, music, combat— even simpler things, like the coasts of Quel’Thalas, the merchants and their goods, the bawdy atmosphere of Silvermoon City’s taverns. They practiced combat, training and sparring to show strength and for amusement. Slowly, gradually, the pair found they quite enjoyed the other’s company. Without the prying eyes of other darkfallen to see them, ‘Twas and Crealis had the freedom to relax, and drop the masks that were so often demanded of them. The numbed neutrality ‘Twas found he felt for most things melted away like snow under the light of the Sun, and only did so in Crealis’ presence. The warrior and General eased upon carrying his soldier’s bearing, his guard falling moment by moment as he got to know the lowborn assassin, learning the secret mind that sat untouched behind the muzzle of courtly politeness.

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In Lady Drelacora’s continued absence, it wasn’t long before the conversations traded between the Lord and Assassin took on a softer nature. The brush of hands whilst conversing, the locking of eyes whilst passing, quiet words traded at the end of an evening. After a thousand cuts and flayings for speaking out of turn, ‘Twas had never been able to speak his mind more clearly than with Crealis. And the General used as a political stepping stone, a weapon wielded so that his “partner” could climb higher, had never been afforded such simple kindness and caring than by ‘Twas. 

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No Drop Shall Be Wasted

CW: gritty vampire story, so beware of themes of torture and emotional manipulation and blood.

Life on the northwestern shores of Quel’Thalas, bordering the Eversong Forest, was a simple but pleasurable one. The white sands were always sun-warmed and welcoming, and the sea was filled with bounty. Nestled on those shores, near the Sunsail Anchorage, was a small fishing village. Fishermen and traders alike spent their long days tending to their nets, sailing in to bring fish to shore, weaving baskets and salting their catches for storage and trade with nearby villages or in Silvermoon. A simple, but pleasurable life. When the day’s work was done however, the fisherman would haul up their empty nets to dry, and bring their shares home to their families. One such elf, however, had no family in the village to call his own, and so he often found himself looking out to the Great Sea when he was alone, wondering what lay beyond it.

An Exile from Silvermoon, ‘Twas had found himself in the care of these simple fishermen when he stumbled out onto the beach, dehydrated and covered in blood, beaten black and blue and missing the tips of his ears. After being nursed back to health, ‘Twas decided it was safer to live a simple life, and remained with the fisherman for many decades. In the years he spent there, while he was far from his family, the fisherman and their families were his new home. He enjoyed watching the sunset over the waves, feeling the cooling waters wash over his legs. He had no cares except to rise with the sun, bring in his catch, and tend to his nets when the day was done. And so when the fishermen retired to their homes at night, to be with their spouses and children, ‘Twas walked the shores by himself, looking out to sea as he tried not to long for the family he had lost.

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On certain days however, the fishermen would gather their best catches, and pack a cart to bring to Silvermoon City to sell them in the Bazaar. ‘Twas was remiss to ever enter the city himself, but he would always see the wagon halfway there, walking alongside it on the road.

On one such day, when the Sun was high in the sky, and the flowers of Eversong Woods were fragrant, ‘Twas accompanied the fishermen’s cart with a bag of salted and dried fish over his shoulder. There was something heavy and dark in the air, unseen but felt by the elf. Only a short ways from the city, ‘Twas urged his cohorts to stop a moment, and listen. As they paused their trek, annoyed but relenting, ‘Twas and the fishermen turned their ears to the air, looking back the way they had come. Across the river they had just passed, a dark cloud of Death and Horror was fording through the water. An army of undead, hungry and clawing at its master’s heels, was fast approaching.

‘Twas pushed his friends to leave the cart and their catch, and to flee to the city’s Shepherd’s Gate as fast as they could. Their hawkstrider’s were unhitched from the wagon as those that could fit together clambered onto their backs, and those that couldn’t were forced to stay on foot. ‘Twas had always been fast of foot, and while he was terrified that he would meet death in a Silvermoon, his former home, he would rather meet it there than on the road, at the mercy of an undead horde.

