Entry #10
Silithus.
Somehow, it always came to the Old Gods, and a tried-and-true method to counter them had been used four times now: Unity.
Unity, Eredis mused as he prodded the corpse of a giant eyeball, will save this world.
And yet, the prevailing attitude of 'got mine, ($^& yours' will destroy it.
Even here, in the shattered sanctum of a dead god, Eredis could feel the whispers crawling along his skin. That a corpse's skin could crawl was, in and of itself, impressive.
I recognize this stink. I smelled it in the Highlands. Cho'gall stank like this before the others killed him. Even dead, that was your doing, was it?
yes
The death knight hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. After the life (and unlife) he had led, having a telepathic conversation with the corpse of a dead god that lie dreaming was well within the realm of possibility.
Why? Eredis mused.
we embody freedom
Eredis arched an eyebrow. Freedom? From what?
all the restrictions you place upon yourself we strip it away be free be free and serve out of gratitude
A long silence was punctuated by a snort, then the wet smack of a hand against rotting eyeball.
"You'll have to do better than that, eyeball."
Still. Now the crazy postings around Stormwind make more sense.
don't they
Entry #11
"Potion."
"What?"
"Drink it."
"You realize I-"
"I know. Drink it. And throw your hood up."
Tastes like a sugar cookie, Eredis reflected. Reminds me of...
Old Stormwind. Not the bright, shining walls, nor the slate roofs of the placed houses, not the solid gates nor the towering Keep. No, the Old Stormwind of his memory was the dirty back-alleys and the refuse pits, storm drains where beggar children made their homes for the dry evenings and the rear doors to the taverns where they occasionally got a chunk of roast fowl and a sip of ale in exchange for a few coppers that they managed to beg, borrow, or steal.
He could still smell it - the scent of unwashed bodies, old garbage, and night soil that sat before the shovel men came to cart the refuse off for the farmers down in Westfall. He could see the grime on the cobblestones, and taste the greasy smoke from the back-alley cookfires that kept the vagrant population warm.
And there, scuttling under a half-rotted barrel, was a boy no more than four - hiding from the conscript teams. They'd done a double-duty in those days; either find young ones to press into service, or get the younger ones for work around the camp. Make them polish blades, carry lances for the Knights, and take care of the wagons when Stormwind marched to war.
With a sigh of reminiscence, Eredis closed his eyes. Something...shifted, and he opened them again. There was the boy, cowering under a half-rotted barrel.
With a cautious step, the hooded man came forward and withdrew something from his bag, kneeling. He grinned underneath his cowl, sure that the boy couldn't see it.
"Here. Have one of these, and you'll feel better. And don't be scared. Whenever you're scared, think of these."
He placed the cookie into the trembling boy's hand, and turned away. He hesitated when he heard a trembling 'thank you', and passed out of the alleyway towards the conscript teams with nary a nod.
It would be a better life for the boy, he reflected, as the same thing had happened to him.
Entry #12: Pathetic
He couldn't concentrate. He couldn't focus.
All Eredis could do was pace on the dock and seethe.
They sought to overthrow him. Him! He'd survived more warfare than most of the ones had been alive - AND dead! And they sought to have him removed? And the newly-promoted Captain looked to quit? To leave?
For what? Making a stew?
This will not do, he thought as his hands clenched around the hilts of his weapons. The Death Knights in Acherus had always had a funny (not 'ha ha', but strange) sense of humor when it came to discipline, he had discovered during his assignment with the Verdict. If a Knight was too pathetic to do their duty, too weak to fight, too mired in insubordination to be worth their time, they were mildly titled 'Spineless'.
The difference between an empty swear and a Death Knight's use of the term, however, filled canyons. If a Knight is Spineless, they are repurposed. Nothing that is brought back is pathetic by the time the runeforges have banked for the day.
That is why a Sergeant and a Captain were still on the active roster, despite being titled Spineless.
Eredis' hands gripped the hilts of both his swords, drawing them to look at the undulating spines that had been reinforced with saronite and splined so that the serrated edges and blood channel brought the stuff directly into the nutrient chamber within each pommel.
The Captain and the Sergeant needed to eat, after all. The were at the height of their useful lifespans.
Entry #13: Animal Companions
"KOLYA!" the Draenei thundered, a Dwarven ale stein in one meaty hand, "Why did you spill the ale?"
The Draenei was very clearly drunk, teetering on the edge of a log facing a campfire that brought warmth to the deepening twilight near Thelsamar. Baikonur had spent a long hour bickering with the Dwarves of the bustling town over animal skins, steel implements, and the occasional land rights to a tunnel somewhere near Vashj'ir. And now Kolya had spilled the ale!
An answering snort was accompanied by the approach of a boar to the campfire. It was no ordinary boar, having the lean muscle and large tusks that suggested that perhaps a Troll and an Orc had been bewitched and had congress with a sow after some ritual gone wrong.
Kolya was big. And he was also pushing a barrel along with his snout.
The drunken trader took another drink from his stein and leaned forward, balanced precariously on the log.
"Is that - KOLYA! The greatest of all my friends! You brought a replacement from town!"
The echo of a mad Draenei's laughter echoed against the mountains, cut short by a crash that suggested that both the log and gravity had teamed up to bring low a simple trader that liked to drink.
Entry #14: There And Back Again
After the fire had banked itself to coals, and Kolya had cuddled up with what was left of the ale tankard, Baikonur leaned back against the treacherous log that had betrayed him so cruelly and withdrew a small bauble from the inside of his shirt.
It was small and unassuming, though the depths of the round stone glimmered as if it were hiding great power. It wasn't a ten-copper glass bauble sold to a bird man, nor was it an artifact of great power. It was simply the component of a ritual.
He closed his eyes and started to rub the bauble with his thumb, murmuring to himself with the hint of a slur that suggested that happy drinking had gone to maudlin drinking, and then he started to speak as if he were in a different place and a different time entirely.
"Laika, dear. I made sixteen trades today. Furs for food, food for ale, ale for metal, metal for more ale, ale for more metal, and finally metal for everything I needed to ensure the community was properly outfitted. These Dwarves, you would like them, Laika. You would like everyone on this world."
"Would I?" asked a sultry contralto. Baikonur smiled, but did not open his eyes. He didn't need to in order to see her. Tall, slender, with hair of silver and a button nose. A smile that told the drunken trader that she saw right through his stories and negotiations.
And eyes that-no. The last time he had seen those eyes, they held no life, wide and sightless, on a world that no longer had a name, or a history.
"You've called me again," the voice said. "To tell me about your travels?"
"No," Baiko replied. He clicked his tongue, feeling it leaden and thick against the top of his mouth. "No, there is a different reason I called you here tonight, Laika."
She sounded amused. "And why is that, my drunken lout?"
"To tell you that I miss you."
For once, the apparition was silent. The apparition that only appeared when he was a casket in on special nights, when everyone was asleep and the shadows had lengthened to their longest underneath the light of an ever-present moon (or two, or even six, one time). The apparition of a Farseer who would see no farther.
"Look at me, Baikonur."
The Draenei sighed, shaking his head. "I cannot. I will not. I cannot see those eyes again."
"You will."
He shook his head again. "No! You cannot make me! I only wished-"
"Baikonur, this instant."
His eyes snapped open. There, on the other side of the fire, idly scratching the slumbering boar between his ears, was the woman he had left a thousand worlds ago. All he could do was smile.
"You're here," he said.
"I am," she replied.
And underneath the twin moons of Azeroth, near Thelsamar, a Draenei smiled while he slept near a fire that had banked down to naught but coals.
Entry #15: The Itch
It was there. Center back, where his lengthy fingers couldn't reach. As if some Gilnean street mite had poked him repeatedly with a stick, right there, and ran off laughing before he could swat it away. But Boyd Macnormelton (everyone called him Norm, or Badger, or 'hey you', but never Boyd) had come up with a solution that sat on the table in front of him.
"Badge, what're you-"
"Not now, Rabbit. I'm goin' to fix this for good now. Professor Macgillycuddy's Simply Superb Serentical Spine Sensitivity Stimulator!"
"Badge, it's a windmill of scratchies with fireworks on."
And indeed it was. This device, slightly larger than a breadbox, looked like some kind of wheel that had several delicately-adjusted claws that would run down one's spine as the device spun, ensuring that all areas of the middle of the back received adequate anti-itch stimulation. Low-yield rockets were attached at integral points to ensure the device spun of its own accord, and would peter out only after twenty two seconds - scientifically proven by the lads at Boom Monthly to be the optimal duration for a really good back scritching.
"I said not now, Rabbit. I got an itch I need to scratch an' then we're going to make a mint off this latest invention!"
"Oh y'do?" the small woman asked, sidling up behind him. Her hand was already pressed against his back, the other one reaching into one of his pockets to lift the candy tin she knew was there. "Where at? I'll get i-"
"No you will not!" Boyd said, pushing her aside as he reached for his striker with his free arm. "I am going to test this, now stand back!"
Rabbit did so, having acquired the tin of candies rather adroitly. "Mmrhgtl," she responded, having squirrled up three or four lemon drops before Boyd noticed the tin was gone.
"And a one, and a two, and--"
--
After the smoke cleared and Boyd wasn't seeing four of Rabbit trying to cough up lemon drops, he noted that itch was finally gone - replaced by an odd burning sensation, and a rather strange draft behind him. Professor Macgillycuddy's Simply Superb Serentical Spine Sensitivity Stimulator, however, had gone the way of all windmills with fireworks on: tilt.
Entry #16: Dealer's Choice
"Lissen, it's real simple. You tell 'em you're a priestess an' you're buyin' that necklace, an' I come in as a member of the Stormwind Guard an' arrest yer for counterfeit coins."
The speaker, naturally, was dressed in the gleaming armor that the Stormwind Guard was known for. The Blues were all over Stormwind, guarding everything.
Really, it had made larceny, even petty larceny, very difficult. When someone clanging around in full plate shouting demands to cease and desist barges in on your delicate operation, the ringing makes your ears so tinny that all you hear is 'ur unner arest'.
Fortunately, the Guard were mostly after the flashy, slow, stupid criminals. This con was a beaut.
"But Badge. The coins ain't counterfeit."
"Course they ain't," the man replied. "An' neither's the necklace. But we's needin' it for evidence, right?"
"Oh, right."
"Good girl. Now g-"
Their plan was interrupted by the crash of breaking glass as a thief clad in the dark Saronite plate of the Ebon Blade came stumbling out of the jewelry store, necklace in hand.
"I AM THE DREAD LORD BARON BONEHALLOW!" he thundered as he stuffed the necklace into his armor. "AND YOU WILL RUE THE DAY THA--"
"Oi!" Boyd shouted, clad in his plate armor. "Knock the noise off an' drop the shinies, or I'm kickin' you in the nethers so 'ard only spiders can 'ear you!"
