“You know…” his supernatural voice echoed dryly, a sinister tone dripping off of every word, “In Acherus, you learned a lot about what anguish truly is. Torment. Effective torture. You learn what breaks down not only the body, but the spirit as well. That’s the tricky part. That good old defiant stubbornness innate in all of us. Overcoming that. That’s the trick. Trust me, we all go through it.”
The Kul Tiran was groggy and his vision blurred. Whitstan offered a quick, solid and cold smack to the head with his hand. Marcus swore a wall of ice had struck him. As the drool fell from his chin he struggled to process what memory he had of the hours leading up to this moment. He shuddered and shivered violently as realization sunk in. Terror in the depth of his soul welled up as his heart pounded against his chest and his mind sent adrenaline pumping into what felt like every cell in his body. He became hyper-aware of the sensations in every nerve along his body, everything tingle in sheer nightmarish terror yet he couldn’t remember why. As sweat beaded down his head and he struggled to open his mouth he noticed something peculiar. He couldn’t feel his feet.
The absence of feeling wasn’t the only odd thing. The crunching noises and juicy grinding kept resounding in his mind. A deeper terror sunk in shortly after.
“People… they get obstinate. You take something away from them and they plant their feet in deeper into their stubbornness and refuse to relent. You have to be aware of their faith, and the depth of their resolve. The more you torture someone who holds absolute resolve and inflict pain upon them… they just get more and more stubborn. They realize that the pain inflicted upon them and their limbs lost only fuel their resolve. If they held on this far and lost this much, what does it matter if they lose a bit more, or lose everything, right? Really, you try torturing a few Scarlet Crusaders and you learn the real definition of stubbornness.”
Marcus looked down to see what he was afraid of remembering. Bound to this chair by countless leather straps, two ghouls mashed their blunted teeth and rotted gums against the nubs that were once his shins just below the knee.
“The key is to remind them… their resolve means nothing. There’s always another level of despair to sink into… to get lost in. And that the pain…? That’s only the beginning…”
The first-mate began hyperventilating. He tried to scream with all his might but realized his jaw was clenched shut by something. A long and loud, yet muffled cry escaped his lungs.
“Oh, are you back? Sorry, I start rambling sometimes. Especially when my audience nods off. Are the drugs wearing out then? Good. You seemed to lose your senses and what little sanity you had left, I wanted to make sure you remained grounded enough to form cohesive sentences when I started asking you questions… yet you fell asleep right away when I gave you the medicine. Maybe it was too much...”
Whitstan wore a slight frown, unsympathetic and mostly foreboding.
A sense of dread came over Marcus as his breath grew erratic and his chest grew tighter. It felt as if a thousand needles were being drug across every end of his nerves and along his core. He struggled against his restraints as muffled screams were forced out of him. He felt every chunk of flesh being forcefully mashed and slowly torn from what was left below his knees as the ghouls chewed violently and gleefully.
“Then again, sometimes I want to ask questions and then… I forget. I forget why I’m doing this in the first place. Because your torment brings me reprieve. This affliction we Death Knights suffer… we have to inflict agony on the living for it to recede even a moment. Oh, and believe me, it’s really hard trying to be a good, kind, law-abiding citizen. You have no idea. But… I do it. Because I believe in something greater than myself. In someone that I care about more than you might ever know. And here’s the best part… she brings me you so that I don’t have to suffer anymore… and that to me, that means everything.”
Marcus felt fingertips along his cheeks, but they were cold and callous. Oddly familiar but foreign at the same time. A light few pats came to the sides of his face as the smell of decay and blood filled his nose, forcing him to fight the vomit climbing up his throat. The taste was familiar. Suddenly he remembered the taste of his own stomach bile that he had been throwing up for hours, only to be blocked by the straps around his head and forced down his throat again while he retched. It came up again, and was forced down, meeting the next wave of bile coming up as he tried to swallow what was once in his mouth. It became a cycle of complete disgust and agony as his eyes settled on the hands that were touching him. He desperately turned his head to witness the bandages on his wrists, where his arms ended. The hands were his own dirty, bloodied hands.
“Marcus, MARCUS! Breathe… BREATHE through your nose, stop trying to swallow it down and relax… it’s not going anywhere.”
His chest convulsed a few more times and he felt as if his jaw and cheeks were about to explode yet somehow during his hyperventilating he had become accustomed to the stomach-bile resting in his filled mouth.
“Remember these? I told you that I was going to pluck off your fingernails and you told me to do my worst, so I just tore these off instead. You told me to go to hell, and that I’d never get anything out of you, so I decided to bind your mouth and fed you to my ghouls. Look… look Marcus.” he continued, tossing the hands onto the ground. One of the ghouls shrieked out of excitement and moved away from the nubs to began chewing on the hands. “It’s nothing personal, but if you aren’t going to help me, I might as well use you for everything you’re worth. Food for my ghouls… and fuel for me to escape my affliction. Thank you Marcus.”
Tears flowed freely from the Kul Tiran’s eyes as they pleaded with Whitstan. “Hmn? Wha… what is it Marcus? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Don’t go dying on me yet, okay?... Shhh… it’s okay. Just keep breathing.” he maliciously reassured him, a sinister smirk wearing on his face.
Dearest Kaevia,
Poor Marcus doesn’t seem to be doing well. I don’t think he’ll survive the fortnight. If you could get into contact with his family near Shatterstone Harbor, it would be for the best. Maybe they’ll be able to take care of his last rites. By the time I was done tending to him, he didn’t have the strength to tell me any more about his family. I hope this is enough to reach out to his kin.
He was the sweetest company she had come to know over the past month or so. Even more of the sweetest taste when he had come into the fold and had been good to Silvia, assisting her with errands as well as spending time with Rhistel after her schooling and furthering to coddle the twins at night just before bedtime.