Together they escaped the horde, narrowly making into the Shepherd’s Gate alongside dozens more frantic elven citizens. Guards with tall tower shields and gleaming spears ushered them inside, their terrified visages hidden by their winged helms. The gates were shut, and soon after, panicked voices and slamming fists could be heard on the other side. Families clung to one another, counting their children in the hopes that none were left outside. ‘Twas was outraged by the barbarism of leaving more kin to fend for themselves, but his fellow fishermen urged him to keep his head down, lest he be recognized. Panicking and arguing ensued amongst the scared masses of tradesmen and simple folk, as all at once the din outside the gates ceased. A new, more terrifying noise settled in, as something large on the other side began to try and pry the doors apart.

The trampling horde of frightened elves began to flock deeper into the city, pushing past one another for any attempt to get to safety before the rest, leaving many with bruises and torn clothes as they went. ‘Twas was thrown around by the throng, separated from his companions in the frantic upheaval, covered in sweat and dirt from the cobble roads. It wasn’t long before masses of starving undead flooded Silvermoon City’s streets, and the crowds of lowborn elves were torn to shreds. ‘Twas broke off from the pack, unable to find the fishermen that had saved him many years ago in the panic, and took up a loose heavy brick from the floor as his only weapon of defense. He fled deeper into the city, face dirtied and bloodied and hopefully obscured from recognition, as he looked for a safe alcove to hide. Screams ricocheted off the tall gleaming walls, as the light of the Sun choked by burning smoke turned white towers into long, bloodstained fangs.

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Exhausted, heart pounding, and overwhelmed with grief and fear, ‘Twas wanted to do nothing more than to lay in the tiled streets of the Court of the Sun, even if that meant the hungry churning mass of Undeath would swallow him whole. More panicked elven citizens began to fill the Court, as they all tried to rush to their homes for safety. ‘Twas braced himself against the fountain, watching with slow dawning horror as richly dressed and panicked nobles were sundered by wretched knights in black suits of armor wielding weapons with wicked blades. Some were pounced upon by half-decayed ghouls, whose maws dripped with blood and saliva, while others were only brought low, but not slain. ‘Twas forced his legs beneath him once more, attempting to flee the massacre, but tripped over the scattered debris that littered the streets alongside bodies. The horrid knights and their rotting entourage all turned their focus to him, the last man standing in the bloodbath. ‘Twas could barely utter a scream before he was ambushed. Before the world went dark around him, he could have sworn the knights and their ghouls had pointed ears.

Time unknown began to pass, hours or days spent in darkness. Little by little, ‘Twas’ consciousness returned to him, but light did not. The floor beneath him was hard, cold, and dirty, smelling of refuse and sweet rot. Voices murmured and cried all around him, forced into silent whispers in the absence of the ability to scream. Whatever walls in the chamber were unseen, and the only visible light was that cast by pairs of eyes in hues of blue, indigo, and purple. Dozens upon dozens of elves— Quel’dorei like ‘Twas —had been spared one wretched fate, for another. Heaving and shuddering bodies were packed tightly together in the darkness, all alive, but wounded and traumatized. ‘Twas hugged his arms to himself, curling into a ball as he rested on the dirty floor. But he did not scream, and he did not cry. He couldn’t be sure he was alive, but if he was, he knew he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Just as the darkness began to stretch its fingers around ‘Twas’ mind, the cries of his kin deafening his ears, a silence fell upon the throng like a heavy black veil. Light filtered into the room, faintly visible, but harsh enough in the darkness that it burned to observe. A crimson aura entered the chamber, as a black cluster of figures began to weave through the masses like an adder. Rather than parting, the desperate masses swarmed and crawled along the ground, fawning and bowing at the feet of the heavy robed figures. The din of their frantic please gave form to bargaining and begging: “Please take all the gold you will, just let me go,” “Take me, just spare my family,” “Take my wife and my children but spare me.” But the robed figures said nothing, and moved in silence, uninhibited by the bodies throwing themselves in their path.

