#anvernus

[pennybard]

We Shall Slay

((So I’m hoping to go through the majority of my characters to give them artifact equivalent weapons. I’ve seen other people doing similar things, and I’ve liked what I’ve seen! So here goes. My poor frustrated Death Knight gets his big ol’ mean ol’ weapon.))

Anvernus entered his apartment in Undercity and tossed his keys onto his kitchen table. He shrugged his jacket off, and draped it over one of the chairs surrounding the table. Leaving the lights off, he made his way, unhindered, to his bedroom.

His fingers gripped his shirt and pulled it up over his head, casting it to the floor absently. The Death Knight looked around his room, his eyes long-since adjusted to the dark. Weapons and armor were hung from two of the walls, and were kept sharp and clean. His bed was against the wall adjacent to the door; a very large wrought-iron frame, and a mattress adorned with lots of blankets, furs, and pillows. The fourth wall of the room was a deep closet, in which hung items like whips, crops, cuffs, collars, and varying lengths of rope among other things. Form and function were represented here, just as evenly as pain and pleasure.

The Death Knight sighed, eyeing his closet and raising a brow. The closet hadn’t seen much use at all since he’d moved to Undercity. He turned, his back against his bed, and launched himself amidst the furs and pillows, sighing as he sprawled out wide. After a few moments, his fingers began absently tracing his hips, and he craned his neck to look into his closet, wondering what he could use to pass the time and perhaps relax some of the tension he’d built up over the months since he shacked up in the Forsaken city.

“Murderer...”

A whispering voice came to his ear, and Anvernus narrowed his eyes, sitting up in his bed. He looked about into each of the corners of his room, trying to find a source. Familiar as he was with the ranks of the dead, being both Undead himself, and a Death Knight, he knew that the voice wasn’t that of a ghost or similar being... at least not quite.

“Monster...” 

His ears caught the direction of the voice this time, following the sound to the wall containing many of his more prized weapons. He watched the blades a while before standing up from his bed and approaching them slowly.

“Delira?” He responded, looking over a particularly nasty looking pair of swords. The blades once belonged to the first woman he had ever loved. He watched as the Scarlet Crusade burned her alive, but he managed to claim her runeblades after the fact. He had long wondered if some part of her still clung to the swords, as any time he wielded them, he didn’t quite feel like himself. The voice didn’t sound like hers though.

“Destroyer...”

The Death Knight turned and walked to a large two-handed sword displayed among many others on his wall. He now knew that the voice was coming from this one. He remembered the voice; he’d only heard it once before. Years ago now, after assisting with an assault on Icecrown Citadel, he and several others had come across shards of a mythical blade. Quel’Delar had been a sword forged to battle with the Scourge. The dragon aspects themselves all had a hand in its creation, along with another blade, Quel’Serrar. 

Using the shard he found and a great deal of help, he had reforged the blade, and it had been a mighty weapon at the time. Once the Lich King was defeated however, it seemed to go dormant. It became unwieldy in his hand, its balance was off, and it dulled so easily. So he retired the blade, keeping it well looked after out of respect for its history.

“Are you accusing, or complimenting?” He asked the blade.

“Recruiting... You once wielded me to great effect. The Scourge fell by the hundreds... We must do so again.” The voice was airy and thin, but Anvernus could sense it growing stronger.

“The Scourge is still in check. There is a new Lich King keeping them contained.” Anvernus spoke, hoping that what he was saying was still true and that the blade didn’t know something he didn’t.

“I was created to push back the Scourge... but not only the Scourge... I was made to fight any force which would threaten Azeroth. Such a force has arisen... has it not?” The blade asked. Anvernus nodded.

“The Legion, surely.” He replied. “Demons now pose just as great a threat to Azeroth, if not more so.” He felt a hum of power resonate through the blade at mention of the demonic host.

“The Legion...” The sword said, far more clear and forcefully than it had previously. “Yes. This is why I have roused from slumber. Now, as before, we shall bring ruin upon the foes of Azeroth. Take me up, Destroyer. We shall slay.”