A lot of the days before and ahead, Kaevia was absent but rightfully so with her duties that laid throughout the city. From the Oathguard and the Temple to research and daily visiting with her father -- it was a n ever ending trail of responsibility and worry but her family was in good hands. That is what came of single parents usually, wasn’t it? Running ragged to support the family you loved so dear there was little time in between for the ‘me’ factor?
Her thoughts in the moment blocked every sound from her ears but her eyes acted as the windows as she looked upon Vel’adir sitting by the candle light with book in hand and Rhistel upon his lap. The man was good to her daughter and more than anything that little girl loved stories people weaved for her. Usually it had been her father that would tell tall tales for the wee-one but such days had kept him tied up; more so from reality itself.
Vel’adir had offered a smile forth to the Priestess mid-sentence as he read to the child and upon catching the glance Kaevia lowered her head to silently mind her own business and a few seconds thereafter she could still feel the gaze though her own washed over her bare hands with the except of a rose gold and ruby ring that sat so pretty upon her finger.
At this place in time her father would have disliked the idea just as much as he did the first time but she was beyond just being a youngin’ any more and well into her own life now that there was little her father could do as the final say in much of anything. He was unraveling at the ends and he could barely find it within himself to recover. Much of his mind had been poisoned with stress and traumatic events to where event the nurses were enemies at the infirmary. She had never, in all her years, seen her father fall to be nothing more than a shell riddled with bruises and scars and she knew deep down that what rested on her shoulders in regards to the Oathguard was there to stay. Alucieus was either bound to aid from the sidelines or to return back to Quel’Thalas leaving the banners in the hands of his daughter -- whichever he decided, she knew he was no longer fit to pull himself through another battle or war else he would find himself truly expelled on life.
Tiredly, the Priestess blinked and drew her hand down over her other to feel the design under her flesh. Everything she did now was not only to protect her family and solidify her place in society and life in general, but for some semblance of peace and happiness in such a cruel world. Azeroth was terribly damaged and it almost seemed as if though there was no end in site of the threats. At least now, their people aided and marched upon Suramar City in response to the demon threat and the split threat from the Shal’dorei. The guard didn’t have the forces to send quite yet into the fray with so many who just returned from Azsuna and Highmountain and many injured -- they needed time and time was certainly something they were all running out of.
There were only one of two outcomes. Either the inhabitants of Azeroth succeeded or they failed.
Dark with the thoughts running through her head she slowly paced from the window to settle next to the two and the tail end of the story had been wrapped up. Kaevia’s hand met Rhistel’s crown and she looked down to catch the smile of the young one.
“Mum, the story of the Prince, Princess and the dragon.” she flashed the book upwards towards her mother.
“Yes, it is a classic and one I think many know. Are you ready for bed?”
“Mm! Tomorrow Vel is going to read to me about Winter Veil he said.” Hugging the book close the child slipped from her seat and regarded the two only to offer kisses when Kaevia’s finger had silently and demanded the attention upon her cheek, “I will be sure to have a snack ready for you both then, if not I can see to it that Silvia does it.”
“Please.” Was all the young one said before reaching up and taking Vel’adir by the neck to get to her tippy-toes and place a kiss upon his scruffy cheek, “Goodnight.” Rhistel bid them and she turned towards the hall in which she had been met with Silvia and the two made for her room.
Motherly eyes watched the two until they were out of sight and Kaevia finally regarded the Knight, “I am glad she has taken to you. It has taken some time but she is more accepting of you that I could have hoped. I was wondering if perhaps you wouldn’t mind teaching me how to fight?”
Leaning in along his knees, Vel’adir’s hands came together the moment he tilted his head to fix her with a questionable look, “Fight? I can teach you but you did not cross me as the type who would be interested in physical contact with others on some level of brutality.”
“I’d rather not but with the things that have been placed in my care I will have to learn. What I cannot learn from you I will be sure to have impressed by another. I was thinking perhaps Whitstan or Rethandus.”
A small nod came followed by a smile and finally Vel’adir reached to place one hand over her own, “Whichever the dear one wishes to conquer, then conquer she shall.”
Each moment she spent in Hillsbrad had been another fist of minutes she spent elsewhere but home, tired and exhausted along side of the brave men and women of Azeroth who sought to keep the Legion at bay. Many died -- and not even the work within the hospital so many moons ago could prepare her for the onslaught she had played witness to. Entrails, cries and screams for help and the battle cries of those who defending upon steel shields or cut through the Demon masses with every bit of weaponry some held on their person, casters whispering and muttering their incantations of prayer for healing and those who shouted in booming tones over the heads of others, arcane hissing through the skies….
Nothing about it was simple but Kaevia was certainly not the only one feeling the effects as the waves came in frequency. It had been when the latest wave dissipated that Kaevia had noticed the raven pitched nearby, patiently waiting with the Starsworn seal and colors upon the rolled parchment it carried.
She started for it and the moment she did her legs gave way and in a mess of skirts she nearly buckled to the ground had it not been for Whitstan’s quick, firm -- yet careful -- grasp along her bicep that he helped her to her feet. In silence she picked herself up, thankful that he did not make mention of her weakness and tired body that often came with mortality but that didn’t keep his eyes from pinning that awkward stare at her, a stare she thought for sure he was still trying to figure out how the living worked, moved and adapted to situations such as this.
The Priestess being the worst candidate and having never seen war before -- her body was but a pillar and vessel for in which the Light traveled, her prayers and pleas, cries and desperate whispers bringing the Light to her will and gifted upon others so long as the Light willed it.
There was a painful swell in her chest every time she looked at Whitstan, catching him staring back and in the briefest of moments he left go of her and turned in silence. A Bulwark of a man she kept at her side and the same man she had hoped would follow her to the Broken Shore along side of her father. Whitstan had potential but he often wanted to march to the beat of his own drum -- perhaps such things were for the best considering what he was. Kaevia watched him leave, the gleam of his runic sword shimmering out of distance and her hand gingerly rubbed at her arm where the grasp lingered but it was not her arm that pained, just her feet. Uneven ground had a tendency to do that even if beneath her robes Kaevia had prepared herself with boots.