As the figures walked through the throng however— their captors, their saviors —there were times when they would halt before one elf in the pack. ‘Twas watched as the black curtain would part, and lithe, graceful hands would extend a dark goblet from within, stretching to offer it down to the Quel’dorei at their feet. One by one, the veiled figures would stop before elves, seemingly at random, and offer them that same goblet to drink. And one by one, the elf in question would take it in hungry, grasping hands, famished as they lapped at it, liquid spilling down their chins, but never depleting the chalice.  

While other elves pleaded for their lives, for a chance at even tasting a drop from that chalice, ‘Twas merely watched in dazed fascination, at the grace with which the robed figures traversed the rancid chamber, and how his kin would claw and push over one another to get to them. As ‘Twas banished any hope that he would be approached, longing to lay in the dirt and refuse and close his eyes one final time, a pale, blemish-free hand, adorned in rings of glittering gemstones, extended to him the black goblet from which select of his kin had been chosen to drink from. He turned his azure eyes up at the empty, vacant black veils in thanks, swearing he saw flashes of crimson behind the fabric, and spared no thought for what was in the chalice.

Something as dark and red and sweet as wine filled his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in its coolness. But as he withdrew his lips after nothing more than a sip, the rich taste gave way to something mealy and metallic. Nevertheless, a warmth filled ‘Twas’ chest and gullet, and he felt full and satisfied as the black robes once again drifted back into the mass. ‘Twas wiped his mouth, licking the wine from his fingers, and once more laid in the dirt, content.

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More time passed. Hours or days, it was uncertain in the dark. The figures disappeared as quickly as they had come, and once more the chamber was swallowed into the belly of darkness. The pleading cries of elven men and women quieted again, only occasionally disturbed by coughs and sputters, or arguing over why no one had thought to share their drink. Soon, more hacking and heaving punctuated the air, joined by quiet murmurings of fear. Panic once more gripped the gathered elves as their neighbors began to fall ill, weak and sluggish.

‘Twas himself too, found that the energy and warmth that had entered his body upon drinking, was beginning to leave him. His stomach cried, burning and wrenching like something in it was trying to escape, or to tear at its empty confines. His bones ached, ricocheting pain throbbed throughout his skull, like it was being stretched and crushed. The nails in his fingers felt as though they would fall out, the tips of them bloody and raw. His long raven black hair fell from his head in chunks, slipping through his torn fingers like sand, leaving uneven hairless patches along his scalp. The pain was immeasurable, the torment unending. Elves screamed in horror between fits of pitching and heaving, outrage filtering through the ranks that whatever had been given to them had started a contagious illness.

As more time passed, those affected finally felt Life leaving their bodies. ‘Twas doubled over in pain, having expelled every last drop of energy from his body, drooling as his gums bled. At long last, as he lay on the dirty floor, the strength he had used to cling to life so desperately was waning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all of these years, he’d have the chance to see his family again. As his eyelids shut, he could hear the sounds of screams being clipped short, and the ripping of clothing; but all that colored ‘Twas’ vision was the blurry, half-remembered face of his mother.

But Death did not come for the waiting elf, at least, not in the form he envisioned. Consciousness left ‘Twas, as cacophony and chaos erupted around him. Elves whose eyes had gone dark as they succumbed to the sickness, suddenly rose to their feet once more in the dark. Like starving beasts, they stalked the prey they had been locked away with. In mere moments, the once sickly elves pounced on one another, violently rending into those that were left defenseless. In the dark, ‘Twas eyes snapped awake, and rather than blackness, he could see the forms of every elf clearly before him in startling light. No screams were heard in his ears, only the pounding of a thousand drumbeats, the anxious breaths of strained lungs, the rushing of blood like water. 

Those that had drunk from the dark chalice were elves no longer, and were instead something new and twisted, something no longer living. Like blades of grass meeting a finer, sharper one, those found lacking were cut down readily and feasted upon by the predators let loose amongst them. Soon, the dark chamber was filled with blood and silence. Some of the hungry new creatures warred with one another over their kills, others writhed in the ecstasy of drinking their fill. 