Anvernus reached for the blade and placed his hand on the hilt of the sword. His other hand ran down the length of the blade, and he felt that familiar hum resonate through his limbs. He smiled wickedly in spite of himself and lifted the blade from the wall. The blade was perfectly balanced, and giving it a few practice swings, he noticed that once again it moved beautifully in his grip. The Death Knight sighed happily, as though reunited with an old friend, watching the blade with admiration. It would feel wonderful to wield Quel’Delar again.

After a few moments of examining the beautiful blade, his eyes wandered back to his closet, and the various toys therein. He bit at the saronite ring piercing his lower lip and cleared his throat. It had been such a long time...

“We don’t need to get demon slaying right this minute do we?”

[pennybard]

Sleep Among Dragons

((So Anvernus’ murder spree starts off with a bit o’ cold vengeance! Also, writing believable combat isn’t easy, and I’m not sure how well I did. Either way,  hope folks like it!))

Dragonblight. Glenayr despised the place. In the last five years, he hadn’t ventured far beyond the perimeter of the Venomspite encampment. The few times he was granted leave, he barely managed to start enjoying himself back at the Undercity before he was recalled to replace some felled guard or another. He wasn’t sure why the Banshee Queen insisted on maintaining the small outpost in Northrend, when there were other, stronger encampments that flew the Horde banner nearby. But then, he grumbled to himself, the Horde and the Forsaken were two very different entities.

Maybe it was that today marked his fifth year at the encampment, maybe it was the mulgore firewater he had been drinking before his shift, maybe he was finally sick of the job; but Glenayr found himself far from Venomspite tonight. He looked up at the sky, sighing quietly to himself at the stars as he shook his head. Could he run away from it all? How long could a deserter live on his own, outside of the Horde’s influence? His train of thought was interrupted by an immediately entrancing voice.

“Far from your post, aren’t you?” The guard started and turned around, looking back at the source of the voice. If his blood held any warmth, it would have gone cold at the sight of the death knight in black armor, standing stock still. Glenayr shuddered and narrowed his gaze at the man. Something about him was familiar, and not in a good way. The death knight didn’t move, but continued speaking. Glenayr kept a wary eye on the nasty looking spear slung at the death knight’s back.

“I’m not sure what has brought you out this far, but I’m here to pay my respects. I lost a dear friend on this very spot.” The knight said, pointing to the ground at his feet. The Venomspite guard tensed at the death knight’s words. He knew where he recognized him from. He knew who the thing was mourning. He cursed himself for coming out so far from the encampment. The death knight continued.

“Erigosa. She was an albino blue drake. I first met her not far from here. We saved one another’s lives that day, and had done so many times afterwards. Five years ago today though, I couldn’t save her.” Glenayr felt the death knight’s eyes on him even before the man removed his helm and cast it into the snow. His face would have been attractive were it not for the ritualistic scars in his scalp, and the various other wounds on his face, all pinned in place with saronite loops, or piercings. His icy blue mohawk fell to one side, barely covering the split up one side of his mouth. Glenayr stepped back and reached for his sword. The death knight grinned at his reaction. He knew he had the right man now. He continued in that disarming voice.

“You see, we were flying over Venomspite one day, on some important business. Someone in the camp however, must have deemed us a threat. I’m not sure how they could. At such a distance, one would think we’d be ignored. I think though, that some bored guard must have thought we’d make for good sport.” The death knight slowly began to bend his knees and lean forward. Glenayr shifted his weight and eased his sword from its sheathe.

“When Erigosa was struck with a bolt from one of your ballistae, she was pierced through, and I was very nearly struck myself. I would not have survived the fall, had she not thrown me clear, and into a snow bank.” The man reached for the spear, and Glenayr drew his sword with a snap.

“When I awoke, Erigosa was already dead. I didn’t get the chance to thank the friend who had saved my life at the expense of her own. I entered Venomspite then, and killed every guard I could. I got everyone, except for the one I wanted most. The one who fired the ballista. I got a good, long look at him though.” Glenayr dodged at a moment’s notice as the spear thrust at his throat. He felt the sting of cold metal as the blade just barely grazed his neck. Glen sidestepped the death knight and brought up his shield.