“ Ah, the letter.” She quietly reminded herself and she turned, her hand reaching towards the raven who flapped its wings at her, disgruntled by the sudden movement but against its intentions she plucked the scroll from its leg and wandered to the steel part of a fence and rested against it, eyes scanning diligently over the words written for her.
“ The council of six….Dalaran?” even before she uttered the words to herself her heart jumped into palpitations. Of all the things he could be summoned for, of all the things that would bring Tassarion to the one place he hated most….
Frost and rime crept along the old wooden door as the wood began to creak and splinter; a heavy boot knocked it off its hinges, sending it flying into the dusty room. Rethandus stepped in first, letting his freezing runeblades hiss and glow in the encroaching darkness. He remained vigilant, actively searching for any traps that still could be working long after the cult that once filled these desecrated halls left behind. Once he was convinced the coast was clear, Whitstan stepped in with a burning torch with Istrys in tow, eager to get this little trip over with; this dusty room was one of many still left intact in Scholomance, but for that very reason they had to keep an eye out for any untold horrors other raiders of this decrepit school may have overlooked.
“I was hoping we’d have found something more concrete in Stratholme…” Whitstan commented as the torch followed his line of sight. “Having you two accompany me was the last thing I expected to happen.” he spoke with a low, echoed voice trying not to attract the attention of whatever dark creatures still resided there, or might have moved in there.
A thought kept creeping into his mind. The thought that justice should be harsh, especially to those who denied it to others. He was guilty of that yet he asked the Oathguard to stay their hand in light of recent events. He wasn’t the man that he once was or was currently accused of being. He needed to piece together the past events to understand why he was the way he was and to avoid that- all at the risk of again becoming that monster he once was once the missing decades of his life were restored. He glanced over to Rethandus and then Istrys, they were part of the Oathguard and yet they were assigned to help him. This was far too convenient to be a coincidence. He knew he had to be on guard.
The sounds of small rodents echoed lightly against the walls along with the flittering of wings in the darkness. Whitstan contemplated for a moment what unknown things hid in the darkness as a smirk grew on his face. The three of them were also creatures to be feared in the dark. He found the thought amusing as they ventured further into Scholomance.
“Only a fool would venture into Scholomance alone.” Rethandus did his best to keep his voice down, but his thoughts lay elsewhere as his eyes scanned the old dusty line of books before him. “Darkmaster Gandling was strong enough to control undead like us. I wouldn’t be surprised if a part of him still lingered in these halls.”
“Oooh, spooky.” Istrys sneered as she began tossing papers over her shoulder. “So what exactly are we looking for? All that could be left ‘round here is boring books and rotting corpses.”
“Anything on the Cult of the Damned.” The Harbinger slowly looked over his shoulder while his glare fixed on the woman. “And keep it down. I’m not about to invite anything that will impede our progress.” The cobwebs on the shelves looked ancient, giving the impression that this particular room hadn’t been touched since Scholomance’s initial sacking. Rethandus glowered as he sifted through book after book, displeased most of them were about shadow magic or undead binding. Whitstan next to him doing the same while maintaining one hand on the torch. He would glance toward Istrys and Reth every once in awhile wondering where they stood with each other.
Istrys had other plans. With a grin she would meander over to the corners of the room, only to slam her boot on an unsuspecting rodent. It’s muffled squeak was strangely satisfying, and it was just about the only thing she could do to keep her urges in check. Her ghoul stood idle, remaining vigilant for anything that could surprise them. “I said keep it down.” Rethandus’ voice dripped with anger, causing the woman to turn and give him a sly smirk and a light shrug. The sound of tiny bones snapping and Istrys’ faint giggle began to wear on Rethandus’ nerves, as he began to wonder if bringing her along was even worth it; at the very least, she would be able to serve her purpose out here, instead of finding ways to ‘appease her boredom’ on an unsuspecting cleric back at the Oathguard camp.
“Heyo, I think I found something.” Istrys called, no longer caring if her voice carried down the abandoned hallway. Rethandus’ ears perked as she approached, nearly jumping out of his armor once a grimoire the size of a wolf was dropped onto the nearby table. It looked old, perhaps far older than anything else in Scholomance, and it seethed with dark power. How did something this malicious remain hidden for so long? The Harbinger slowly approached the book, reluctant to touch it. “What kinda leather is that?” Istrys asked, poking it with her finger. “It’s so soft and mushy...?”
“It’s human skin.” Rethandus placed a hand on its surface, unwilling to reveal whatever horrors lurked along its pages. “Can you feel that? It’s got a pulse too.”
“Fucking sweet…” Istrys’ eyes beamed as she stepped forward, eager to caress the accursed grimoire for herself. Whitstan on the other hand eyed the tome cautiously as he approached.
“Hands off. This is dangerous…”
“Come on, Reth. This is too cool! Let me open it!”
“It could be a trap. Something this horrific would’ve been found years ago.” A thought popped into his mind as he glanced over his shoulder at Whitstan; perhaps this was the reason why he brought her in the first place. “On second thought…” he started, catching the woman’s attention. “... go ahead. Open it.” Whitstan’s expression shifted from one of somber caution to a sly smirk.
“Oh? Why the sudden change of heart, Andu?” The woman narrowed her gaze at him, now hesitant herself. “For a second I thought you were starting to care about me.”
“You want to open it so badly. Go ahead. We’ll be back here.” The Harbinger clenched his jaw once he gazed down at the grimoire, vividly remembering a similar-looking tome back in the Bloodsworn Vanguard Halls; he was quickly growing tired of cults and their evil writings.