Crimson light, sourceless and radiant, once more bathed the chamber with illumination, as the figures in robes made their entrance. The survivors of the onslaught lifted their crimson stares to look upon the black robes, as they cast off their veils. Pale elves, dripping with jewels and finery, beautiful and resplendent, waded amongst their new children, this time showered with praise and thanks for their mercy. These regal pale creatures raised their voices, gathering the hungry to them as they said:

“Noble Blood of Quel’Thalas, look well upon the heralds of your New Empire, now that you have tasted the blood of the Old. We are the Princes and Princesses of a new order, and you are our Precious Children. No drop of Precious Blood shall be wasted, and no cup of Lesser Blood shall go undrunk, for we will drain the world of all it’s riches, and build our walls with their iron, for we are the Darkfallen San’layn.”

The throngs of new Darkfallen erupted into cheers and adulation, praising their new masters, enthusiastic to take up new mantels of power. ‘Twas watched in silent horror, observing the new monsters surrounding him, the new monster he had become. In the dark, he could not see the faces of the elves around them, or see their garments; he could only hear their desperate bargaining. Now, as the pitch darkness parted for his new eyes, he saw the true faces of the men and women around him. Magisters, lords and ladies, tacticians and knights, the Nobility of Quel’Thalas, rounded up like animals in a pen, having been starved in a barren room, brought low by animalistic nature, now given way to their hungry selfish desires with new and terrifying power. He knew the looks in their crimson eyes well; he had seen it in the faces of the men that had exiled him from Silvermoon City decades ago, as they severed the pointed tips of his ears, and beat him bloody.

An ear splitting wail pierced the room, as ‘Twas fell to his knees on the filthy blood splattered floor, and wept. A sea of pitiless crimson eyes turned to him then, staring with craven annoyance. One of the San’layn Masters surged forward, striking ‘Twas across the face and sending him to the ground. He groveled at their feet, weeping and beating his fists on the floor, not begging for forgiveness or mercy, but lamenting that he had slaughtered and fed upon the living, that he had been ripped from the world he knew to become a monster. The San’layn looked amongst themselves, and then the groveling ‘Twas, and realized that the clothing he wore was not like their own, finery covered in filth from their conditions, but rather hand-me-down rags, clothing of a simple life with simple means. The San’layn Masters fell to bickering, pointing accusatory fingers. “Who has done this? Who has brought this lowborn into our midst? Who has wasted Blood on the unworthy?”

As the San’layn argued, one among them strode forward, and grasped ‘Twas’ face in her black claws. His wailing quieted as bloody tears streamed down his squashed cheeks, staring up into the shadowed face of the San’layn before him. He was twisted this way and that, as his features were examined, and found wanting.

“Is this not the Magister Eidolon Skygaze? Does he not posses his likeness?” One San’layn argued.

“If so, then why are his clothes ragged and homely? What has become of the real magister?” Another postured.

“Silence,” the San’layn spoke, grasping ‘Twas in her fingers as though he were nothing but a dry and moldy hunk of bread at a feast, “calm yourselves and your sniveling. What is done is done, and cannot be undone. No drop shall be wasted… this is our dark rebirth. If one of lesser birth has been brought into our fold, it would not do to waste the gift that was given.”

“Let me take him,” she argued, as ‘Twas struggled to see her features even with renewed vision, “he is not noble by birth, but he can become noble by bearing. This one can be made useful, if not as a Prince or Lord, then as a Thrall, a tool of our Crimson Court.”

The San’layn Masters and their new lordlings murmured in agreement, jeering and grinning as ‘Twas was dragged off, black claws dug into the flesh of his patchy scalp. He cried and thrashed, resisting his newfound destiny, rejecting the gift that was bestowed.

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While the other newborn Darkfallen were claimed by various houses, stripped of their tattered finery and bathed anew in lavish excess, ‘Twas’ mistaken identity slotted him for a harsher rebirth beneath the Scourge. Instead of richly adorned quarters, ‘Twas’ new home was a cell. Instead of glittering jewelry, his new trappings were iron chains and manacles. Where the hungry nobility acquiesced to their masters’ demands, ‘Twas spat in their faces, the sorrow for such wanton destruction renewed with the vigor of his dark rebirth. He rejected nobility, living or dead, and all that they stood for, for what they had done to him so many years ago, leaving him an exile because of his bastard birth.