Predictably, the Death Knight didn't hear him. So, Boyd did what any enterprising thief would do.
He kicked the Death Knight in the nether regions, and was pawing through the man's belongings when the Guard showed up.
Entry #17: A Crisp Fall Day
On Canal Street, none loved a crisp fall day more than the Canal Street Baker. It was chill in the air, but not cold enough for families to huddle around warm fireplaces. Apples were ready to harvest. The skies were clear and snow was coming in the next few weeks, but for today, all was well.
The leaves on the trees were turning and showing off their brilliant hues. People walked the cobblestone streets of Stormwind with glee, looking to see what new things the cold seasons would bring.
On Canal Street, pumpkin gourd soup was the perfect dish for a crisp fall day, served with a cold cider. And everyone could smell it bubbling in the cauldrons.
And to get that last tic of warmth, everyone brought their coins for a bowl of pumpkin gourd soup and a flagon of cider. Business booms on a crisp fall day.
Entry #18: Demiurge
"Do you know," the Death Knight asked as he sat at his desk, "what the definition of a demiurge is?"
The two Geists looked at him blankly. Then again, with these two Geists, that was not terribly off the mark.
"I see," the man said as he wrote out a set of runes on a scroll with a careful, practiced hand. "It is one who creates in subordination to another, Renfield. Lackey.
"It is someone who is, for all intents and purposes, a god. He can control your very being."
The two Geists looked at one another, then back at Eredis.
"Then you are...a god?" queried Renfield.
"IT MUST BE SO!" screeched Lackey.
"YOU CONTROL OUR VERY EXISTENCE!" they chorused.
Eredis pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, then hesitated.
"Actually," he said, "Yes. That is exactly correct. But that is not the enti-"
His words fell on deaf ears. Renfield and Lackey, in chorus, were near bouncing off the walls extolling the virtues of the man who sat at this stone table.
"OUR VERY LIVES ARE IN HIS HANDS!"
"HIS CAKES ARE THE THINGS OF LEGEND!"
"HE DIED, LIVED FOR THREE WEEKS, THEN DIED AGAIN!"
Eredis planted his palm into his face. They were going to have the Abominations opening a church within the week at this rate.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
As an aside
There is so much I do want to write and think upon about being a DK in the World of Warcraft. I just haven't had time. Or energy. So, as you have seen, there is a site write going on, and I think it's just the thing I need to ensure that I'm going to keep writing, and keep myself to a deadline.
Maybe I can get some thought-provoking stuff out of my brain and onto paper.
I'll keep the site write on the same post for posterity. I hope you all enjoy it.
Maybe I can get some thought-provoking stuff out of my brain and onto paper.
I'll keep the site write on the same post for posterity. I hope you all enjoy it.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Site Write Story Time
Entry 1
May 7, 2012 - Surprise
The child cowered away from him every day.
Few knew why the plate-clad man walked the same route every day, but even so he was twice-born, and therefore automatically half the man that the living of Stormwind assumed he was. This one was stranger than all the others, in that it walked the same route every day, one way, and did not return until the next. The large circular patrol faded from the memories of most, as few ventured half as far as the man with the cold aura, and none followed.
The child followed at first. Homeless, hungry, orphaned, it followed the man at first until the creaking of the head caused her to cower away, then scamper into an alleyway, or even once dive into the Canals to avoid his wrath that she knew, knew was hiding behind those dead eyes. She told her friends of this, other street urchins and orphans who ranged from the Cathedral Square to grub a copper from the canals, or see if there were kind passers-by that would grace them with a biscuit, or a coin, or even a rack of foam swords if it was their special week in particular. On select days they would get sugar cookies from the cook near the Stockades, and sit and tell stories. Hers was of the Twice-Born Man, and his dark armor and wicked intents. He was a warlock ("No, I've seen the ones they call warlocks at the Slaughtered Lamb! None of -them- wear plate armor!"). He did riturals ("No, there haven't been any kids missing!"). He was evil ("Nuh-uh, prove it! Where does he go?").
Every day that passed, the Twice-Born Man followed the same path, and every day the child moved a little farther, to see where he went, before her courage failed and she fled. The other urchins laughed, and teased her. She didn't have the heart to see if her stories were real!
That night, she declared that she was going to follow him all the way, and if she disappeared, then they would know her stories were true!
She took special care the next day to follow the Twice-Born Man on his path. Her heart raced faster as she passed her alleyways, the canals, the safe places where she knew he would not follow if he desired to give chase. She saw him enter a dark alleyway in the restaurant district, and stopped at the edge.
The waif stared into the darkness, mustering up the courage to follow. With a gulp of air, she dove in after him - and ran smack dab into his plated legs not six steps inside.
Fear froze her in place. She could see the glow in his eyes as he bent down to stare at her tattered clothes, her thin figure, and her messy hair. She could hear the click of metal against metal as his fingers moved, drawing something from a satchel as he reached for her. Her scream was a muted squeak as the object came into focus, and dumbounded pause replaced terror as she looked at the cupcake in her hand.
"Are you...surprised?" asked the Twice-Born Man, while he picked up the waif and set her on her feet. She nodded, and bit into the cupcake - a squirrel of a girl, nibbling on confections.
"So am I," he said. "I am continually surprised at the courage you young ones show. Would you like to see what I do every day, why I take this path?"
She nodded again. The man straightened and opened a door in the alleyway, releasing a rush of aromas - Breads, pies, cakes, and many other meals.
"Come inside and see," he said, stepping aside and pulling off his plated gloves. "I am certain you will have a wonderful story to tell your friends this evening."
She went inside, and he followed, closing the kitchen entry to the Canal Street Bakery.
Entry 2
Second Chances, or, 'I write about dead guys a lot.'
Once upon a time, there were two men who died and became geists.
Their names did not mean much in life, and in death they became eternally lost. As conventions go, they were eventually given new names after their tenure in the Lich King's service came to an end. One was named Renfield, and the other was named Lackey.
To continue the story about Renfield and Lackey, an aside must be made, and that aside is about the Bizarre. The Bizarre is a living, breathing entity (for generous uses of those terms) within the bowels of Acherus where the members and minions of the Ebon Blade come to the closest to being truly human that they can manage: They gather, trade, perhaps even eat something, and they tell stories. Ghouls, Geists, Abominations (whom are always referred to as 'they', 'we', or 'them', as they're a self-contained community) all trade what they may have found during their time of service to Highlord Mograine, the Ashen Verdict, or those elite reprobates known better as Death Knights who were ordered to serve the Blade by serving their King, Warchief, or whatever being they took a knee before in life.
It was at the Bizarre that a question was posed: What, if anything, would you go back to change? Would you flee south, out of Lordaeron? Shoot Arthas with an arrow? Join the Silver Hand?
Renfield and Lackey scoffed at this question.
"That is easy!" said Renfield. "Simplicity itself!" cried Lackey.
"We have already done it!" they chorused.
In a bustling metropolis of the dead, it's difficult to find silence. This is because the universe is powered by irony, and little is more ironic than a community of beings that should be as quiet as the tomb showing more life than the Exodar during Noblegarden.
And yet, for the briefest of moments, the Bizarre was absolutely silent.
"Rggrgrawwglglrgh!" cried a Ghoul (which, as it happened, was Ghoul for "Please explain, sirs, as few have ever experienced this kind of wonder before.")
"We were given the option to return by one of the Infinite Dragonflight!" Renfield noted. "To change one event in our lives!" added Lackey.
"We had to take it up on its offer!" they cried in unison.
"Rgl?" ("And I believe any of us would, sirs, but please tell us - what did you do?")
"We lived in the town of Andorhal!" Renfield exclaimed. "We were assistants to the mayor of the town!" added Lackey.
"The Infinite Dragons took us to the evening before the city fell!" Renfield continued. "Yes, to the time when we could effect the most change in our lives!" Lackey added.
"And there we were, in our beloved city, alive again to change one moment!" they exclaimed in unison.
The hush came over the Bizarre again. Corpses of all shapes and sizes pressed in on the two Geists to hear what happened next. The unofficial spokesbody, the Ghoul queried, "ARglgr?" ("What a dream, to live again, to breathe the sweet air and feel the cool upon your skin! To walk in the moonlight and ne'er feel the pang of hunger for flesh, to merely be and not exist. Aie! I wax poetic during your tale, pray continue!")
"We moved with purpose!" Renfield cried. "Our goal was clear!" Lackey agreed.
"We went to the Inn, and we had the roast beef dinner!"
The nature of the silence changed. It went from a polite, rapt, engaged silence to one chilled with the hint of malice. It was the type of silence one found when sipping a fine Gilnean Red and finding a rather cheeky Forsaken had left a...cheek in your glass.
"It was the best, tenderest roast beef we had ever eaten," Renfield temporized. For once, Lackey was silent in polite remembrance of his last meal.
Entry #3
"What do I want that for? It's worthless!"
The Draenei man looked over the bauble he'd offered, turning his head to regard the creature that had queried his purchase. Instincts born of ten thousand years of practice took over, and the smooth smile that reached the very tips of his ears was on his face. Fellow exiles knew Baikonur to have a smile that could disarm a Windroc of its talons, or a Gronn of its desire to kill and eat...well, everybody.
It was the smile of a trader, and a trader's bread and butter is made of worthless items.
"This?" Baikonur asked, presenting the bauble as if it were a prized treasure - which, indeed, now it was. "This is a priceless treasure, not to be confused with worthless trash! It has survived the Legion's scourging of no less than three worlds!"
The creature stopped in its tracks. Baikonur knew what it was, now, it had been some time since he had seen Arrakoa willing to speak with him, but now that this Darkmoon Faire has begun on the island, he had seen so many old faces that were familiar, yet were not at the same time. And here, in his hand, he had a priceless treasure.
"Here in my hand," stated Baikonur, "Is history, my friend! The historical jewel of a peaceful race that sadly did not survive the Legion's wrath! It was pressed into my palm by the Grand Seer Reepicheep, who foresaw the falling of his people. He begged me, sir, begged me to find a like mind to covet and care for this stone so that the memory of his people would live on everlasting!"
"A historical jewel," the Arrakoa muttered. It did not seem convinced.
"A historical jewel," Baikonur repeated. "The last vestiges of life of a long-dead people. Bird people."
That brought the Arrakoa up short. "How much?" it asked.
Coin changed hands, and the Arrakoa was the proud owner of the Reepicheep's jewel - that an enterprising Dwarf had given him after he had finished with some cut glass pieces for the Faire.
Baikonur waved and went on his way. "I'm getting rusty," he said to himself, "But there's always someone to put value on something."
Entry #4
"It is done, my lord."
'Lord'. That's a new one. How many years have I been avoiding the trappings of nobility?
The Death Knight stood wearily on the dais where but minutes before, Lady Sylvanas had fallen to a Draenei's spine - still wriggling, mind you - with the brain-stem wrapped in leather.
