#day012021

[darbiebot]

DWC 2021: Day 1- Afterlife - Deagra

Deagra pulled her coat up to stave off a shiver. Despite the constant light pouring down on the area, Revendreth was a cold, still land. Her sinstone weighed heavier today, despite all her progress since being dragged across the veil, still living. She didn't mind, it was useful sometime for the newly arrived souls to see a her with a stone of her own, to know their fate can ease over time.

She walked along the decrepit hallways of the sanctum, she seemed one of the few who bothered with keeping her quarters respectable, likely a result of many of her colleagues giving in to the entropy of time and the transient nature of the material. Likely also, why they indulge in experiences and companionship, the more unpredictable pleasures.

She knew, in all likelihood, that was to be her fate, not so terrible a thing, she supposed.

Soon, the comparably plush living quarters gave way to the wails and cries echoing down the circular stairwell, Deagra lighting a bit of felfire in her hand to better light her path as the descended into the rehabilitation wing.

She passed by each cell, there were so many, she hadn't even begun to fully explore the vast dungeons. This had, in its original time, been reserved for Venthyr who relapsed, however for now, it was both a place of healing from the horrors that these souls had experienced in the Maw, and a place of punishment for their cruelty in life.

She was still living, and still in the middle of her own rehabilitation, but the Accessor had named her Countess all the same, and had tasked a limited amount of souls at her charge. The dwarf had found it acceptable, what better way to atone than to help people like her?

And so, once more, she stopped in front of the cell belonging to Lunro Venomshank. The Mercenary she had tasked with assassinating the Wildhammer Ambassador Truthhammer. The assassin she'd had killed in prison so he wouldn't talk.

The soul took form, eyes still burning with hatred. She entered the room, pulled out a thermos and poured some anima-infused tea for the both of them, and sat.

"Hello again. Shall we get started?" she said, gesturing for him to sit.

@daily-writing-challenge

[blixvoronin]

Day One - Afterlife

(Find information on the Daily Writing Challenge here)  @daily-writing-challenge

Warnings: death, gore

Summary: Blix reflects on the afterlife, and what it means to her.

--

When Alexandra Blix Voronin thought of the afterlife, she used to think of something different. A peaceful place, somewhere that you could take your burdens and let them go. Somewhere that you could truly be at your core sentiment of peace, where you'd spend your days in the beyond able to release all of life's pain.

Now, when she thought of the afterlife? She thought of the carnage and devastation she'd witness shake the Shadowlands to their very core. When she thought of the afterlife, the picture of a Horde soldier bleeding out from a mission gone wrong in Ardenweald came to mind. She thought of the memories passed on by sinful souls of Revendreth, the stories they'd told - “I'd killed hundreds for the sake of my own pride,” “I left my own men behind to save my skin,” “I killed my own daughter in cold blood, strangled her and drowned her in a river to silence her from unveiling my own tyranny.” She thought of the death that had plagued Maldraxxus – the inconceivably strong smell of rotting flesh and old, dried blood on every imaginable surface.

She thought of the pain that her dear friend's soulbind had felt – that he still felt. Blix knew that his blatant self-reassurance was a farce; a way to distract himself from knowing, truly, that the person he had bound himself to was trapped somewhere deeper and darker than any hole, colder than any blizzard.

When Blix thought of the afterlife, she thought not only of the rolling fields of Bastion, but the screams and cries of those doomed to die a second time, their anima extinguished with seemingly no effort whatsoever on the part of their killers.

She thought of the story a long-passed ghost had told her quickly in a field outside of Stormwind, of her own wife falling in Maldraxxus. When she dreamed, some nights, she would see Cecilia, a flash of pink hair the only distinguishing feature besides the blood that spurted from the wound in her center where she'd been impaled by a spear. Or where she'd been cut in half by a sword. Or where her charred flesh had melted into the fleshy dirt. Or where -

Stop.

Blix hated thinking of the afterlife, now. She knew what came after death, and for that, she knew true fear.