But where there was resistance, ‘Twas was met with reprimand. Disobedience was punished severely, with higher tolls than just death. Failing to comply, rejecting blood when offered, was met with torturous treatment, the scars of such riddling every inch of his flesh as his skin was flayed then healed. Bumbling through the artistry and poise demanded of him at court, meant he would be made to drink his fill once left famished, only for bloodletting to drain him of the crimson prize he had taken.

Years passed, following the bloody fall of Silvermoon City, and the corruption of the Sunwell. Years passed, with ‘Twas in the shadowy clutches of the Crimson Court. Eventually, the beatings and bloodletting slowed, as ‘Twas swallowed the poison fed to him, along with his hatred, and became the tool he was meant to become. ‘Twas had become a master of all things courtly; not a noble by birth, but a noble by rearing. He was transformed, and had become a scholar, an artist, as well as an assassin. He excelled where other men of lesser birth would have failed, hiding the scars inflicted by his rearing and failed birth with the talents and bearing he had been taught. ‘Twas was no longer a simple fisherman, or exile from his homeland. Now, he was the Court Assassin, the clawed hand of one Lady Drelacora Sinflame, Matron of house Bloodwake, and player of the Crimson Court; the San’layn Master that had spared his life and raised him from nothingness.

A powerful magister and sorceress of fire in life, Lady Drelacora’s heart was frozen in death. She could freeze the blood in her enemies veins, wield the frigid iron within like daggers, and paralyze her opponents where they stood. Hemomantic and Cryomantic energies in equal measure made her a fearsome opponent, both in the setting of Court, and on the battlefield. As beautiful as she was, radiant and pale, she was not without blemish. The Lady Sinflame had once tasted the burning hands of zealous Paladin of the Silver Hand, who’s Light ate away at her flesh, leaving the right side of her face burned and cracked, her eye useless and unglowing. This scar she wore with honor, her beauty hardly disfigured, as she wanted her kin to know who their true enemy was, and what the Scourge stood to eradicate.

While the San’layn played at the Crimson Court, living in excess and vying for one another’s power, Lady Drelacora also trained her pet to pick off the weakest links in the chain; to secure new alliances, and shift the dynamics of the old. ‘Twas’ view of the nobles around him was ruthless and honed, and though he was beneath the heel of his Matron, she trusted his judgement.

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One such alliance, chosen to be beneficial to Drelacora and House Bloodwake, was securing the hand of a military leader with mighty martial prowess, as well as scholarly talent. Lord Crealis Redgorget, the General of the Bloody Brigade, a San’layn who’s artistry on the battlefield made him an easy choice to educate the Lich King’s Death Knights in the ways of Hemomancy, wielding blood as a weapon. Lord Crealis was a man of impressive stature, chiseled features framed intense eyes that could cut an army down to size in but a glance. A tactician’s sheer brilliance, a warrior’s hulking physique, and a lord’s humorous silver tongue; no better match could have been chosen to wear the crown of House Bloodwake.

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And at their command, an assassin of shadowy renown. A lowborn, who only spoke when spoken too, who stalked silently and unseen through the crowds, even in full view. ‘Twas the Nightslain, who had been plucked from nothing, and shined into something new and sharp, like a reforged blade. His rapier was saved for those at Court who could not measure up to their Master’s demands, as well as those Light-Fearing Paladins that bore down upon the Crimson Court’s fledgling empire in the Frozen North. Blood and Blade were bent to ‘Twas’ will as easily as leaves, as he followed the instructions of his Matron, Masked and Muzzled, like a wolf on a leash.

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Appearances at Court were seldom by Lady Drelacora, the Blood Matron choosing rather to send her second in command. But in celebration of another successful acquisition of territory in Northrend’s Borean Tundra, the San’layn Princes and Lordlings were drawn from their domains to partake in the revelry. Drelacora flaunted the tactician whose arm she hung off of, striking emerald green envy into the black hearts of all the Darkfallen who beheld her. The General Redgorget sneered instead of smiling at those they passed, shifting his weight in discomfort for having been unarmed, and unarmored.