"The most useful the Sergeant has ever been," he mused as two Geists hauled off the body. He kicked the bow aside, noting to himself to turn it to dust in front of the collected Hunters of the Horde later. He would have to make his presence known, and more than a few would find that incredibly funny.
"What will you have us do, Lord?"
The Val'kyr that hovered to the Death Knight's left was the model of subservience. It had been nearly fourteen years since their positions were reversed - first came freedom, then came vengeance, then irony rolls on in to bring the trifecta. He was King of the Undercity.
"Recall the Royal Apothecary Society. I want any and all plague strains held for testing and then stored for a rainy day. The Wrathgate was bad, Gilneas made it worse. I won't throw away a weapon, but I want both the Alliance and the Horde to be quite certain the only thing walking around down here after another siege will be ghosts.
"After that is complete," he continued, "Send two Death Knights as emissaries to the Horde and Alliance. Have them know that the Undercity is now independent and we will suffer no sieges upon these walls. Have the two reiterate the plague stocks as a note of deterrence."
"It will be done, Lord."
The Val'kyr flew off to begin the onerous process of herding zombified cats - that is, the apothecaries. She passed by a hooded Forsaken that came forward to salute Eredis as he stood on the dais.
"Everything is transitioning according to plan! Hee!" she said.
"Captain," Eredis said, "Good, good. You saw the Val'kyr just leave - assemble the Dark Rangers. Request the Val'kyr to assemble in the rear courtyard and read them this." He handed over a rotted parchment that had a curious seal - one of a skull and crossed runeblades, though the skull wore a baker's hat.
"What's this?" the Captain asked.
"A royal declaration to decimate the Val'kyr. I want them to be absolutely certain they exist at my sufferance, and my sufferance alone. Ten percent reductions in their numbers should get the idea across."
"Hee! This'll be great!" the Captain exclaimed - and with a puff of smoke, she sped along the shadows to do his bidding.
"RENFIELD! LACKEY!" the Death Knight bellowed. Two Geists ambled in, faces rubbing across the floor in their zest to appear humble.
He extended two more parchment rolls, one to each. "One goes to Highlord Fordring, the other to Highlord Mograine. You are to present them both, personally, and await a response from each. I will have them know that the Undercity desires peaceful coexistance with the components of the Ashen Verdict. Her borders will encompass all they do now, and we cede the territory in the Plaguelands to each to do as they will. Now go."
"Yes, Master!" Renfield cried. "We will do as you ask!" yelled Lackey.
"We go!"
====
"...And that's what I would do if I were King of the Undercity," Eredis said as he reeled in another fish. He and a Draenei both sat on a quiet dock, fishing the day away.
"So you would create-" the Draenei started.
"Yes, an undead haven," finished Eredis. "Think of it like Shattrath, only a minimum of Light and a place where the undead can get back to what they were doing before we all died."
"Interestink," mused the Draenei.
"I thought so," replied Eredis as he cast his line back into the water. "What would you do?"
Entry #5
Past Tense
New Hearthglen was burning.
Few Crusaders ran to and fro with buckets, desperation fueling their efforts to dampen fire that seemed to burn even the white stones that they had used to build their city. A splash of water here and there did nothing to quench the conflagration that had gripped what was viewed as their great, shining hope for a future free of the Scourge.
Abbendis was dead. She did not survive to see Arthas destroyed, and it seemed that the Crusade would not live long past the moment that the traitorous Alliance called 'Kingsfall.' The Admiral had gone missing as well; there were rumors among the survivors that he had appeared at Onslaught Harbor, then vanished again while the legions of the dead, led by the Knights of the Ebon Blade, tore their naval base apart soul by soul. Now they had come for New Hearthglen, and to crush what little remained of the Scarlet Onslaught.
James, the wall guard, had never felt like he should be called an 'Onslaughteer.' 'Crusader' had a much better sound. It was nobler, so noble that the Argent Crusade had stolen it. And now, Crusaders were en vogue, and he was standing guard on a wall waiting for the end of the world, dark figures visible around small cookfires in the distance.
He explained this in great detail to the scarlet-robed figure that had joined him on the wall that evening. The robes were so voluminous that he couldn't tell if the figure was male or female, but it was slight, and wore the most supple leather gloves he ever did see. It wasn't until the figure interrupted his tirade with a soft query that he realized that it was a she.
"What is 'Life', to you, James?" she asked.
"Well isn't that a little philisophical?" he retorted. It didn't stop him into launching into a detailed response of what he considered life to be, including doing one's duty, doing what they enjoyed, taking pride in their crafts, being with their loved on-
"Being with your loved ones is to be alive?" she asked.
"Well, I think so," he responded.
"Strange," the figure in scarlet robes started, "As I had a loved one. I suppose I still do, and I loved him even if he did not know it. If he did know it, he did not show it overtly. And yet, love can turn to hate. I could hate him for what happened, and did. Hated him for what he became, and what I became. Is that living, James?"
"You should hate the Scourge, miss," he replied.
"I do," she said. "And I hate him, for he is out there." She pointed with a gloved hand into the evening, towards the shadowy figures and the cookfires. "And yet, I still love him, for he found the strength to let me go instead of chaining me to servitude. Is that not love, James?"
"I-what?" James asked. "You mean you- he's- A Death Knight?"
"Yes," the figure replied. "It would have saddened me once, but I still feel love, and hatred. And now here we are, on opposite sides of the wall."
"He-Who are you, anyway?" James asked. His spear dipped.
"I was called Nancy, once," came the soft reply. "And I am again. If one feels love and hatred, are they still alive?"
"Well..." James started. "Yes. Yes, I can feel both, and I'm alive."
There was a moment of silence from the figure, then the barest of whispers in James' ear.
"Were, James. It's better this way."
The smell of decay was nearly overpowering. Formaldehyde, rot, mold, and-dark bread?
The sentry slumped to the ground as the figure removed the dagger pressed into his kidneys. The Forsaken looked across the gulf and the darkness, seeing the dark figure in plate raise his hand.
"I am dead, and I am alive," whispered Nancy as she raised her hand in return. "And I hate you for dying, and I love you for freeing me."
She had disappeared from the wall before the smoke bomb had touched the battlement, but few noticed over the screams of mounts and men as the angry dead flew in on wings of bone.
Entry #6
"That will come to two silvers, four copper."
"That's robbery!"
Stormwind was busier on sunny days, especially in the restaurant district. Anyone and everyone needed to eat, and for those who didn't cook, a fowl pie or a sausage-inna-bun was an acceptable pick-me-up - even better if one could sit outside on the canal's edge and enjoy the day with their favorite company. Still others had to get their supplies to cook their own meals for the day, and the dickering on prices could get a little...heated.
So it was between a man robed in scarlet and black, and a tired baker who looked as if he should have been felling trees in the Grizzly Hills with but one punch. The baker held a box with what looked to be a dozen sweet rolls. The man in scarlet and black had a knife, and a book. He was very agitated.
"Do you know who I am?" the man in scarlet and black thundered. "I wield the very forces of darkness! I consort with demons! I could swallow your soul!"
The baker responded with a tired sigh. "And you're going to prove it," he responded, "Aren't you?
"Look," the baker said, leaning in a bit further, "I've seen your type. You're a silver for a baker's dozen in these parts. You're wasting your time and mine, your energy and mine, and I have much more to waste of both than you do. So I will give these to you for two silvers, so that I may go back to helping others enjoy their day, and you may gorge on sweet rolls in the alleyway behind the Slaughtered Lamb."
"Wh-Why you-" the man in scarlet and black sputtered. "I will have your soul for this!"
"I guarantee," replied the baker, "That you won't want it."
Alas, the man in scarlet and black would have none of it. He was already chanting in a guttural, broken tongue that caused passers-by to stop and look at him. A trio of patrolmen stopped well out of accosting range, and, once they saw whom was in accosting range, began to whisper amongst themselves. As if bidden by an unconscious directive, a circle of people formed around the two at a respectful distance. The baker's tray of fowl pies cooling on the sill vanished.
With a slash of his dagger, the man in scarlet and black had opened his palm and flicked the blood welling upon it onto the cobblestones, where it was eaten b a growing circle of sickly green magic. It continued to grow until a portal was big enough for a demon to step through - a large, bright red Doomguard who blinked in the gentle yellow sunlight, then roared its defiance to the baker that stood before him.
Or, it did. There was a flash of sunlight against metal, and a cleaver found its way into the maw of the beast. The roar was cut off with a choked sound, and it fell to the ground with a crash. Almost instantly, it began to dissolve.
"How did-Who-What?"
The baker waved over the trio of patrolmen, two of whom were handing off small pouches of coin to the third, whom led the trio with a satisfied grin.
"There's always someone more dangerous, lad," said the baker as he stepped forward. His fist lashed out, and clocked the budding warlock right on the temple.
The man in scarlet and black dropped like a sack of potatoes. The baker knelt to withdraw two silvers and four coppers from the warlock's belt pouch, and left the box next to the unconscious man.
"Good afternoon, Baker!" called the lead patrolman. "Another one today? How many is that this week?"
"Six," said the baker as he retrieved his cleaver, which was now alone on blank ground. "Something about the sweet rolls. You three should take them as thanks for a job well done."
No further bidding was needed, and the young man in scarlet and black was trussed up and taken away on charges of disturbing the peace.
Colonel Orill made a mark on a chalkboard next to the door of his establishment, and went back inside to pull another tray of fowl pies from the oven.
Entry #7
"So what I figure is, we stay here in the back and make nice, wait for the two lovebirds to get hitched, and then we step forward and unveil Professor Macgillycuddy's Prestigious Photo Pops!"
"That's a stupid name."
"Might be, but it's a plan destined for greatness."
"Greatness nothing!"
"It cannot fail, Rabbit. They'll see they can pose up, all pretty, an' we get paid an' bring the pops back in six to eight weeks!"
"You expect those two lovebirds to shell out their hard-earned golds for pops they'll never see?"
"Well, when you put it that way, Rabbit, no I do not."
"That's what I-"
"I expect them to shell out their parents' hard-earned golds, Rabbit."
"An' why is that, Badge?"
"Because they're gettin' married, Rabbit. Everyone expects the blushin' bride an' nervous groom to be irresponsible in this day and age."
(This is a conversation between my Worgen prot warrior, Boyd Macnormelton, and his cheeky rogue partner-in-crime, Ilva Swift. They're the 'Team Rocket' of Azeroth, I swear.)
Entry #8
Electrons in Flight
There was something about the Farseer that the Exarch just couldn't shake.
At first, it was duty. He was asked by a very nice man to ensure that the Farseer, whom was well-known for her preference to avoid everyone and anything that may have looked like civilization, was well fed. Ortuuze may have been out of shape, but his sense of duty was still strong - and besides, he had been told that the Farseer cooked an excellent Mudfish.
