[ DISCLAIMER: I am the guy who ships with Belmont. If you don't like OC x Canon this blog might not be for you. ]
Name: Diane Lynn Marlowe
Age: Died mid-20's, has been lying about being 30 for about 7 years now
Pronouns: She/Her
Race: Forsaken Undead
Sexuality: Het
Relationships:
Commander Belmont [married]
Physical description:
"A particularly robust specimen. Curvaceous and fair-of-face, with a pleasant voice too. It appears to be crafted with deceit in-mind, for who would not open their gates for this beautiful creature? Requires advanced application of the Light to subdue."
— Excerpt from a manuscript of an unknown author within the Scarlet Crusade. Appears to be a part of a larger collection of writings entitled, The Interrogator's Almanac: Variation Within The Scourge.
Bio:
A typical girl of Lordaeronian stock, born to a man and woman in Eastwald, in a town that no longer exists. She has one brother and one sister; the former joined her in undeath, and the latter joined the Scarlet Crusade.
vvv FUN OOC INFORMATION ABOUT THE AUTHOR BELOW! vvv
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[ AO3 collection ] (OLD) (BAD)
I am Ard. My main is @mothervvoid. Come pester me there for OOC fun! I yap, reblog art, post fic updates and once in a blue moon I will actually attempt to write some meta. I blog about the various animanga I enjoy, Warhammer 40k, and post WoW screencaps [occasionally I attempt to say smth about wow too].
I had a weird dream that Gin had to stay with Diane for some reason, and despite Diane arguing for a guest bed, Belmont only provided a dog bed. Gin was ecstatic because she’s a little weirdo.
I had a weird dream that Gin had to stay with Diane for some reason, and despite Diane arguing for a guest bed, Belmont only provided a dog bed. Gin was ecstatic because she’s a little weirdo.
A contrary thing, warding a house. There were old rituals in Lordaeron of old that required the house to be made completely open, each room blessed and then closed, starting from the innermost room. This ensured that once a room was cleansed, nothing to get back inside of it.
She decided she would start at the top and work her way down. The upstairs bedroom, then the staircase, and then she would work her way out. The parlor would be the last, as it lead to the door, where everything would be pushed out. She would consecrate the ground and the house would be sealed against intruders—that was the theory, at least.
The doubt was pervasive. This was a problem for her, recently—and rituals failed in the face of that sort of thing. And this was something she could not afford; in the wake of Lord Felscythe's dealings she now knew they all had targets on their backs. Some unfortunate Domanaar had already tried to make a move. Lord Felscythe saw to it in short order, but who was to say another would not crop up to take its place? If they were wanted for the arena, then a successful Domanaar that could bring them there would enjoy a hefty boost to their reputation. And what did they enjoy more than prestige and entertainment?
Diane tightens her hands on the reins of her horse. She feels dreadfully exposed out here, alone on the road. Not many patrols this far from the Undercity.
I must not fear. Why should I fear? She twists the reins in her hands. The Light is with me. The Light is with me, and I am—
I am—
I—
…
Her horse knows the way home. She has carried Diane this way many times before. She does not need Diane's guidance, which allowed for her to sink further into her thoughts. Diane is grateful for this. It gave her ample time to torment herself.
Everything wrong with me is because I cannot seem to get over the past. It's already happened, so why does it still bother her?
Why does everyone else seem so unbothered?
It covers her like a heavy shroud, a death shroud of black pulled over her face, so that her world was a field of greys. She longs for color. She longs for life. Selfishly, she still wants what was taken from her, that long-gone promise of light and life of her neophyte days, when she had everything ahead of her and nothing behind. She was a lonely girl then, too, but everything seemed to much brighter.
Or maybe that was just how she remembered it.
She is struck quite violently from her reverie, then, by a blow to the back that brings both her and horse down, off the road and down into the grass. She is stuck, but only for a moment—her horse is up and off of her in a mere matter of seconds, but not before the fearful beast landed a panicked foot on the back of her head.
Sufficiently rattled, Diane lay there a moment too long—any moment was too long in this kind of situation. Was that not what Belmont spent so long drilling into her? A second is too long in the heat of battle. A second is all it took for the enemy to overwhelm you.
"There you are, little one… an excellent prize for the master's collection."
No—
"Felscythe did a wonderful job, disposing of Panoramiq. He left the way open for one more deserving."
She has already played slave-soldier for one tyrant and was dooped into serving yet another. She refuses to allow it to happen for a third time. As the cold claws of her would-be captor close around one of her arms, Diane swung the other with a knife in-hand. But it was not the blade the creature would need to watch out for, it was the Light she channeled into it, the blade glowing bright white with heat as she plunged it into her assailant's side. A voidspawn, by the look of it, formed in the shape of a man.
Her blows part the unnatural fabric of the creature but leave no damage behind, as harmless as sunlight upon the face of a babe. The damage it does to her…
"If it is resistance that you will give, then it is force you need." It lifts her by the arm and appraises her like fish at the market. It grabs the blade from her as easily as plucking a leaf off the ground. "Do not fret. Even the best beasts must be broken."
"No!" The knife is plunged into her side, then (There is a dimness to her power that even her faith cannot surpass, the all-consuming darkness that swallows even the brightest flame) The knife goes into her belly (Unseeming darkness as far as the eye could see, an unwinding reality that would become endless, entropic nothing) The knife slides across her midsection, threatening to spill her offal onto the grass (Not even darkness, simply nothing, for if there were no Shadow, there could be no Light).
She could live without most of her organs. This creature must know that—it knows everything about her. It knows her weaknesses, and no doubt knew her people's main strength lay in their unfortunate condition. She could live without most of her organs, she could live without food or rest or air.