“If this kills me I’m haunting you forever.” She narrowed her gaze at the two others while she turned the book toward her, causing Rethandus to take a few weary steps back. Her knuckles popped with a wet crack as she licked her lips with her dry tongue, eager to unveil whatever secrets this book contained. Powerful necromancy? An evil curse waiting to be unleashed upon the living? Proper castle decorating?! Her thoughts ran wild, compelling her to place her gauntlet on the edge of the book. Without warning she ripped it open, gasping audibly once she covered her face. “What…? What the fuck is this?” Her excitement vanished as she peered at the pages. “It’s just a fucking list of names.”
“Let me see that.” Rethandus huffed, stepping to her side to see for himself. Most of the names were too faded to read, but perhaps this was just the thing they needed. “Whitstan, have a look. Do you recognize any of these names?”
“... No.” he said as he scanned over the names. “Actually…” he said as he rested a finger on one of the names, “Didn’t you say this name earlier?” he asked Reth. “Gandling.” As soon as his finger touched fel energies climbed up his hand before he shot his arm away from it. The misty fel energies coalesced and formed words in the common tongue. He glanced to the other two and read it aloud. “Scholomance. Deceased.”
“... This… this isn’t just a list of names.” he uttered. He ran his finger along a few more names in succession and the same reaction occurred. “Southshore. Deceased. Stratholme. Deceased. Plaguewoods. Deceased.” he continued to read along the text that rose. “This is a roster of some sort…” he began speaking before he stopped, the last name he ran his finger across catching his attention. “...Nethrodrn? Undeath. This one… he… is undead. But the location keeps scrambling and it won’t list where he is. Savareus… I can’t make out the last name either. Can either of you read this? Something… I feel something blocking the magic on the book, dissipating it.”
“Well we can’t decipher it here. And we are definitely not bringing this accursed… thing back with us.” Rethandus turned to Istrys, who was clearly lost in thought. “... do you have an idea?”
“Nethrodrn? That sounds like a powerful cultist, right?” She paused, turning to motion her hideous ghoul over to her side. “Or perhaps it’s the name of the spell blocking our progress… or a place?”
“Random guesses aren’t going to get us any clos-”
“Shut the fuck up, I’m thinking.” Istrys began to pace back and forth, occasionally placing her finger along that last name to watch the letters flitter and twist in defense. “We already have a name. Savareus. It doesn’t make sense to place the name of the spell in this book either. Nethrodrn is clearly a place.”
“It’s not a place I’ve ever heard of before.” Rethandus crossed his arms as he studied the woman, clearly trying to get a bead on her thought process. “Since it’s cultists we’re after, it’s probably gibberish. Or a place named after some Old God.” They both stared at the book for several silent moments, unsure if they were even on the right track. Nethrodrn… Nethrodrn… Neth. North? Both Rethandus and Istrys’ eyes lit up as their gazes snapped back to each other.
“Northrend!” They spoke in unison, almost too loudly. Faint howls in the distant hallways made it clear something was alerted to their presence. “No.” Whitstan commented. “That’s not enough…” he said as he looked toward the area where the sounds emanated. Whatever they were, or it was, it was definitely getting closer. “Something is blocking us from pinpointing their location. Both of you… keep guard, I’m going to undo whatever it is affecting the book. It’d take us a century to comb Northrend and we still wouldn’t be any closer.”
He slammed his hand down on the open book, unholy runes glowing on his runesword as an incorporeal felflame spread around his hand. He considered casting an anti-magic spell on the book to keep whatever it was from influencing it to stop, but also considered the implication of damage to the book. Instead, he opted to fuel the book and whatever power it had in tracking the members in it. “These are members of the Cult. If this one is still… ‘alive’ for lack of a better word, I want to find him now.” he said as the runes on his sword dimmed one by one. The letters began to rearrange. “Savareus… Everwind…” he said, concentrating, attempting to ignore the sinister sounds around him. “Northrend…” he furrowed his brows, “It’s trying to pinpoint further…” he growled for a moment. He shot his eyes toward Istrys. “Give me your power.” he demanded as he dropped the torch and reached with the same hand toward her.
“Oh? Right here? In front of Rethandus?” A wicked grin spread across the woman’s face, causing the Harbinger to grimace. “I usually don’t do this on the first date.”
“Stop fucking around and do what he tells you.” Rethandus stepped toward the hallway, peering around the corner to check if anything serious was headed in their direction.
“Pfft. What a killjoy.” Istrys approached Whitstan with a hungry look in her eyes, before extending her hand to tap into her unholy runes. The death coil washed over the former Breaker, wrapping around his wrists as it swirled over the ominous tome. “... Dragonblight.” Whitstan spoke.
“Dragonblight? A lot of evil shit happened out there.” She licked her lips while she rubbed her hands together, eager to journey back to Northrend. “Well what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
“We should tread carefully… the Dragonflights won’t take kindly to three undead out in the wastes, if they spot us.” Rethandus slowly backed away from the hallway, and turned to his two affiliates. “I hope this is worth it.”
Rethandus slowly opened his eyes once the searing heat subsided, lowering his arms to look around; most of the corpses they stood on were turned to smouldering skeletons, filling the chamber with black smoke and ashes. The several Death Knights that were standing around him were gone, instantly vaporized by Zerethel’s spellflame. Yet here he was, still standing.
“What…?” Rethandus looked down to see Whitstan clutching his broken hand around the Harbinger’s leg, as the faint anti-magic zone quickly evanesced. “You saved me…? Why…?” He couldn’t make any sense of it. The billowing flames that swept across the pit was far too much for him to handle, and he accepted his death to return to Zion’s arms; yet here he was, saved by the very man who took everything away from him. The same man he spared mere minutes before.
“I don’t know why… asshole. Why didn’t… you… kill me? Because… we’re all fucked up in the head.” he said as he rolled onto his back and started laughing. Rethandus clenched his jaw in reaction to the man as the unholy energies Vesk provided were still clicking his bones painlessly back into place.