When he saw the Farseer - lithe, but fierce, powerful in every way, yet serene when the herbs flew into the fire and the mists obscured her sight for everything but the Seeing - he knew she was beautiful in this, and he resolved to be as charming as he could.
This, it turned out, was to be sub-optimal. His first attempt at courting - the request for a kiss in exchange for a delivery of food - ended in the Exarch quite literally falling off a mountain when her electric temper manifested in the form of an arc from her fingertips to his very shiny - and conductive - plate armor.
It was then that he knew there was a spark there, and he would endeavor to pursue it.
Over the months, it was clear that this attraction was good for his body and soul. He had let himself go, Ortuuze had, by garrisoning Shattrath. Lean muscle had turned to flab, but this Farseer's preference for remote places had leaned him once more into an Exarch worthy of the name. He was fed in his favorite dish, the Mudfish, and she sampled from the finest confections that Stormwind had to offer. Her outright hatred of him cooled to antagonism, then dislike, then...something else.
"Why do you continue to come to these places?" she asked, one day, after he had barreled through a thick underbrush in Un'Goro crater, then scaled a cliffside to find her.
"It is simple, Farseer," he replied. "The Naaru have a plan for everything, and they have told me that nothing in this life is worth having unless one works very hard for it.
"And for you, I work hardest of all."
Entry #9
Icecrown, Redux
The Frozen Throne.
The sound of ice crunching underneath plated boots was lost in the freezing wind - not something that Eredis precisely noticed, as his own armor was covered in frost, and, well, he was dead. Temperature doesn't matter as much when one is dead.
There was little, if anything, that was left in the Citadel. Cleanup operations had gone according to plan and with minimal losses. After Tirion's victory at the summit - of which Eredis had not been a part, having been on SKYCAP at the time - the Scourge were easy pickings. He made more from the reselling of the treasures and scrolls his mercenary squad had brought back than he spent hiring them in the first place. And then, one day, everyone agreed to get the hell out of Icecrown and stay out. Only the Ebon Blade would redirect their Knights to stay behind to man the ramparts against the reduced Scourge who wandered the wastes, or stood by in icy stasis, waiting for...something.
The reason was something that every Knight instinctively knew: The Scourge were never a passive force unless directed. So they watched the passes, bottled the Glacier in, and waited. Tirion knew why. Mograine knew why. And now a beleagured Colonel of one of the few remaining Ebon Blade units left to ensure the world remembered they existed knew why.
There must always be a Lich King, and a Lich King there was. Eredis could see him ensconced in the Throne, his eyes burning with the same unholy light that powered those of the Ebon Blade. Burned beyond recognition and covered in ice, but Eredis had an idea or two of whom was entombed, and so the Death Knight could do the only thing that came naturally.
As the snow whirled around the Frozen Throne, Eredis bowed his head before Bolvar Fordragon, Jailor of the Damned, and knelt in silence.
Long moments passed. They stretched into seconds, then to minutes, then to hours. Powder began to well up against Eredis as he knelt, standing a vigil of the evening in honor of a man that had sacrificed much for the world he had lived in, and continued to sacrifice in order to maintain that world's zest for life - by holding in check the force that could, and would, destroy it.
It would not be until the sun rose again over the jagged peaks of the Glacier that Eredis would rise from where he knelt, breaking himself out of the ice and snow to stand before the Frozen Throne once again.
Eredis turned and left without a word. There was nothing in the Citadel for him, and upon the discover he had made - well, he had completed the task that had brought him to the Throne itself.
May 7, 2012 - Surprise
The child cowered away from him every day.
Few knew why the plate-clad man walked the same route every day, but even so he was twice-born, and therefore automatically half the man that the living of Stormwind assumed he was. This one was stranger than all the others, in that it walked the same route every day, one way, and did not return until the next. The large circular patrol faded from the memories of most, as few ventured half as far as the man with the cold aura, and none followed.
The child followed at first. Homeless, hungry, orphaned, it followed the man at first until the creaking of the head caused her to cower away, then scamper into an alleyway, or even once dive into the Canals to avoid his wrath that she knew, knew was hiding behind those dead eyes. She told her friends of this, other street urchins and orphans who ranged from the Cathedral Square to grub a copper from the canals, or see if there were kind passers-by that would grace them with a biscuit, or a coin, or even a rack of foam swords if it was their special week in particular. On select days they would get sugar cookies from the cook near the Stockades, and sit and tell stories. Hers was of the Twice-Born Man, and his dark armor and wicked intents. He was a warlock ("No, I've seen the ones they call warlocks at the Slaughtered Lamb! None of -them- wear plate armor!"). He did riturals ("No, there haven't been any kids missing!"). He was evil ("Nuh-uh, prove it! Where does he go?").
Every day that passed, the Twice-Born Man followed the same path, and every day the child moved a little farther, to see where he went, before her courage failed and she fled. The other urchins laughed, and teased her. She didn't have the heart to see if her stories were real!
That night, she declared that she was going to follow him all the way, and if she disappeared, then they would know her stories were true!
She took special care the next day to follow the Twice-Born Man on his path. Her heart raced faster as she passed her alleyways, the canals, the safe places where she knew he would not follow if he desired to give chase. She saw him enter a dark alleyway in the restaurant district, and stopped at the edge.
The waif stared into the darkness, mustering up the courage to follow. With a gulp of air, she dove in after him - and ran smack dab into his plated legs not six steps inside.
Fear froze her in place. She could see the glow in his eyes as he bent down to stare at her tattered clothes, her thin figure, and her messy hair. She could hear the click of metal against metal as his fingers moved, drawing something from a satchel as he reached for her. Her scream was a muted squeak as the object came into focus, and dumbounded pause replaced terror as she looked at the cupcake in her hand.
"Are you...surprised?" asked the Twice-Born Man, while he picked up the waif and set her on her feet. She nodded, and bit into the cupcake - a squirrel of a girl, nibbling on confections.
"So am I," he said. "I am continually surprised at the courage you young ones show. Would you like to see what I do every day, why I take this path?"
She nodded again. The man straightened and opened a door in the alleyway, releasing a rush of aromas - Breads, pies, cakes, and many other meals.
"Come inside and see," he said, stepping aside and pulling off his plated gloves. "I am certain you will have a wonderful story to tell your friends this evening."
She went inside, and he followed, closing the kitchen entry to the Canal Street Bakery.
Entry 2
Second Chances, or, 'I write about dead guys a lot.'
Once upon a time, there were two men who died and became geists.
Their names did not mean much in life, and in death they became eternally lost. As conventions go, they were eventually given new names after their tenure in the Lich King's service came to an end. One was named Renfield, and the other was named Lackey.
To continue the story about Renfield and Lackey, an aside must be made, and that aside is about the Bizarre. The Bizarre is a living, breathing entity (for generous uses of those terms) within the bowels of Acherus where the members and minions of the Ebon Blade come to the closest to being truly human that they can manage: They gather, trade, perhaps even eat something, and they tell stories. Ghouls, Geists, Abominations (whom are always referred to as 'they', 'we', or 'them', as they're a self-contained community) all trade what they may have found during their time of service to Highlord Mograine, the Ashen Verdict, or those elite reprobates known better as Death Knights who were ordered to serve the Blade by serving their King, Warchief, or whatever being they took a knee before in life.
It was at the Bizarre that a question was posed: What, if anything, would you go back to change? Would you flee south, out of Lordaeron? Shoot Arthas with an arrow? Join the Silver Hand?
Renfield and Lackey scoffed at this question.
"That is easy!" said Renfield. "Simplicity itself!" cried Lackey.
"We have already done it!" they chorused.
In a bustling metropolis of the dead, it's difficult to find silence. This is because the universe is powered by irony, and little is more ironic than a community of beings that should be as quiet as the tomb showing more life than the Exodar during Noblegarden.
And yet, for the briefest of moments, the Bizarre was absolutely silent.
"Rggrgrawwglglrgh!" cried a Ghoul (which, as it happened, was Ghoul for "Please explain, sirs, as few have ever experienced this kind of wonder before.")
"We were given the option to return by one of the Infinite Dragonflight!" Renfield noted. "To change one event in our lives!" added Lackey.
"We had to take it up on its offer!" they cried in unison.
"Rgl?" ("And I believe any of us would, sirs, but please tell us - what did you do?")
"We lived in the town of Andorhal!" Renfield exclaimed. "We were assistants to the mayor of the town!" added Lackey.
"The Infinite Dragons took us to the evening before the city fell!" Renfield continued. "Yes, to the time when we could effect the most change in our lives!" Lackey added.
"And there we were, in our beloved city, alive again to change one moment!" they exclaimed in unison.
The hush came over the Bizarre again. Corpses of all shapes and sizes pressed in on the two Geists to hear what happened next. The unofficial spokesbody, the Ghoul queried, "ARglgr?" ("What a dream, to live again, to breathe the sweet air and feel the cool upon your skin! To walk in the moonlight and ne'er feel the pang of hunger for flesh, to merely be and not exist. Aie! I wax poetic during your tale, pray continue!")
"We moved with purpose!" Renfield cried. "Our goal was clear!" Lackey agreed.
"We went to the Inn, and we had the roast beef dinner!"
The nature of the silence changed. It went from a polite, rapt, engaged silence to one chilled with the hint of malice. It was the type of silence one found when sipping a fine Gilnean Red and finding a rather cheeky Forsaken had left a...cheek in your glass.
"It was the best, tenderest roast beef we had ever eaten," Renfield temporized. For once, Lackey was silent in polite remembrance of his last meal.
Entry #3
"What do I want that for? It's worthless!"
The Draenei man looked over the bauble he'd offered, turning his head to regard the creature that had queried his purchase. Instincts born of ten thousand years of practice took over, and the smooth smile that reached the very tips of his ears was on his face. Fellow exiles knew Baikonur to have a smile that could disarm a Windroc of its talons, or a Gronn of its desire to kill and eat...well, everybody.
It was the smile of a trader, and a trader's bread and butter is made of worthless items.
"This?" Baikonur asked, presenting the bauble as if it were a prized treasure - which, indeed, now it was. "This is a priceless treasure, not to be confused with worthless trash! It has survived the Legion's scourging of no less than three worlds!"
The creature stopped in its tracks. Baikonur knew what it was, now, it had been some time since he had seen Arrakoa willing to speak with him, but now that this Darkmoon Faire has begun on the island, he had seen so many old faces that were familiar, yet were not at the same time. And here, in his hand, he had a priceless treasure.
"Here in my hand," stated Baikonur, "Is history, my friend! The historical jewel of a peaceful race that sadly did not survive the Legion's wrath! It was pressed into my palm by the Grand Seer Reepicheep, who foresaw the falling of his people. He begged me, sir, begged me to find a like mind to covet and care for this stone so that the memory of his people would live on everlasting!"