"That did not take much. Perhaps we misjudged you, little one. And here I was hoping we would get to throw you to the hounds."
The hounds? Did it bring some of those wretched hulks with it from the Voidstorm?
It drops her to the ground in a bloody heap. "I will be taking you now. Please try not to move too much. I wouldn't want more of you getting lost in the way between."
Diane blinks. The back of her neck feels sticky.
Many years ago—thousands of years ago, it felt like—the Crusade kept her in their dungeons. Their torturers had great fun with her. So many of her kin perished in their hands, but not her. It was the Light. She did not want to die. The Light refused to forsake her, even then—it knew her conviction, that she would not die there, not like that, at the hands of another petty tyrant whose kingdom did not extend beyond the walls of its enclosure protected only by tainted sanctification. The Light shines everywhere, most brilliantly in the darkness.
And voidspawn were so terribly dark. The holes in reality, their bodies vantablack. In them, the Light is drunk by the endless Shadow until the body breaks apart in violent lustre, and leaves behind nothing but cuffs and ash.
She will not go back. She refuses. She tastes the ashes of eternity on her lips.
She rises, judges her wounds to be minor, and sets off to find her horse.
Her horse knows the way home. She has carried Diane this way many times before.
Everything seems so much brighter, everything green. The trees, the grass and bush, the palms of her hands and the front of her thighs.
Her funeral shroud has been pulled from her eyes to reveal to her the field of green. The slate grey stones of the road, the purple roof of her home. Trees with leaves of every shade, of emerald, silver and fern.
Her home is not far. All she needs to do is make it to the doorway. Lord Felscythe often prattled on about the sanctity of doorways.
She slid off her horse. Her legs nearly fail her. That happens, sometimes—even those of their extraordinary condition would find their bodies will fail them under certain circumstances. A lack of ichor, for example. She believes she is leaving quite a trail…
Her legs fail her. She has to crawl.
She might not make it that far. Her body was becoming harder and harder to manipulate, her lack of strength becoming more and more evident. It must have nicked her aorta, she was so stupid—
She can't think—she hadn't been thinking at all! How stupid of her not to heal the instant she had the chance!
She presses one burning hand against her belly and
---
She smells leather. That makes her feel safe.
She has no control of her body. That frightens her. She starts, and her body jerks, but her limbs remain unresponsive. Something deep in her core burns, and she ceases her struggle.
"It's alright," says a voice she is achingly familiar with, but unable to place. "I'm taking you to someone who can help."
Obviously I love the bf to pieces but sleeping can truly be some trials and tribulations sometimes because he's the type of person who moves in his sleep + is difficult to wake up and this manifests in various random dangers to my person
Ah, so between fire, plague, rioting, and much worse, one more of the “faithful” comes to my door. Well, let me bid you welcome, priest. And allow me a moment to explain a thing or two before you decide it’s time for you to seek whatever drives you forward: the Holy Light no longer concerns you, the spirits of your forefathers are fairy tales, and creatures from the Nether don’t want you.
Do you understand me so far?
There is only one thing you must know: we have survived through will alone. It is faith in ourselves that separates us from others, and with our powers, we will cause great change in all of Azeroth. The weak will come to lean on you. The lepers will call you Lady. And the ignorant will look to you for guidance. It is my duty to make sure you have the necessary tools so when the time comes, you are prepared. As you grow in experience, seek me out. I will teach you greater powers if you are ready.
That gets her a response. Belmont had been laying on the couch since she got home, and whoever knows how long before that. Practicing his corpse impression, he called it. He was very good at being a corpse.
That woke him right up, though. He sits up and runs a hand through his lank hair. Diane likes it when its down. She likes when it's all spiked up, too. Mostly she just likes it because it's his.
"Well, what did she have to say?"
"She asked if you still spent all your money on hair gel."
She's unsure what to do on the matter of Samantha Grimmgrin. Something like this shouldn't be so hard—the other woman already has so many points working against her. A Lightbound, former Damned cultist, a traitor to her kinsmen and country. All very cut-and-dry on paper, but a list on paper is never so nuanced. She had to go and find out for herself. She had to know. She had to dig at her for trying to spread those salacious, truthful rumors about who she was fucking.
And all of that for what? To preemptively make Diane hate her to confirm a personal prophecy. I don't like the Forsaken, and they don't like me.
Tough shit, she wants to say, but those aren't the right words. Lord Felscythe seems to trust her. Maybe that was why she was so conflicted. Lord Felscythe, and—
"All that time and that's the thing she's chosen to bitch about?" Belmont huffs with a wry smile. "Last time she had all manner of colorful things to say."
"Oh no," Diane takes her opportunity to slide onto the couch with him, "she had plenty of things to say about the whole council."
"So there's hope for her yet." He lay back down with a sigh.
She shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know."
"That's awfully pessimistic of you."
Truth be told, she isn't sure what's wrong with her. She thought she finally had it all together, and now everything was threatening to come down around her all over again. She lays herself down against his chest.
‘!!’ for a description of your muse from mine’s perspective
"Sister Marlowe, perhaps the strongest example I personally know that proves adversity and existence are one in the same. Or perhaps that faith despite the horrors of being physically rejected by one side and spiritually tempted by the other into nightmarish abandon borders on some new insanity."
"Regardless, their consul on matters metaphysical, on the notion of resilience, and their keen insights into matters more tangible like geopolitics has been invaluable."
"Their choice of armor in battle however, is downright fucking ridiculous. I do not care if she is protected by her faith and its some weird fucking martyrdom complex to prove it to herself and those around her. Heavy boots and a slip dress meant for a night of being arm candy at the Royal Exchange and its classy lounges is not fucking armor. Wish her damn husband would talk some sense into her."