“Save the tears, Goretide!” Glenayr barked as he charged the man in black. “Waste of good salt!” He said as he charged, bringing his shield low. The man thrust his spear for Glen’s neck again. The guard anticipated the blow, and brought his shield up quickly, knocking the spear wide as he brought his sword up, aiming for the death knight’s side. The black armor stopped the brunt of the blow, even as Glenayr’s arm shuddered with the impact. But he felt rings separate, and felt his blade bite flesh. He grinned triumphantly before the death knight brought the metal-capped end of his spear up between his shield and his sword, catching him under the chin. 

Even as he reeled back, he caught a glimpse of the spear turning over, and couldn’t raise his shield in time for the head of the spear to drive in under his arm. Glenayr retched as he felt the head of the spear punch through his chain mail and through the flesh of his arm pit. His left arm went numb, and he couldn’t hold his shield anymore. He saw spots for a moment, and it was all he could do to plant his boot in the death knight’s chest and shove him away. As Glen tried to gather his faculties, he kept a wary eye on the death knight. He sighed as he watched the blade of the spear flare to life with red runes, and saw the same red light emanate from the wound he had dealt the man.

“You bloody monsters and your magic.” Glen spat. His left arm limp at his side, and the wound quickly spewing bile-green blood onto the snow, the guard knew he wouldn’t survive a one-on-one battle with the ever-grinning, masochistic freak. He spun quickly and flung his shield from his dead arm at the knight. He wasted no time as the man in black raised his spear to knock the shield aside, and ran as quick as his legs would carry him toward Venomspite. He sheathed his sword and grabbed for the horn at his belt. Raising it to his lips, he let forth a series of short blasts on the horn. The alert was sounded. He knew the other guards would come running. He only needed to put them between him and the death knight.

He had never run so fast in his life. As Glen’s boots navigated the frozen tundra with familiarity, he caught sight of Venomspite in the distance. He risked a glance over his shoulder and spotted out of the corner of his swiftly blurring vision, the image of the death knight running behind him, his spear slung at his back again. Glen cursed and continued running. As he drew nearer to Venomspite he waved his good arm.

“Guards! To me!” He shouted. He grinned as he watched several armed Forsaken step warily from their posts toward him. “Come on, fools” he thought, “let him kill you instead of me. I’ll be on the next bat out before he has his way with you.” His pace slowed though, as he watched the guards straighten, and sheathe their weapons. They folded their arms across their chests and watched, making no move to save Glenayr. His pace slowed and he scowled.

“Cowards!” He shouted. “Bloody pansies!” He spat again and drew his sword, making ready to charge the insolent dogs himself. He only paused as he saw them look into the air above him. They drew back and pointed. Glen turned around, just in time to see the heavy, bladed spear hurtle through the air toward him. He felt pain only for a moment as the blade of the spear punctured his neck and dragged him backward before plunging into the iced earth below him.

Glen’s empty eye sockets gazed incredulously at the sky, a look of gaping terror on his face. The death knight approached his body, even as the guard’s body twitched its last involuntary movements until all life finally fled from him. Anvernus watched with no small sense of satisfaction as Glenayr’s body went slack. He reached for his belt, unsheathing a wide-bladed dagger. With his other hand, he pulled the guard’s mouth open and yanked at the dry, undead tongue inside his mouth. A few moments with his dagger later, and Anvernus held his trophy in his hand. He wiped the dagger off on the guard’s tabard, and sheathed it before tossing the tongue in a jar, and slipping that into a bag.

Anvernus took one last look at Venomspite, watching as the guards gave him a quick wave, then turned back to their posts as though nothing had happened. He returned the wave as he felt rhythmic wing beats at his back. Slowly, he turned and watched as the large skeletal drake descended from the sky toward him. It approached him with loping strides and nudged him gently, a dry rumbling sound coming from somewhere near the drake’s former throat. He patted it gently, nudging it with his head. He looked long into the glowing eyes of his friend before speaking.

“We finally got him, Erigosa... let’s go home.” 

[pennybard]

Thing a Day #9

((I did a thing yesterday too, but it was more of a personal thing, so I wrote it down in an actual notebook, just for me. So I’ll continue to number things I write here, but the number will just be to keep track of Tumblr-ized posts. Without further ado though, a bit from my favorite dudes. I’m honestly not sure how things are with Istari, as I was dumb and wasn’t subscribed at the same time boneycircus was))

Two metal tankards collided with a dull metallic clunk before they were brought up to blackened lips for a swig. Anvernus set his down long before Vizriel did.