"A historical jewel," the Arrakoa muttered. It did not seem convinced.
"A historical jewel," Baikonur repeated. "The last vestiges of life of a long-dead people. Bird people."
That brought the Arrakoa up short. "How much?" it asked.
Coin changed hands, and the Arrakoa was the proud owner of the Reepicheep's jewel - that an enterprising Dwarf had given him after he had finished with some cut glass pieces for the Faire.
Baikonur waved and went on his way. "I'm getting rusty," he said to himself, "But there's always someone to put value on something."
Entry #4
"It is done, my lord."
'Lord'. That's a new one. How many years have I been avoiding the trappings of nobility?
The Death Knight stood wearily on the dais where but minutes before, Lady Sylvanas had fallen to a Draenei's spine - still wriggling, mind you - with the brain-stem wrapped in leather.
"The most useful the Sergeant has ever been," he mused as two Geists hauled off the body. He kicked the bow aside, noting to himself to turn it to dust in front of the collected Hunters of the Horde later. He would have to make his presence known, and more than a few would find that incredibly funny.
"What will you have us do, Lord?"
The Val'kyr that hovered to the Death Knight's left was the model of subservience. It had been nearly fourteen years since their positions were reversed - first came freedom, then came vengeance, then irony rolls on in to bring the trifecta. He was King of the Undercity.
"Recall the Royal Apothecary Society. I want any and all plague strains held for testing and then stored for a rainy day. The Wrathgate was bad, Gilneas made it worse. I won't throw away a weapon, but I want both the Alliance and the Horde to be quite certain the only thing walking around down here after another siege will be ghosts.
"After that is complete," he continued, "Send two Death Knights as emissaries to the Horde and Alliance. Have them know that the Undercity is now independent and we will suffer no sieges upon these walls. Have the two reiterate the plague stocks as a note of deterrence."
"It will be done, Lord."
The Val'kyr flew off to begin the onerous process of herding zombified cats - that is, the apothecaries. She passed by a hooded Forsaken that came forward to salute Eredis as he stood on the dais.
"Everything is transitioning according to plan! Hee!" she said.
"Captain," Eredis said, "Good, good. You saw the Val'kyr just leave - assemble the Dark Rangers. Request the Val'kyr to assemble in the rear courtyard and read them this." He handed over a rotted parchment that had a curious seal - one of a skull and crossed runeblades, though the skull wore a baker's hat.
"What's this?" the Captain asked.
"A royal declaration to decimate the Val'kyr. I want them to be absolutely certain they exist at my sufferance, and my sufferance alone. Ten percent reductions in their numbers should get the idea across."
"Hee! This'll be great!" the Captain exclaimed - and with a puff of smoke, she sped along the shadows to do his bidding.
"RENFIELD! LACKEY!" the Death Knight bellowed. Two Geists ambled in, faces rubbing across the floor in their zest to appear humble.
He extended two more parchment rolls, one to each. "One goes to Highlord Fordring, the other to Highlord Mograine. You are to present them both, personally, and await a response from each. I will have them know that the Undercity desires peaceful coexistance with the components of the Ashen Verdict. Her borders will encompass all they do now, and we cede the territory in the Plaguelands to each to do as they will. Now go."
"Yes, Master!" Renfield cried. "We will do as you ask!" yelled Lackey.
"We go!"
====
"...And that's what I would do if I were King of the Undercity," Eredis said as he reeled in another fish. He and a Draenei both sat on a quiet dock, fishing the day away.
"So you would create-" the Draenei started.
"Yes, an undead haven," finished Eredis. "Think of it like Shattrath, only a minimum of Light and a place where the undead can get back to what they were doing before we all died."
"Interestink," mused the Draenei.
"I thought so," replied Eredis as he cast his line back into the water. "What would you do?"
Entry #5
Past Tense
New Hearthglen was burning.
Few Crusaders ran to and fro with buckets, desperation fueling their efforts to dampen fire that seemed to burn even the white stones that they had used to build their city. A splash of water here and there did nothing to quench the conflagration that had gripped what was viewed as their great, shining hope for a future free of the Scourge.
Abbendis was dead. She did not survive to see Arthas destroyed, and it seemed that the Crusade would not live long past the moment that the traitorous Alliance called 'Kingsfall.' The Admiral had gone missing as well; there were rumors among the survivors that he had appeared at Onslaught Harbor, then vanished again while the legions of the dead, led by the Knights of the Ebon Blade, tore their naval base apart soul by soul. Now they had come for New Hearthglen, and to crush what little remained of the Scarlet Onslaught.
James, the wall guard, had never felt like he should be called an 'Onslaughteer.' 'Crusader' had a much better sound. It was nobler, so noble that the Argent Crusade had stolen it. And now, Crusaders were en vogue, and he was standing guard on a wall waiting for the end of the world, dark figures visible around small cookfires in the distance.
He explained this in great detail to the scarlet-robed figure that had joined him on the wall that evening. The robes were so voluminous that he couldn't tell if the figure was male or female, but it was slight, and wore the most supple leather gloves he ever did see. It wasn't until the figure interrupted his tirade with a soft query that he realized that it was a she.
"What is 'Life', to you, James?" she asked.
"Well isn't that a little philisophical?" he retorted. It didn't stop him into launching into a detailed response of what he considered life to be, including doing one's duty, doing what they enjoyed, taking pride in their crafts, being with their loved on-
"Being with your loved ones is to be alive?" she asked.
"Well, I think so," he responded.
"Strange," the figure in scarlet robes started, "As I had a loved one. I suppose I still do, and I loved him even if he did not know it. If he did know it, he did not show it overtly. And yet, love can turn to hate. I could hate him for what happened, and did. Hated him for what he became, and what I became. Is that living, James?"
"You should hate the Scourge, miss," he replied.
"I do," she said. "And I hate him, for he is out there." She pointed with a gloved hand into the evening, towards the shadowy figures and the cookfires. "And yet, I still love him, for he found the strength to let me go instead of chaining me to servitude. Is that not love, James?"
"I-what?" James asked. "You mean you- he's- A Death Knight?"
"Yes," the figure replied. "It would have saddened me once, but I still feel love, and hatred. And now here we are, on opposite sides of the wall."
"He-Who are you, anyway?" James asked. His spear dipped.
"I was called Nancy, once," came the soft reply. "And I am again. If one feels love and hatred, are they still alive?"
"Well..." James started. "Yes. Yes, I can feel both, and I'm alive."
There was a moment of silence from the figure, then the barest of whispers in James' ear.
"Were, James. It's better this way."
The smell of decay was nearly overpowering. Formaldehyde, rot, mold, and-dark bread?
The sentry slumped to the ground as the figure removed the dagger pressed into his kidneys. The Forsaken looked across the gulf and the darkness, seeing the dark figure in plate raise his hand.
"I am dead, and I am alive," whispered Nancy as she raised her hand in return. "And I hate you for dying, and I love you for freeing me."
She had disappeared from the wall before the smoke bomb had touched the battlement, but few noticed over the screams of mounts and men as the angry dead flew in on wings of bone.
Entry #6
"That will come to two silvers, four copper."
"That's robbery!"
Stormwind was busier on sunny days, especially in the restaurant district. Anyone and everyone needed to eat, and for those who didn't cook, a fowl pie or a sausage-inna-bun was an acceptable pick-me-up - even better if one could sit outside on the canal's edge and enjoy the day with their favorite company. Still others had to get their supplies to cook their own meals for the day, and the dickering on prices could get a little...heated.
So it was between a man robed in scarlet and black, and a tired baker who looked as if he should have been felling trees in the Grizzly Hills with but one punch. The baker held a box with what looked to be a dozen sweet rolls. The man in scarlet and black had a knife, and a book. He was very agitated.
"Do you know who I am?" the man in scarlet and black thundered. "I wield the very forces of darkness! I consort with demons! I could swallow your soul!"
The baker responded with a tired sigh. "And you're going to prove it," he responded, "Aren't you?
"Look," the baker said, leaning in a bit further, "I've seen your type. You're a silver for a baker's dozen in these parts. You're wasting your time and mine, your energy and mine, and I have much more to waste of both than you do. So I will give these to you for two silvers, so that I may go back to helping others enjoy their day, and you may gorge on sweet rolls in the alleyway behind the Slaughtered Lamb."
"Wh-Why you-" the man in scarlet and black sputtered. "I will have your soul for this!"
"I guarantee," replied the baker, "That you won't want it."
Alas, the man in scarlet and black would have none of it. He was already chanting in a guttural, broken tongue that caused passers-by to stop and look at him. A trio of patrolmen stopped well out of accosting range, and, once they saw whom was in accosting range, began to whisper amongst themselves. As if bidden by an unconscious directive, a circle of people formed around the two at a respectful distance. The baker's tray of fowl pies cooling on the sill vanished.
With a slash of his dagger, the man in scarlet and black had opened his palm and flicked the blood welling upon it onto the cobblestones, where it was eaten b a growing circle of sickly green magic. It continued to grow until a portal was big enough for a demon to step through - a large, bright red Doomguard who blinked in the gentle yellow sunlight, then roared its defiance to the baker that stood before him.
Or, it did. There was a flash of sunlight against metal, and a cleaver found its way into the maw of the beast. The roar was cut off with a choked sound, and it fell to the ground with a crash. Almost instantly, it began to dissolve.
"How did-Who-What?"
The baker waved over the trio of patrolmen, two of whom were handing off small pouches of coin to the third, whom led the trio with a satisfied grin.
"There's always someone more dangerous, lad," said the baker as he stepped forward. His fist lashed out, and clocked the budding warlock right on the temple.
The man in scarlet and black dropped like a sack of potatoes. The baker knelt to withdraw two silvers and four coppers from the warlock's belt pouch, and left the box next to the unconscious man.
"Good afternoon, Baker!" called the lead patrolman. "Another one today? How many is that this week?"
"Six," said the baker as he retrieved his cleaver, which was now alone on blank ground. "Something about the sweet rolls. You three should take them as thanks for a job well done."
No further bidding was needed, and the young man in scarlet and black was trussed up and taken away on charges of disturbing the peace.
Colonel Orill made a mark on a chalkboard next to the door of his establishment, and went back inside to pull another tray of fowl pies from the oven.
Entry #7
"So what I figure is, we stay here in the back and make nice, wait for the two lovebirds to get hitched, and then we step forward and unveil Professor Macgillycuddy's Prestigious Photo Pops!"
"That's a stupid name."
"Might be, but it's a plan destined for greatness."
"Greatness nothing!"
"It cannot fail, Rabbit. They'll see they can pose up, all pretty, an' we get paid an' bring the pops back in six to eight weeks!"
"You expect those two lovebirds to shell out their hard-earned golds for pops they'll never see?"