“I couldn’t do it.” he admitted, raising his gaze to the Val’kyr as she slowly descended through the smoke. “I’ve wanted you dead for so long… but I just… couldn’t bring myself to end it.” His scowl worsened as he rubbed his temple, trying to make sense of it all; but the distant screams caused his ears to perk, and instantly he knew he was out of time. “It’s because…” Whitstan sounded out “We’re addicted to the pain.” he said with a crooked smile. “Vesk… restore his strength.” the other spoke.
“Are you sure you want that…?” The ghostly woman looked down at Whitstan as her glowing feet gently touched the ‘floor’ they stood on. “He is the enemy, Rethandus…”
“He saved my life. Once he is healed, we are even.” He shot his icy gauntlet out, pulling his remaining runesword out of the smoke to snap into his grasp; his other hand reached out as well, stirring a Death Gate to appear before him. “I have to stop Zerethel from purging Zaldrannar of the living. Alucieus, Covaya, Tyrasam… they’re all in grave danger.”
“As you wish...” Vesk’s sprawling wings stretched out as she floating back up into the sky, drawing upon the innumerable corpses surrounding them and sapping them of their dormant energy. Rethandus vanished through the other side of his Death Gate once the Val’kyr bombarded Whitstan with a flood of raw unholy energy, pumping him with enough power to awaken an undead army.
Bones continued to snap in place as seared flesh was born anew. The blood runes engraved into his arms lit up a bright red as he reached for his sword, replacing it on his back. The unholy runes from his sword began to flash up as well. Both his arms were now functional although his left were littered with blackened veins visible from underneath the new, tender flesh. His strength was renewed but the Val’kyr seemed to care little for healing cosmetic damages. He paused a moment staring at the Val’kyr. “You said I was the enemy.”, his eyes were a bright swirling blue again. “Who is the enemy now? And why do you follow who you do if you’re not with those other Death Knights and the Mage? Is there a right or wrong to all this?”
“Councilor Kash’kaar is the enemy now. Should he succeed, he will turn his attention to Quel’thalas, perhaps reawakening a second Scourge Invasion.” Vesk spoke with indifference, humoring the freshly forged Death Knight as she floated silently in the air. “I am duty bound to follow the one who controls Zaldrannar: The Black Judge. Today it is Lord Sun’rael of the Ashen Verdict, but should Zerethel slay him… I will be forced to do his bidding.”
He paused at the entity’s answer. Contemplating it. He nodded. “And he wants to kill the living. Very well. I will help. Take me to Zerethel.” The Val’kyr pressed her lips together once she drifted toward Whitstan, plucking him off the ground as she quickly rose into the air above. A dark shell appeared around the former Breaker as she released him, letting him float effortlessly in the air while portal magic reverberated around his body. “Good luck, Wilhelm.” she softly whispered, teleporting him into the upper reaches of the accursed necropolis.
The voice in Zerethel’s head was screaming. Blood oozed out of his nose, mouth and eyes as he stormed down the hallway, tossing precaution aside to sear the flesh off Alucieus’ bones. THE TIME HAS COME TO TAKE WHAT IS OURS! KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM! “Ahh, Councilor Kash’kaar… is something wrong?” A Sunwalker turned to give him a warm smile, but the fury in Zerethel’s eyes prevented his smile from staying for long. The Pyromancer responded with fire, slamming the tauren against the wall as his pyroblast turned his armor into a melted husk of twisted metal and blackened bones. “The screams of the living will echo in these halls for all eternity! Do not relent until every crusader aboard my city is dead! DEAD!”
His Blackguard caught the Ashen Verdict by surprise, descending upon occupied rooms and recreational chambers to bathe the floors and walls with blood. Their vanquished cries drew the attention of others, allowing them to gear up to defend themselves before the Blackguard swept through the upper reaches unchallenged. Death Knights still loyal to the Ashen Verdict reacted accordingly, fending off the several undead yeti that were released from their cages; but the swarm of undead forces were quickly overpowering them, and it wasn’t long until they were breaching the living quarters, ready to cleanse Zaldrannar of any who opposed the Councilor.
“The Councilor is sick. He needs to be restrained to his chambers until we can figure out what to do with him.” Gonthar paused to shoot a weary glance in Tyrasam’s direction, before returning his gaze to Alucieus. “Lord Sun’rael… for a pyromancer of his caliber to hallucinate… that would bring nothing but bad news…”
“Captain Gonthar… you are right.” Alucieus sighed as he ran plated fingers through his hair, stopping to cradle his head. He looked to the towering Tauren Paladin, “This is too much of a liability. I was hoping his health would improve but I cannot allow this-”
“Let me go talk to him.” She kept her arms crossed as her gaze fell to the floor. “Maybe I can convince him to stay in his quarters? We still don’t know what’s wrong wi-” Her sentence was cut short from a thunderous smash against the ironclad doors of the throne room. The three paladins turned to look as something slammed into the door again, causing Tyrasam to jump. “W-what is going on?”
“Tyrasam… go find Lady Sun’rael and find shelter.” The Tauren shot a stern glance at Alucieus, pausing only to reach for his colossal claymore. His ears flapped against his head as he picked up the familiar sounds of Zaldrannar’s undead, hearing the faint roars of an undead yeti several floors beneath his hooves. Alucieus’ upper lip twitched and curled as his usually stoic expression was replaced by one of rage. “Gonthar, prepare yourself.” he said as he laid his blessings on the Tauren for combat. His right arm reached for his sword as his left lifted up and conjured an enormous spear of Light floating above his hand, pointed at the door. He drew back, waiting for the doors to collapse. The Crusaders guarding the door slowly retreated away, drawing their weapons as they turned to see Lord Sun’rael preparing to devastate the undead forces.
“DEATH TO THE SUN’RAELS! DEATH TO THE LIVING!” An undead roared as the doors were ripped off their hinges, flooding into the room in a swarm of undead fury. Without hesitation Lord Sun’rael let loose his spear of light, flinging it into the mob with startling speed; it violently erupted in a shower of holy fire and bodyparts, traveling through the darkened hallway until it buried itself in the wall several hundred yards away.