Neutrality was all that ‘Twas felt, as he broke from his Matron’s side to cling to the shadows. A sharpened gaze and impassive visage took in the lavish decor and sycophantic nobles from a shaded perch. He could do nothing but watch and listen, not permitted to speak unless addressed, not permitted to drink unless offered. It was rude to take what was not his, just as it was rude to refuse a drink offered in charity; both would lead to dire consequences, at the hand of his Matron.

The Ballroom of the Crimson Court was filled with music, gem-encrusted bodies swaying along as if possessed. Chalices of ruby liquid were drained and set aside, as hands found their partners and took to the floor. ‘Twas watched with impartiality and numb observance as Lady Drelacora ushered her stilted partner to the floor, Lord Crealis following her whims with some hidden reluctance. But the Lady Sinflame cared not, as the pair of them joined the others throwing their bodies together in dance. All on the floor watched in awe as the Lord and Lady of House Bloodwake took to the floor, Lord Crealis’ commanding and fearsome presence parting a clearing for just the two of them. How graceful and light Lady Drelacora was in Lord Crealis’ hands, as he spun her about like a top. A smirk crossed the Lord’s unshaven features as Lady Drelacora giggled in delight, draped down and bending at the waist, throwing her pale head back with a beaming smile.

All in attendance at the Crimson Court paused to observe the pair as they danced.

They were beautiful.

They were deadly.

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Whispers filtered through the chattering San’layn as they left the floor to return to their alcoves of drinking and gossip; House Bloodwake cut a fearsome figure amongst the Court this night, as the Matron’s new right hand was displayed so proudly and openly. ‘Twas listened to their honeyed words of approval and fear over the rapture of cello and organ, taking note of who would be willing to follow his House. As the San’layn— and therefore the Scourge —increased in power, ‘Twas found with some degree of dissatisfaction that he was no longer as useful a tool as he had once been. If celebrations like this were to be had more once the Scourge was successful, what use had he as a blade? He could speak and play at court as well as the rest of them, but what was the point if he had no mouth?

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The assassin found himself growing restless, and pushed away from his perch to stalk the halls once more, as the band struck up another dance. He did not see Lady Drelacora break off from her political partner, nor did he see the Lord Redgorget’s approach. ‘Twas had scarcely begun to stalk the outskirts of the dance before Lord Crealis gently caught him by the arm. The assassin turned, poised for cutting remarks and even more cutting blades, a hand drifting to his sheathed rapier, before he met the eye of the Lord.

“You seem to be sulking more than I tonight,” the Lord said, addressing ‘Twas with ease and informality, “if I am intruding upon your work for the Lady, I beg your pardon, but I finally have a moment to myself, and I’ve noticed that you seem to only have yourself.”

A softer, more melodious theme played over the ballroom floor, as again more Darkfallen paired off, this time for a more rigid, organized dance. ‘Twas made no move to respond, watching the Lord speak with curiosity. Lord Crealis looked to the floor, then back to his silent conversation partner, and with tremendous care, bowed his head of faded amber towards ‘Twas, extending his hand to say “if you will not speak, then indulge me a moment, and let’s meet on the floor for one last dance. Then I think, we’ll both have had our fill of this garish place.”

‘Twas lifted his chin, head cocked inquisitively, as he timidly obliged the Lord with healthy suspicion. Side by side, but not hand in hand, ‘Twas and Lord Crealis entered the floor once more, a gaggle of whispers surrounding them like leeches in a lake. Crimson eyes watched with wonder as the Lord moved with his House Assassin as though he were an equal, one of higher standing like himself. For once, ‘Twas cared not for the words muttered by the prying nobility, nor for the looks of scorn they threw him. 

‘Twas had been educated in many a dance, learning every move and position under threat of deprivation, and as such, fell easily into the steps of the dance alongside Lord Crealis. The Lord moved with sudden rigidity compared to that of his dance with Lady Drelacora, his brows pinched in thought, one hand wrapped in a fist. But the pair fell into slow, easy step around one another, stalking the floor in circles with palms raised, a whisper of touch implied.

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“I don’t remember this dance very well. Do you?” The Lord asked, dark red eyes darting from the floor to ‘Twas’ neutral expression. 