"Well, when you put it that way, Rabbit, no I do not."
"That's what I-"
"I expect them to shell out their parents' hard-earned golds, Rabbit."
"An' why is that, Badge?"
"Because they're gettin' married, Rabbit. Everyone expects the blushin' bride an' nervous groom to be irresponsible in this day and age."
(This is a conversation between my Worgen prot warrior, Boyd Macnormelton, and his cheeky rogue partner-in-crime, Ilva Swift. They're the 'Team Rocket' of Azeroth, I swear.)
Entry #8
Electrons in Flight
There was something about the Farseer that the Exarch just couldn't shake.
At first, it was duty. He was asked by a very nice man to ensure that the Farseer, whom was well-known for her preference to avoid everyone and anything that may have looked like civilization, was well fed. Ortuuze may have been out of shape, but his sense of duty was still strong - and besides, he had been told that the Farseer cooked an excellent Mudfish.
When he saw the Farseer - lithe, but fierce, powerful in every way, yet serene when the herbs flew into the fire and the mists obscured her sight for everything but the Seeing - he knew she was beautiful in this, and he resolved to be as charming as he could.
This, it turned out, was to be sub-optimal. His first attempt at courting - the request for a kiss in exchange for a delivery of food - ended in the Exarch quite literally falling off a mountain when her electric temper manifested in the form of an arc from her fingertips to his very shiny - and conductive - plate armor.
It was then that he knew there was a spark there, and he would endeavor to pursue it.
Over the months, it was clear that this attraction was good for his body and soul. He had let himself go, Ortuuze had, by garrisoning Shattrath. Lean muscle had turned to flab, but this Farseer's preference for remote places had leaned him once more into an Exarch worthy of the name. He was fed in his favorite dish, the Mudfish, and she sampled from the finest confections that Stormwind had to offer. Her outright hatred of him cooled to antagonism, then dislike, then...something else.
"Why do you continue to come to these places?" she asked, one day, after he had barreled through a thick underbrush in Un'Goro crater, then scaled a cliffside to find her.
"It is simple, Farseer," he replied. "The Naaru have a plan for everything, and they have told me that nothing in this life is worth having unless one works very hard for it.
"And for you, I work hardest of all."
Entry #9
Icecrown, Redux
The Frozen Throne.
The sound of ice crunching underneath plated boots was lost in the freezing wind - not something that Eredis precisely noticed, as his own armor was covered in frost, and, well, he was dead. Temperature doesn't matter as much when one is dead.
There was little, if anything, that was left in the Citadel. Cleanup operations had gone according to plan and with minimal losses. After Tirion's victory at the summit - of which Eredis had not been a part, having been on SKYCAP at the time - the Scourge were easy pickings. He made more from the reselling of the treasures and scrolls his mercenary squad had brought back than he spent hiring them in the first place. And then, one day, everyone agreed to get the hell out of Icecrown and stay out. Only the Ebon Blade would redirect their Knights to stay behind to man the ramparts against the reduced Scourge who wandered the wastes, or stood by in icy stasis, waiting for...something.
The reason was something that every Knight instinctively knew: The Scourge were never a passive force unless directed. So they watched the passes, bottled the Glacier in, and waited. Tirion knew why. Mograine knew why. And now a beleagured Colonel of one of the few remaining Ebon Blade units left to ensure the world remembered they existed knew why.
There must always be a Lich King, and a Lich King there was. Eredis could see him ensconced in the Throne, his eyes burning with the same unholy light that powered those of the Ebon Blade. Burned beyond recognition and covered in ice, but Eredis had an idea or two of whom was entombed, and so the Death Knight could do the only thing that came naturally.
As the snow whirled around the Frozen Throne, Eredis bowed his head before Bolvar Fordragon, Jailor of the Damned, and knelt in silence.
Long moments passed. They stretched into seconds, then to minutes, then to hours. Powder began to well up against Eredis as he knelt, standing a vigil of the evening in honor of a man that had sacrificed much for the world he had lived in, and continued to sacrifice in order to maintain that world's zest for life - by holding in check the force that could, and would, destroy it.
It would not be until the sun rose again over the jagged peaks of the Glacier that Eredis would rise from where he knelt, breaking himself out of the ice and snow to stand before the Frozen Throne once again.
Eredis turned and left without a word. There was nothing in the Citadel for him, and upon the discover he had made - well, he had completed the task that had brought him to the Throne itself.
Monday, February 13, 2012
On Death, Life, and SCIENCE!
Death Knights are an interesting lot.
We were having one such conversation via the forums, in fact, when the biology of the Death Knight came up. As has been stated, the Death Knight is unequivocally dead. And then we came back.
Did we come back as zombies? Vampeers? Something more, and infinitely horrifying?
Hell yes we did. That's what makes thing so interesting. The question is: How?
Enter our theories. We know from Lore(yes, capital L) that there is a 'Death Ritual.' Scourge heavies know this ritual. It's assumed that Val'kyr know this ritual. Death Knights certainly know this ritual. So then, what is it?
I like to think of it this way:
The scene is the Necropolis, floating high above the battlefield. Below, the desecrated ground is home to agony and death, with ghouls and geists picking through the mortal remains as if searching for a rare Aquamarine.
What do you mean 'Aquamarine isn't rare'? Have you seen the prices on the Auction House?
A ghoul comes upon a body, surrounded by the husks of the Undead hustled back beyond the Veil even as it fell. Surprisingly, it is mostly intact. Only a hole here or there, easily patched up. This, this is one of those 'Heroes' the Lich King spoke of! Truly! This is one that has earned his place in Paradise.
Sucker. He's perfect.
So this ghoul waves over a Geist, who hobbles by, gives the body a good lick, and waves over an Abomination. This Abomination then picks up the body, hucks it onto the Corpse Wagon, and by ripping a dimensional portal through space, this body arrives in the lab of the good Doctor.
This lab is everything you've seen in the movies and has things you haven't. Filthy tables hold corpses in various states of assembly. Parts are being sewn onto an Abomination from six or seven people, some of which may still be alive as they're welcomed into the fold. Large vats bubbling with oozes of green, red and purple lend a chill and acrid stink to the air. And in the middle of it all, of the gore and darkness, the science and magic, is the Doctor.
He's hunched over, wearing what looks like a lab coat. A Geist assists him at the machinery that sparks and arcs from dome to dome, electricity firing off like synapses to other parts of the brain. Somewhere, there's a Lich King. Brooding. And this Abomination plants the corpse right on the table in front of the Doctor.
"GET THE ARMOR OFF IT!" the Doctor screeches. The Geist hustles to comply. After the briefest of moments - which, to a corpse, is an eternity yet nothing at all - it is done, and the body is laid bare for all to see. The Doctor surveys his charge with loving care. Wounds are sewn up. Worms are implanted. Teeth are checked. Preparations are made. And then...
The Doctor stands over his charge, and points a talon-like finger to the Geist. "IGOR! WE ARE READY!"
Yes, the Geist's name is Igor. It's my story.
"THROW THE SWITCH!"
The Geist leaps to a large switch, and pulls it down. Electricity arcs from dome to dome! A lightning bolt flings to parts unknown, following circuits and wires and illuminating a sign next to the Lich King that says, "NOW, LORD!"
And the Lich King, brooding, waves a hand, and an infusion of unholy energy envelops the sign. It merges with the lightning, becomes the lightning, racing down wires and cables and arcing across copper domes until it strikes the very corpse upon the table where the Doctor surveys.
"IT'S ALIVE, IGOR!" the Doctor shouts, as life, as horrible and unthinkable as it must be, is forced back into this body at impossible angles.
"ARISE, MY CREATION! ARISE!"
Among the howling of the dead and dying in the Necropolis, one more voice joins the cacophony. Hands claw at the cold skin. Eyes, bluer-than-blue look at what has become of the body they once knew. Voices scream a myriad of things, some in horror, others in rapture. And there is one that drowns out the lot of them, and one that sends a very chill down your spine.
"You belong to me."
Now THAT is a Death Ritual. It's Science! Magic! It has Kings! Heroes! And, with my luck, it is totally unsuitable to anything we could do normally.
But screw that. We're having fun here.
Now, it was brought to my attention through Muriol, one of the dead of SCIENCE, that the 'Death Ritual' may be different than from what we surmised. She quotes the fate of one Gidwin Goldbraids:
(It turns out that yes, yes you are.)
But why? Why have something alive like that? Why are paladins like Gidwin fine Death Knights? Well, simply put, it's because they're effective fighters. That's what the Lich King was looking for, after all! He wanted effective people to turn into an unstoppable Scourge army that would lay waste to Azeroth as we know it.
This is the Lich King we're talking about, though. He wants to make people suffer. He wants it to be horrible, so he can make monsters. So, what if this happened instead?
The scene: The Necropolis, floating high above the battlefield. Below, the desecrated ground is home to agony and death, with ghouls and geists picking through the mortal remains as if searching for a rare-you get the idea.
Surrounded by Scourge, both living(ha!) and dead, is a member of the living. Their raiment is torn. Their skin, bloody. Their eyes are full of fire, and though tired and worn, they will continue to fight. The Scourge are ready to charge, and this living knows it. Yet they wait. Why do they wait? Why do they sit and watch, instead of spending themselves wastefully like their fellows?
You bellow a challenge at the Scourge, and an Abomination answers! It waddles forward, the stink of detritus about it as it swings a giant femur. You dodge! Weave! Strike! But nothing happens! The Abomination is too big, too fat! It blocks out the light of the very sun as the femur comes down, and--
All is dark.
When you awaken, you're on a table. Strapped down. The platform itself is filthy, covered in blood and bits from the meat that had been upon it last. Electricity arcs from copper dome to dome, firing off like synapses for some deformed, gargantuan brain. The air stinks of death, of blood and bile and fear and despair. Your heart thumps in your chest. You struggle, but all that is heard is the clink of shackles. The thump of flesh against wood. The indrawn hiss of glee from something not of the living.
"IT IS AWAKE!" the voice screeches. Hobbling into view is an undead construct with wild hair and a white lab coat. A Geist leaps from machine to machine, cackling. A vile, prehensile tongue shoots out from it and licks your face, tasting you. The heart beats faster. You look from side to side and see -
A line of tables, each with a member of the living chained to it. Each awake, aware, and knowing what must come.
The Doctor points a talon-like finger at the Geist.
"IGOR!" he screams. "THROW THE SWITCH!"
And the Geist does. It throws down a giant lever and an arc of electricity fires from copper dome to dome, along wires and cables and illuminates a sign next to the Lich King, brooding, which says, "NOW, LORD!"
And the Lich King waves a hand. An infusion of unholy energy envelops the sign, absorbing the lightning. Becoming the lightning. It speeds back down cables and wires and fuses and arcs across domes and - strikes the very living on the tables the Doctor oversees.