“To arms, crusaders!” Gonthar rolled his shoulders once his cloak fell to the floor, grinding his hooves against the ground several times before charging forward. “Cut down the traitors and burn their bodies. They deserve no mercy. Protect the living and be wary of the undead knights that still fight on our side.” Alucieus commanded as he followed behind the Tauren’s charge with crusaders that fell into ranks around him. Golden wings sprouted from the Sunwalker’s back once he began to drag his claymore along the ground. He let out a battlecry as he used all of his might and momentum to slash the sword before him, slicing through several mindless undead in a fiery sweep. His hulking fist connected with another foe, instantly crushing its skull as he slammed against the wave of undead. His hoof found the legs of a flailing corpse as he moved forward, crushing it into the floor while he attempted to overpower their forces by himself; but there were too many to count.
Claws and fangs sank into his back and shoulders as they swarmed around Gonthar, forcing him to cry out in a painful rage. He raised his fiery claymore high into the air, summoning an explosion of holy light around him that washed over his attackers in a burning blaze. Although he knew Lord Sun’rael was more than capable of fending for himself, especially being so familiar with fighting the undead, he wanted to lighten his load as much as possible; should he die here, his death would demoralize the crusaders defending Zaldrannar from this uprising, and the necropolis would surely be lost.
“Gonthar, save your energy. Let our crusaders take them. We have larger problems. If the Blackguard have risen against us, I think you know the implications.” he said as he infused Gonthar with a healing light with his free hand. The fortress rattled as dust stirred from the different levels onto them. Explosions were taking place. The last thing he needed to hear to confirm who was behind it all. The one man he chose to stand as his right hand. He kept Zerethel close for a reason.
“If they breach through the Throne Room your wife will be in danger!” Gonthar caught an Abomination’s hook before it buried itself in his shoulder, sending a holy hammer flying off into the creature’s direction. “You must survive, Lord Sun’rael! Go! I will cover you!”
The Paladin shot the Sunwalker a stern glare. “... Covaya will undoubtedly handle any stragglers as Tyrasam protects our child… Very well. Hold this position. I will move forward and ensure you don’t get flanked as I carve a path. Light protect you, Gonthar.” he replied putting his enclosed fist to his chest. Reinforcements appeared from opposing doors to aid in defending the Throne Room, giving the Sunwalker enough time to turn and pound his chest at his commander. “I will see you on the other side.”
Zerethel could barely breathe as rage coursed through his veins. “Wait… wait! Councilor plea-” another crusader erupted in a ball of fire while their corpse was flung off the edge of Zaldrannar to fall into the sea below. It was too late to stop now, for the screams of the dying would no doubt reach Lord Sun’rael. Every bone in his body ached from his damp wheezing, coughing up blood to spill onto the floor before him. His Blackguard escorting him remained silent, stabbing anything they could reach their master made his way toward the Throne Room.
KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM! Zerethel’s voice rang in his ears, but he could no longer hear him; only through his bloodshot gaze did he see crusader after crusader, desperately trying to survive his forces’ onslaught. Through crimson teeth he snarled, raising an open palm to let forth another blast of metal-melting flames. As a paladin crawled down the hall, whimpering in agony as his legs were seared straight to the bone, the Pyromancer turned the corner to gaze hatefully down at him. “Weak and frail.” he hissed, as his Blackguard skewered the elf while he let out a terrified screech. His burning gaze slowly rose from the floor once a familiar figure appeared at the other end of the hallway, causing his blood to run cold.
Alucieus forcibly removed his sword from the hip of a Blackguard he had cleaved in half from the shoulder before parrying a flanking strike from another. He grabbed at the other Death Knight’s face with his free hand as light exploded from every orifice in his head resulting in an agonized scream and smoke lingering from its body as it collapsed. He turned to face Pyromancer, narrowing his eyes as he looked over the cripple. He was a bloody mess and clearly too far gone. “I’m disappointed, Zerethel. I never actually thought it’d come to this. How could I missed the signs? The Blackguard, the experiments, what you put Taleyriel through, all of it. I defended you.”
“A means to an end.” A cruel grin spread across Zerethel’s bloodstained lips, but he could not hide the agony in his voice; his lack of blood turned his skin a ghostly pale, and he was shaking far more than he should. “You sat idle on your throne, wasting the gift Mograine gave you… but I will put Zaldrannar to better use.” KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM! Flames danced along his fingers while he staggered forward several feet, but at this point he could only see through one of his eyes. “You and the rest of your Verdict will be the first to die. Starfall will be next.”
“Look at what you’ve become… Zerethel…” he said with a modicum of pity in his voice. He shook the blood off of his blade, “I’ll put you to rest, old friend. I hope Tyrasam and Jaeras will forgive me.” Holy light visibly fluctuated from his blade, distorting perception around it as it began singing in a sharp, high pitch of metal vibrating. His gaze locked onto the Mage’s crazed visage. His grin spread from ear to ear as a few of his crimson teeth cracked and shattered under the pressure of his clenched jaw. The flames in his hand turned blue, and the Pyromancer slowly raised his open palm to destroy Lord Sun’rael once and for all.
“Die.” he whispered, sending an explosion of flames to barrel down the hallway; the windows along the path shattered from the sonic boom, spilling flames out of Zaldrannar’s side as he attempted to prevent anyone from even recognizing Alucieus’ remains. The Paladin kept the sword down to his side as his free hand felt immense strain and pressure to keep his Divine Shield conjured before him. The bright flames all around him grew in intensity every second. There was no relent to Zerethel’s channeled assault. Heavy step by burning step, he moved close to the Mage. He could not see the stone walls around him glowing bright red but he felt his own armor heat up and start to singe at his skin. He pushed forward, knowing that one more step, another step and he would be able to end this all. He leaned all his weight to move forward yet he couldn’t see through the wall of blinding flame that turned white. His shield of Light began to crumble and he grew desperate, unable to see where his opponent was. Images of Covaya, and his children to include Taleyriel. Even Areus and that damned Ashelin were there.