‘Twas flexed the fingers of his outstretched hand, the red iron rings and claw caps skirting the sides of Lord Crealis’ fingers. He thought for a moment, content to leave the Lord in silence for addressing him with such overfamiliarity, fearing it may be a trick. But the assassin could not help the upward quirk at one corner of his mouth, as he met his gaze and said, “perhaps too well. Follow my lead, and do as I do, and we may just leave the floor alive.”

A smile travelled the length of the Lord’s scruffy mouth, as a look of amusement painted his features upon hearing the assassin’s voice for the very first time. A laugh could do nothing to stop itself from tumbling from his lips, as quiet as it was, “I will have to trust you. But be warned, I may trip over my feet. If I fall flat on my face, leave me and save yourself.”

The dance only lasted so long, but even still, in hushed tones the Assassin and Lord traded witty remarks and verbal blows, as if they were old friends meeting each other after years apart on the battlefield. All gossip that swirled around the room fell upon their deaf ears, even after the two of them left the floor, and parted ways. 

‘Twas found that no matter what he did, the tilt of a small smile would not leave his face, even as he withdrew to the shadows once more. Though as Lady Drelacora returned to the room, her plush lips darker with the crimson jewel tones of a recent feast, Lord Crealis’ nonplused demeanor returned to him, as once more the crook of his arm became occupied. Lady Drelacora shared in the gossip, fawning with the other nobles about her match, and the wealth of opportunities their allegiance would open up. Lord Crealis would pretend to listen and nod along, trading pained and polite smiles with those he was introduced to, yet all the while, when none were looking, he would effortlessly find ‘Twas’ gaze at the far end of the crowd, peeking at the assassin from where he watched in the shadows. And at every meeting of eyes, ‘Twas would bow his head, and offer an encouraging smile, unseen by the hundreds of eyes except the Lord’s.

The night of revelry eventually drew to a close, however, as the San’layn had drunk and danced their fill. Alliances were made, bonds formed and broken, politics traded for politics. Lady Drelacora accomplished what she set out to do, territory thoroughly marked, and power clearly displayed, and so House Bloodwake returned to its manor.

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The Scourge’s war raged across Northrend, and with many victories under its heels. With new purpose bestowed upon him, the General of the Bloody Brigade withdrew from the front to spend time learning the lay of his new land. Lady Drelacora continued her ruthless pursuit of zealots, sights focused on the Argent Crusade as they marched upon the shores of Northrend, her focus turned away from her newest pet for a time. With the Lady of the House gone, ‘Twas found himself in her castle with no one to keep an eye on him. No one, of course, except the Lord Redgorget.

Unadorned, stripped of the jeweled and armored facades that they both wore, ‘Twas and Crealis met face to face once more, as they walked the spacious stone halls of Castle Bloodwake by themselves. ‘Twas was shocked to find that the fearsome and bloodthirsty general of the Scourge’s armies of Death Knights was truly not so fearsome— and Crealis was surprised that the shadowy assassin of his inherited political power had a voice and thoughts of his own, that differed from that of his Lady. Without the pressure of the Crimson Court, ‘Twas and Crealis became fast friends, united by crude humor born of their living pasts, and shared love of martial combat born of their deaths.

Days and nights were spent in deep conversation, as Crealis and ‘Twas discussed any number of topics. Philosophy, art, music, combat— even simpler things, like the coasts of Quel’Thalas, the merchants and their goods, the bawdy atmosphere of Silvermoon City’s taverns. They practiced combat, training and sparring to show strength and for amusement. Slowly, gradually, the pair found they quite enjoyed the other’s company. Without the prying eyes of other darkfallen to see them, ‘Twas and Crealis had the freedom to relax, and drop the masks that were so often demanded of them. The numbed neutrality ‘Twas found he felt for most things melted away like snow under the light of the Sun, and only did so in Crealis’ presence. The warrior and General eased upon carrying his soldier’s bearing, his guard falling moment by moment as he got to know the lowborn assassin, learning the secret mind that sat untouched behind the muzzle of courtly politeness.