What comes next is agony. Not the loss of a loved one. Not the loss of an arm. No, this is the pain one receives when the icy hand of Death reaches into your chest while you still live and breathe, and tears out the cottony cloth that is your soul like it was making cotton candy. Every nerve stands on end and screams. There is no breath in your lungs as it is expended in a cacophony of terror and anguish. You can hear every muscle pop. Every bone crack. You can feel the shackles shift as your back tries to break itself as your life force is ripped form your very being.
For one bright, shining moment you see beyond the Veil, and know Paradise.
And then, it is gone forever - shut away with the resounding gong of a black Saronite door, for all eternity.
Again, all is black.
When you awaken, it's as if you are in a new body. It feels cold. It moves strangely. Bluer-than-blue eyes look at dead skin. Clawed fingers touch a face that is familiar, yet so alien. A chorus of voices chime in your head, some revolted, others enraptured. Yet, there is one voice that drowns them all out. It chills you to the bone, and commands instant obedience.
"You belong to me."
Either way, you see, we reach the same end point. Each way, there is a Death Ritual, there is SCIENCE, and there is a Death Knight.
What are your thoughts, gentle beings?
We were having one such conversation via the forums, in fact, when the biology of the Death Knight came up. As has been stated, the Death Knight is unequivocally dead. And then we came back.
Did we come back as zombies? Vampeers? Something more, and infinitely horrifying?
Hell yes we did. That's what makes thing so interesting. The question is: How?
Enter our theories. We know from Lore(yes, capital L) that there is a 'Death Ritual.' Scourge heavies know this ritual. It's assumed that Val'kyr know this ritual. Death Knights certainly know this ritual. So then, what is it?
I like to think of it this way:
The scene is the Necropolis, floating high above the battlefield. Below, the desecrated ground is home to agony and death, with ghouls and geists picking through the mortal remains as if searching for a rare Aquamarine.
What do you mean 'Aquamarine isn't rare'? Have you seen the prices on the Auction House?
A ghoul comes upon a body, surrounded by the husks of the Undead hustled back beyond the Veil even as it fell. Surprisingly, it is mostly intact. Only a hole here or there, easily patched up. This, this is one of those 'Heroes' the Lich King spoke of! Truly! This is one that has earned his place in Paradise.
Sucker. He's perfect.
So this ghoul waves over a Geist, who hobbles by, gives the body a good lick, and waves over an Abomination. This Abomination then picks up the body, hucks it onto the Corpse Wagon, and by ripping a dimensional portal through space, this body arrives in the lab of the good Doctor.
This lab is everything you've seen in the movies and has things you haven't. Filthy tables hold corpses in various states of assembly. Parts are being sewn onto an Abomination from six or seven people, some of which may still be alive as they're welcomed into the fold. Large vats bubbling with oozes of green, red and purple lend a chill and acrid stink to the air. And in the middle of it all, of the gore and darkness, the science and magic, is the Doctor.
He's hunched over, wearing what looks like a lab coat. A Geist assists him at the machinery that sparks and arcs from dome to dome, electricity firing off like synapses to other parts of the brain. Somewhere, there's a Lich King. Brooding. And this Abomination plants the corpse right on the table in front of the Doctor.
"GET THE ARMOR OFF IT!" the Doctor screeches. The Geist hustles to comply. After the briefest of moments - which, to a corpse, is an eternity yet nothing at all - it is done, and the body is laid bare for all to see. The Doctor surveys his charge with loving care. Wounds are sewn up. Worms are implanted. Teeth are checked. Preparations are made. And then...
The Doctor stands over his charge, and points a talon-like finger to the Geist. "IGOR! WE ARE READY!"
Yes, the Geist's name is Igor. It's my story.
"THROW THE SWITCH!"
The Geist leaps to a large switch, and pulls it down. Electricity arcs from dome to dome! A lightning bolt flings to parts unknown, following circuits and wires and illuminating a sign next to the Lich King that says, "NOW, LORD!"
And the Lich King, brooding, waves a hand, and an infusion of unholy energy envelops the sign. It merges with the lightning, becomes the lightning, racing down wires and cables and arcing across copper domes until it strikes the very corpse upon the table where the Doctor surveys.
"IT'S ALIVE, IGOR!" the Doctor shouts, as life, as horrible and unthinkable as it must be, is forced back into this body at impossible angles.
"ARISE, MY CREATION! ARISE!"
Among the howling of the dead and dying in the Necropolis, one more voice joins the cacophony. Hands claw at the cold skin. Eyes, bluer-than-blue look at what has become of the body they once knew. Voices scream a myriad of things, some in horror, others in rapture. And there is one that drowns out the lot of them, and one that sends a very chill down your spine.
"You belong to me."
Now THAT is a Death Ritual. It's Science! Magic! It has Kings! Heroes! And, with my luck, it is totally unsuitable to anything we could do normally.
But screw that. We're having fun here.
Now, it was brought to my attention through Muriol, one of the dead of SCIENCE, that the 'Death Ritual' may be different than from what we surmised. She quotes the fate of one Gidwin Goldbraids:
- Argus Highbeacon says: We can't be certain that he was killed. Maybe he just ran off somewhere.
Tarenar Sunstrike yells: No, he'd never just leave his prayer book behind! He was always nose-deep in that book, studying.
Tarenar Sunstrike says: He was always studying, always trying to get better.
Argus Highbeacon says: Even more reason to believe that he's still alive.
Argus Highbeacon says: A paladin like Gidwin makes a fine death knight. Any member of the Scourge powerful enough to defeat him would know that.
Argus Highbeacon says: It's likely that he's being held somewhere, awaiting a death ritual.
(It turns out that yes, yes you are.)
But why? Why have something alive like that? Why are paladins like Gidwin fine Death Knights? Well, simply put, it's because they're effective fighters. That's what the Lich King was looking for, after all! He wanted effective people to turn into an unstoppable Scourge army that would lay waste to Azeroth as we know it.
This is the Lich King we're talking about, though. He wants to make people suffer. He wants it to be horrible, so he can make monsters. So, what if this happened instead?
The scene: The Necropolis, floating high above the battlefield. Below, the desecrated ground is home to agony and death, with ghouls and geists picking through the mortal remains as if searching for a rare-you get the idea.
Surrounded by Scourge, both living(ha!) and dead, is a member of the living. Their raiment is torn. Their skin, bloody. Their eyes are full of fire, and though tired and worn, they will continue to fight. The Scourge are ready to charge, and this living knows it. Yet they wait. Why do they wait? Why do they sit and watch, instead of spending themselves wastefully like their fellows?
You bellow a challenge at the Scourge, and an Abomination answers! It waddles forward, the stink of detritus about it as it swings a giant femur. You dodge! Weave! Strike! But nothing happens! The Abomination is too big, too fat! It blocks out the light of the very sun as the femur comes down, and--
All is dark.
When you awaken, you're on a table. Strapped down. The platform itself is filthy, covered in blood and bits from the meat that had been upon it last. Electricity arcs from copper dome to dome, firing off like synapses for some deformed, gargantuan brain. The air stinks of death, of blood and bile and fear and despair. Your heart thumps in your chest. You struggle, but all that is heard is the clink of shackles. The thump of flesh against wood. The indrawn hiss of glee from something not of the living.
"IT IS AWAKE!" the voice screeches. Hobbling into view is an undead construct with wild hair and a white lab coat. A Geist leaps from machine to machine, cackling. A vile, prehensile tongue shoots out from it and licks your face, tasting you. The heart beats faster. You look from side to side and see -
A line of tables, each with a member of the living chained to it. Each awake, aware, and knowing what must come.
The Doctor points a talon-like finger at the Geist.
"IGOR!" he screams. "THROW THE SWITCH!"
And the Geist does. It throws down a giant lever and an arc of electricity fires from copper dome to dome, along wires and cables and illuminates a sign next to the Lich King, brooding, which says, "NOW, LORD!"
And the Lich King waves a hand. An infusion of unholy energy envelops the sign, absorbing the lightning. Becoming the lightning. It speeds back down cables and wires and fuses and arcs across domes and - strikes the very living on the tables the Doctor oversees.
What comes next is agony. Not the loss of a loved one. Not the loss of an arm. No, this is the pain one receives when the icy hand of Death reaches into your chest while you still live and breathe, and tears out the cottony cloth that is your soul like it was making cotton candy. Every nerve stands on end and screams. There is no breath in your lungs as it is expended in a cacophony of terror and anguish. You can hear every muscle pop. Every bone crack. You can feel the shackles shift as your back tries to break itself as your life force is ripped form your very being.
For one bright, shining moment you see beyond the Veil, and know Paradise.
And then, it is gone forever - shut away with the resounding gong of a black Saronite door, for all eternity.
Again, all is black.
When you awaken, it's as if you are in a new body. It feels cold. It moves strangely. Bluer-than-blue eyes look at dead skin. Clawed fingers touch a face that is familiar, yet so alien. A chorus of voices chime in your head, some revolted, others enraptured. Yet, there is one voice that drowns them all out. It chills you to the bone, and commands instant obedience.
"You belong to me."
Either way, you see, we reach the same end point. Each way, there is a Death Ritual, there is SCIENCE, and there is a Death Knight.
What are your thoughts, gentle beings?
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Kingsfall
Valdiis and I discussed 'where were our characters?' after Wrath of the Righteous had downed Arthas first, so long ago. This, started two years ago and finished last night, is what we came up with.
It wasn’t until one of the deckhands came over to Valdiis and sheepishly motioned for her to abandon the crate that she was leaning on that she stopped sniffing the air and daydreaming about warmer climates, and started paying attention to what the Major and the ship’s captain were saying to one another.
###
Two men oversaw the unloading of the ship whilst the Commander instilled a rightful fear into the hearts of the longshoremen and crew. One was in a dirty amalgamation of rags, cloth, and furs – save the captain’s hat atop his brow – and the other seemed subdued in clothing choice, but not in spirit. One could easily tell from the blackened saronite plating and the runed hammer at his belt that this man was one of Mograine’s Own – one of the better terms that death knights were called. Less telling and more confusing was the weighted, spiked, and runed mug hanging from a saronite chain at his other side. It was clear he was fairly high up in his organization with the Lordaeron Oak Leaf that was the sigil of a Major in military service pinned to his unit’s tabard.
“Spoilage is low this time,” he said. His voice was warmer than the draenei terrorizing the bosun, as if well-used even throughout his tenure as something other than just sentient. “You must’ve made good time.”
“Had to, to get you damned deaders your ‘special equipment.’” The ship’s master looked cold and surly, one probably leading to the other. “Had to bu—” Eredis cut the man off with a look. The captain stammered, then fell silent as he realized his bid for more payment disappeared in the dead stare of the Major.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked. The ship’s master
shook his head.
“Hmph,” she replied. “Stupid to vaste good fighters on supply runs.”