Zerethel cackled madly as he poured all of his body and soul into the channeled fury, convinced no living being could survive such an ordeal; but he felt it necessary to get his message across. His single remaining eye flickered while he became deafened by his own roaring flames, assured Zaldrannar was finally his for the taking. His devilish grin quickly vanished once something in the corner of his eye caught his attention, filling his forearm with intense pain as his flames immediately died out. The Councilor screamed as he noticed the bloodied stump that was his last arm, and the greatsword now buried into the melted wall beside him. “I-Impossible…?!” Zerethel collapsed to his knees with a heavy thud, letting his gaze fall upon the smouldering shield of Lord Sun’rael before shooting a glance toward the Death Knight in the distance. “I k-killed you… I killed you…!”
“What is it you told me? Pain is an excellent teacher? Well, I hope you learned something today.” Whitstan spoke with a sinister smile as his spiraling blue eyes looked down on the Pyromancer and then glanced to the Paladin. Alucieus stared at Whitstan for the longest moment, trying to make sense of everything. He shifted his focus back to the Mage. “I’ll let you reap whatever it is you were sowing here. I have people to protect.” A nod to the Death Knight and another pitied look to the Mage was all he had to offer his friend before he turned to walk back down the path he came.
“You…. dare turn your BACK ON ME?!” Zerethel lurched forward as he wheezed, spilling a lot of blood onto his severed hand.
“Don’t do it…” Whitstan echoed. “I don’t want to kill you…”
“I am the strongest pyromancer this pathetic world has ever seen! And I WILL TAKE WHAT IS MINE!” Zerethel turned to glare at Alucieus’ back before he opened his mouth as wide as he could, causing the back of his throat to glow a sinister orange. Whitstan sighed as he narrowed his eyes as he walked over to the oldest and closest friend that he didn’t remember. He placed a hand on his shoulder as his left arm and Zerethel became encased in an anti-magic shell swirling with unholy runes and magic. Molten flame dripped from his mouth before shooting out violently in the Paladin’s direction. The shell would keep his magic spiralling inside his newly formed coffin.
He was too blinded by rage to even notice Whitstan’s approach, unleashing his furious dragon’s breath to sear the flesh off Alucieus’ bones; but the anti-magic shell propelled the flames away from his target, bouncing back onto the Pyromancer. His eyes widened in agony as his flames swirled around him, tearing through his flesh with ease; but he could not stop his spell as it was far too late. KILL HIM! KILL… HIM!.. kill… His body burned in a spectacle of white flame, scorching his bones black as the last of his dying screams echoed down the halls of Zaldrannar.
Whitstan’s blood runes on his blackened arm glowed while it constantly burned and regenerated simultaneously over and over again holding the mage inside his own spell. He let out a sigh of discontent as he released the remains of the mage. He watched as his arm slowly regenerated, his veins still singed and painted black by the flames of his fallen brother. He stared down at what was left of the Pyromancer and couldn’t help but feel a great guilt weighing at his chest. The fighting seemed to settle and the halls grew quiet as the necropolis began to list toward the ground, flames remained ignited across the structure.
“Zereth?!” Tyrasam covered her mouth as she looked around, locking her gaze on the smouldering skeleton at Whitstan’s feet. “ZERETHEL!” Her blood ran cold as she ran to her husband’s remains, stopping only once Gonthar reappeared to hold her back. “ZERETHEL! ZERETHEELLL!”
“Tyrasam…” the Sunwalker spoke, scooping her off the ground to hold her close. “Look away… look away…”
“I COULD HAVE SAVED HIM! I COULD HAVE TALKED TO HIM!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, savagely kicking and punching to wiggle out of the wounded Tauren’s grip. His exhaustion got the better of him as he reluctantly released her, letting her sprint toward the remains to collapse at Zerethel’s side. Her trembling hands reached out to him, instantly recognizing the melted chain that was wrapped around his neck; it once was Jaeras’ gift he gave him a few days ago. The delicate woman broke down into tears, calling out his name over and over again. But the longer she screamed, the more the truth settled in; there was nothing else she could do, for her husband was well beyond reviving.
“Lord Sun’rael…” Gonthar spoke, still exhausted from the previous battle. “The Blackguard are on the retreat. But Zaldrannar is starting to fall toward the sea. We should regroup at the Throne Room to make sense of all this.” Alucieus nodded and said no more, looking to everyone present. He walked off ahead of the group. Whitstan stared at Tyrasam, refusing to turn a blind eye to the pain he caused.
Even a week or so later the babies had not lost their touch or interest upon the family, if anything everyone had been wrapped around their tiny fingers and today of all days, Kaevia allowed this to sink in fully. The trio had been comfortably placed along the bed; Kaevia sitting with both Oriana and Rowan in front of her and both wide awake staring about their surroundings. It was quiet even though the two had been wiggling around and flapping their little arms as if though they were bound to take off and every once in awhile their legs would give jolting little kicks, eyes wide and their tongue exploring over their mouthy and lips as infants often did.
The pair had been far too young for much else aside from gazing around, making little motions with their mouths and tongue and raptor-clawing their fingers here and there with their thumbs tucked -- yet they were still a wonder and exciting. From their strong grips along one’s finger to their hiccups after feeding and the weird little wiggles they offered, the twins were forever awe-inspiring.
The time came to get lost in her thoughts as her wandering hands traveled the twins in touched of affection, inspecting their tiny little hands and often bending forward to give little kissing-nibbles upon their delicate skin.