"Well, I was going to ask how you’ve been, but it looks like I don’t have to." The Death Knight said with a smirk, biting a the saronite ring in his lower lip as he waited for the Warlock to stop guzzling his ale. When he finally stopped, Vizriel held the cuff of his shirt to his mouth and wrenched his eyes closed for a moment. He inhaled deeply, huffed out a breath and leaned back. The Booty Bay tavern was empty save for the two and the Goblin bartender.

"It’s been shit, really." The Warlock said to his friend. "I’m grateful you agreed to see me, Anvernus. Thank you." He said. The Death Knight nodded before a quick sip of his ale.

"I admit I was a little wary at first. The last few times you’ve needed my aid did not end well. Self-destructive as I am, I don’t want to go down some of the ways you seem to try to." Anvernus said, the tips of his fingers carefully popping little bubbles at the surface of his ale. Vizriel sat quiet for a moment. He then lifted a finger.

"I met my first wife, right there." Vizriel said. Anvernus turned and looked at the bar. The Goblin behind the bar stared at them for a second, reaching under the counter for the rifle he kept there. He relaxed a little when the two went back to talking.

"Lizra? I never learned how you two met. Was the tending the bar?" Anvernus asked, bringing his drink to his lips afterward. Vizriel shook his head.

"Dancing on it." Vizriel said. Anvernus’ eyebrows raised.

"I had no idea." The Death Knight said, leaning his head to one side.

"That’s a bit surprising. She made no secret of her part-time vocation. Trolls are wonderful that way. You’ll rarely see an inhibition-addled Troll. One of many things I miss about the Horde." The Warlock said as he turned his tankard so that the line of the handle was perpendicular to the edge of the table. "Things were so much easier back then. The Old Gods were rumors then, stories parents told their children to scare them before bed. No Worgen curse, no members of the Alliance breathing down my neck about being a Warlock, no chil…" He grew quiet, then brought his tankard to his lips. Anvernus sighed.

"Vizriel, you’re my best friend."

"You’re mine."

"Well, as your best friend, I’m going to tell you what you need to hear, instead of what you may want me to say.” Anvernus said, gulping more of his ale to wet his throat before he continued. “You can’t go back. You’re not going to return to a simpler time, when everything was figured out. Even if you did get back there, you’d remember just how unsure everything was anyway.”

Vizriel nodded, sitting back in his chair.

"And you’re a Father. Have you seen your daughter in the last week?” Anvernus asked, leaning forward. Vizriel shook his head. 

"I can’t go back to her, knowing Istari is still out there somewhere. She sent me a letter Anvernus…"

"So you think that instead of one parent, she should have none? I can’t believe you left her with that herb-laced Night Elf too." Both of them chuckled at that. "She needs you. I remember the worgen as well, I know it’s killing you to be away from your child." Anvernus reached over and grasped his friend’s shoulder.

"Go. Be. A. Dad." He said, shaking his friend with every syllable. "If she sent you a letter, then she’s out there. She’ll find you when she’s ready. Woe betide you if she comes back and finds out you’ve been neglecting your child." He said with a grin. Vizriel leaned forward and planted his face in his hands for a while. The two sat in silence for a while. When Vizriel sat back up, his eyes were red. He sniffed.

"You’re absolutely right. I need Abi about as much as she needs me right now." Vizriel said. Anvernus nodded. The Warlock then stood up, leaving a small bag of gold on the table, and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I really should go. Thank you, Anvernus. I’ve missed you."

The Death Knight nodded and smiled.

"I you."

The Warlock turned toward the door, paused and turned back.

"How is Mithandra?"

"Ah, you’ve got enough to worry about. Let me worry about her…" Anvernus said. Vizriel looked concerned, but the Death Knight only chuckled.

"She’s fine. Go."

Vizriel left the tavern. Anvernus finished off his ale, leaned back in his chair and looked up toward the rented rooms the tavern boasted. A shadowy shape looking down at him narrowed its glowing yellow eyes.

"Leave him be. It would be my pleasure to stop you." The Death Knight whispered.

He knew Mithandra could hear him.

((Even though these guys are gleeful murderers, I always love writing this kind of stuff for them most.))