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.