She remembered her friend’s letter and how broken the woman had sounded both physically and mentally. Perhaps some things had not been in the cards for her but she sounded quite upset with how things had turned out for her in the long run. With a deep exhale the Priestess regarded the handcrafted furniture across from her, there was a time she seen Winter happy but even when she had been with him, she wasn’t sure if her friend was truly happy or just counting the days, something to do in between. The woman rarely spoke of it -- the relationship -- if one were to call it that. She had certain smiles for when she spoke of things and discussion of him countless times over didn’t seem to give off the impression -- sure he was nice and Kaevia had high hopes for them but perhaps something deep down in the Monk, she knew better. No secret smiles graced her features and she never cared to really speak of her life with him -- her friend was now tremendously broken and Kaevia knew she wouldn’t show that either. A harlot she spoke about, did that mean he had been seeing another woman behind the Monk’s back, perhaps enticing the flirtations she mentioned without a care to disregard them?
One could only speculate and the consideration of the mess only made Kaevia’s head spin. She was indifferent and while her previous guardian had been in pain, she had to remain neutral on every front. A lion in sheep’s clothing, even the nicest of people were rotten inside and to the core.
After all, a lot of people only perceived themselves in certain lights to the public eye while keeping their true personas behind closed doors. They showed what they wished while keeping the rest hidden -- isn’t that what liars did? Is it true that once a liar, always a liar?
Did people really change?
In that thought, Kaevia’s eyes regarded the open window and her fingers allowed the twins to clutch to them for dear life as if though she was about to leave the house and find cigarettes and lottery tickets.
Whitstan. He sought change but once more Kaevia wasn’t entirely convinced it was the change he wanted but the wish and whim of another -- Syrahn perhaps or was it her friend? Did it matter? If anything both she and Syrahn were trusted people to help lead the Death Knight down the path for a more favorable outcome. Perhaps Whitstan was better off to be placed under her Father’s watchful eye and less of her own? She didn’t know the first thing about assisting the dead who had this insatiable urge to harm the living. Kaevia didn’t trust Whitstan but thankfully trust was something earned and not directly given upon meeting someone -- it was funny how it worked the same way as respect -- and in that, she did not trust him yet. Alucieus seemed quite disgruntled at the fact that she was bound to make a fool out of herself for bringing a questionable being into the circle of her ranks or…..perhaps he was proud in knowing she was capable of second chances?
Her father was forever an enigma.
“ You two ar--” Her words clipped with the clatter of the trinkets upon the hearth started to shake and dance from their holding, a few smashed to the floor when the entire land beneath the foundation shook. A thunderous clap caused the walls of the large estate to groan in protest and the hinges of the windows began to give way. Her friend’s little one and Silvia’s yells echoed down the hall coupled with Rhistel’s shriek and while the panic seemed to last for but a few seconds, Kaevia leaned over the twins to curl them both under the canopy of her torso, eyes clenched and the only thing she could emit in the moment was a bellowing yell,” Dymere!” She called out at the top of her lungs, panic filled her with what had been happening in the moment of the quake.
Within moments, the spell breaker was crashing through the doorway, sword in hand. He rushed to her side, placing his body between her and the windows, “ What is it?!” her voice boomed and the Priestess looked up, finding her eyes pinned to the front of Dymere and finally the rumbling stopped, the creaking of the entire estate coming to a slow halt and finally…...nothing, complete silence followed until finally Dymere moved away and held the Priestess by the shoulders, concerned gazes sweeping over the children and the Lady herself,” Just a tremor.”
“ I need to check on Rhistel, will you watch the twins for a moment?” dazed and still in quite a bit of shock, Kaevia pulled from the bed and her hands finally relinquished their touch upon the twins, confidant they were in good hands and to set out along her small mission to ensure all within the abode were safe. Later would come the conclusion of what damage might have been made to the structure, most certainly.
Disappointment wasn’t something that Kaevia experienced often but it hit her hard the night her friend decided to casually introduce Whitstan to her and thus exchanging a look of disbelief. Of all the people she could have made nice with, it had to be -him- of all people. The one she heard terrible stories of and the scars members in her family wore because of his transgressions upon them -- nightmares as she remembered them, even more so after the disappearance of Zeth and Syrhis that happened many, many moons ago on behalf of the man who sought to scatter Alucieus’s forces to the wind.
How could she even think of it or to entertain the idea?
Was the enemy of her father her enemy too? Could Alucieus even come to possibly understand the lackluster reasoning to her allowing him in her ranks.
Everyone deserves a second chance.
He wants to do good.
He’s changed.
Each time her friend opened her mouth she sounded more and more like Syrahn, something Kaevia had already hear over and over again when they had the run in with another Priestess and Areus. A fucking mess, all of it. That’s what it was. And now -- this…
The audacity to welcome the devil to their doorstep. Ah, they never turned people away who were in need or sought to fulfill some sort of genuine, good deed ridden life and help others. But therein laid the problem, the problem being that this man Whitstan only cared to do good by a promise given to another. Promises were made to be broken and that was no secret, furthermore; a promise made to another upon their request was the type to be broken the fastest. Whitstan couldn’t of had a care to help others though instead it was Syrahn’s wishes and words impressed on him to do so -- or so Kaevia came to believe given the conversation she had with him.
Teaching a wild animal to not bare its teeth would prove difficult…Even more so that she had plenty of others at her back with their teeth bared as well, just waiting to take their rightful chunk from the man who just joined her ranks.
“Light have mercy…” The Priestess breathed out and her fingertips cradled several portions of her head when her chin dipped down, elbows to her desk and even taking a breather had a short time stamp upon it. The twins slept and soundly, just outside she could hear the laughter and shouting of Rhistel with Silvia. Even in times of solitude and peace, bright happiness and contentment there was that impending dread of something looming over her shoulder, a familiar feeling of doubt and darkness though she never let it linger for long….it lingered none the less. She had a lot of explaining to do and no where to start.
Reluctantly she pulled her pen from the well as if though her heart was already setting her body in motion, following her gut in knowing the correct steps though her mind seemed cluttered and thus through the chaos of it all, she finally penned a quick note:
Father;
I need to meet with you as I fear I might have some news I am in dire need of some guidance upon. I think I have made a dangerous mistake.