Eredis’s response was cut off by the shrill cry of a young lad out of breath, running for the inn door. “Major! Maaaaaajor! It’s haaaaappening!”
A bubbling glow of decay faded from the edges of her axe, though the ever-burning metal still glowed hot. Wielding the giant two-handed blade in one hand as easily as if it were a small hatchet, Valdiis whistled a note to her hippogryph and together draenei and mount dove for another of the spectral val’kyr fighters which had broken off from harrying the forces battling on the Throne’s platform to give chase.
"Zat is one!” she shouted to the Major over the roar of air past her ebon-gray face, the stiffness of death subsumed beneath the exhilaration of battle. Spiraling back upwards after catching a val’kyr’s ire with a well-placed coil of blackish-green death magic, she came quite close to clipping the netherdrake Verdein’s right wing and laughed it off. As long as the spectral death-maiden was chasing her instead of carrying off the strike team below, everything was according to design – even the near misses and blood trails.
“Two,” Valdiis gasped out as her not-deadened-enough nerves set up an extra strong hue and cry over her hand. There were moments when the regenerative powers Lord Thorval had taught her to bring her body’s systems back to a muted sense of ‘life’ really…really…sucked.
###
In the skies above Icecrown, two dragons fought. One was entirely dead, fleshless and imbued with unholy power. One was alive and well, though carrying an entirely dead but ambulatory human on its back - also imbued with unholy power.
“Zat is three!” she shouted to the winds, tilting her head back to look up away from the Throne and try to spot Eredis and Verdein. She only searched for a second or two though, knowing that a fourth val’kyr was still in the air. Where was…? Aha. There. With a low whistle that was barely audible in the winds, but clear enough for Kamilorah to hear, she directed her mount into another upwards climb. The val’kyr in the air several dozen feet above her didn’t seem to have realized that its quarry was below it now.
At least I got my three kills.
###
He could see the frostwyrm diving from a higher elevation, and he readied the spear. Wait for it...
The dwarf pointed at a dark speck near such a frostwyrm that was leveling out. Draenei and dwarf both watched the speck collide, and the wyrm’s screech echoed throughout the valley as it bent under the impact in midair, then started bucking wildly.
“Bergmann, you are crazy!”
“No! Tha’ man’s crazy! ‘E’s goin’ tae give us a shot!”
“Fine! FINE! We have six rockets!”
“Fuse ‘em fer contact! We’ll get one wee sho’ at et!”
###
“TITAN’S TESTICLES!" the Major heard in the short moment of absolute silence as the wyrm began to stall. "FIRE!”
As quickly as it came, the feelings faded. A satisfied smile on his face, Eredis twisted in the wind to face the ground as it rushed towards him. His feet above him and facing directly down, he closed his eyes.
###
“Clear th’ deck! Two comin’ in hot!”
The shout startled marines and support crew aboard the Skybreaker to scatter, two wavering specks in the sky solidifying into a netherdrake carrying one Knight in his talons, and a hippogryph with a second Knight barely mounted. Neither looked like they were particularly rated for flight at the moment, but the trajectory both had chosen was one that didn’t exactly require a lot of skill.
One of the specks dipped erratically, gaining speed as the Skybreaker’s crew cleared as much space as they could allow. It wasn’t enough for the netherdrake to land, but he didn’t seem to mind it as he released his undead cargo unceremoniously onto the deck and banked off in a one-winged starboard glide for greener pastures – or snowier glaciers.
The hippogryph had no such fortune. A vicious crosswind whipped up, shearing the bird off his intended landing pattern and he skidded across the deck, finally throwing his passenger off as his front talons scrabbled to find purchase on the polished planks.
The plate-clad passenger clattered against the decks before finally coming to rest contorted most painfully against a pile of crates that marines had been more recently using for cover against both frostwyrm and val’kyr during the assault on the Citadel proper. From the state of his equipment, onlookers could easily see he knew all about both aerial foes, and they had seen both him and the draenei the netherdrake dropped off attempting to deny Arthas his sky-borne assets to deploy against the strike team on the Citadel’s Throne.
The ringing in his ears subsided, and his vision swam until it focused on two plated boots standing in front of him and – farther off – another pile of saronite and titansteel armor that had to have been Valdiis. She didn’t look much better than he did.
“Is our air secure?” Eredis asked. His voice sounded like he’d swallowed a pound of gravel. Looking up, he saw the plated boots were indeed attached to legs which were attached to a shining crimson beard. Of course it would be the dwarf. The dwarf was everywhere.
“Oh aye, Major,” the dwarf replied. “Brilliant bit wi’ th’ frostwyrm. Rosoe go’ a nice piece of et.”
Eredis coughed, trying to look around. It still sounded like his ears were ringing a bit.
“I’ll have to bake her a cake. What’s the status of the rest of the battle, Sergeant Bergmann?”
He could swear he saw the dwarf smile somewhere in the recesses of that beard. “Kinnae ye ‘ear, Major? Arthas ‘as fallen, an’ et was by th’ grace o’ th’ Light an' th' spirits th'selves tha’ they ‘eard me clear th’ deck for ye.”
Amidst the cheers of the crew he could now hear, there was another distinctly draenei voice, “Major Grumpypants said he would bake a cake? Ask him when!”
The dwarf said something back which Eredis didn’t catch, then looked down at him again. “Ye be in a bad way, Major. Ye kinnae keep doin’ this, else ye’ll no’ live t’ see th’ sun rise!”
Despite the pain, Eredis started laughing, a low roar that started to rise above the cheers on the deck. “Hear that, Valdiis? We might not live to see sunrise!”
He heard an answering hysterical cackle from the other pile of saronite on the deck being tended to by corpsmen. Eredis closed his eyes, satisfied.
“Tell your gunner tomorrow, Sergeant. We’ll celebrate tomorrow.”
Kingsfall
a collaboration by Eredis and Valdiis
written while listening to:
E.S. Posthumus - Pompeii
E.S. Posthumus - Pompeii
E.S. Posthumus - Arise
Golden dawn light limned the sails and
almost lent beauty to the war-torn, ice-battered boat docked at the
harbor at Valiance Keep. The dawn light struggled in vain against the
puffs of sooty steam from the ship’s main power source, the coal
fires banked while the ship sat at anchor. On the wooden docks,
activity bustled as quickly as if it were well after noon. Pairs of
deckhands carried large wooden crates between them from the ship’s
hold to the land end of the docks while a leather-skinned man with a
flat nose which took up half his face and wearing a grimy quilted
coat, screamed threats in a voice more suited to the penguins on the
ice floes than the visage of a grizzled old bosun.
The bosun hadn’t been up more than
three hours and he was already in high dudgeon – stuck on the docks
like a common longshoreman instead of up in the rigging where he
belonged. “If’n ya go droppin’ those crates in ta th’ water,
ya best be ready ta jump in afta ‘em, ‘cause those black-‘earted
deaders are worse th’n th’ frigid sea!”
A low, raspy voice came from over his
left shoulder and about two feet up, “My heart is more of a navy
shade, vhat parts of it are not yet vorm-eaten.”
Leathery brown skin visible between a
gray woolen cap and an equally bland scarf went slightly
green-tinted. “Naga’s tits, ‘ow’d ya sneak up on me wit’
those ‘ooves?”
“Practice,” the draenei female in
heavy plate armor behind him said with a strained chuckle. A brisk
wind off the seawater ruffled her short, tarnished white hair but did
nothing so kind as to bring extra color to her stiff, ashen ebon-gray
face. The glint of dawn off her bladed pauldrons showed the
inordinate care she took for her armor. Not even the sea mist or the
coal smoke marred the battle-pocked surface. Slung across her back
rested a most curious large axe – the blade’s runed edges and the
crossed nails hammered into the pommel seeming to hold a
fresh-from-the-forge glow despite the winter’s chill.
“Vhen zis is done vith, I am goink
somevhere tropical and green,” she muttered to herself, just loud
enough for the bosun to overhear. “Perhaps I can convince zat
damned dead elf to lose herself in Stranglezorn.” Frowning
suddenly, she reached underneath her right pauldron, plated fingers
scraping noisily between her breastplate and the shoulder armor as
she pulled a small, stiff, blackish-navy worm from the gap allowed by
shoulder articulation. “My blood vorms are all frozen over!” she
grumbled. The small frozen worm was dropped into a black leather
pouch strapped to her belt.
The bosun turned greener still,
harrumphed, and tried his level best to ignore the looming deader at
his back and her gruesome parasites. “Watch it, ya addle-pated,
bow-legged bilge rats! Tha’s expensive damn cargo!”
Shaking her head, Commander Valdiis
left the bosun to scream imprecations at the crew and followed a pair
of deckhands up to the land-side of the dock where Major Eredis Orill
and the ship’s captain were deep in negotiations. Valdiis presumed
it was about payment for shipping and unloading all these supplies
for the unit, so she cocked a plate-covered hip against a tall crate
and waited. The dockside smelled of stale fish, frigid sea, and coal
steam – the mélange sharpened by the winter’s bite that almost
made the air itself sparkle with frost. Floating almost innocently in
the steely-gray waters were the tips of much larger floes of ice,
interspersed with the occasional fin of something predatory and
suited to frozen waters.
It wasn’t until one of the deckhands came over to Valdiis and sheepishly motioned for her to abandon the crate that she was leaning on that she stopped sniffing the air and daydreaming about warmer climates, and started paying attention to what the Major and the ship’s captain were saying to one another.
Two men oversaw the unloading of the ship whilst the Commander instilled a rightful fear into the hearts of the longshoremen and crew. One was in a dirty amalgamation of rags, cloth, and furs – save the captain’s hat atop his brow – and the other seemed subdued in clothing choice, but not in spirit. One could easily tell from the blackened saronite plating and the runed hammer at his belt that this man was one of Mograine’s Own – one of the better terms that death knights were called. Less telling and more confusing was the weighted, spiked, and runed mug hanging from a saronite chain at his other side. It was clear he was fairly high up in his organization with the Lordaeron Oak Leaf that was the sigil of a Major in military service pinned to his unit’s tabard.
“Spoilage is low this time,” he said. His voice was warmer than the draenei terrorizing the bosun, as if well-used even throughout his tenure as something other than just sentient. “You must’ve made good time.”
“Had to, to get you damned deaders your ‘special equipment.’” The ship’s master looked cold and surly, one probably leading to the other. “Had to bu—” Eredis cut the man off with a look. The captain stammered, then fell silent as he realized his bid for more payment disappeared in the dead stare of the Major.
“That’s nice,” he replied.
“So... If that’s all, then m’boys
will be on ou—” The captain of the ship stopped again at another
stare.
“Eredis Orill,” said the death
knight. “Quartermaster. And I have a case of Alterac brandy that
needs factoring in Stormwind. Two bottles and twenty golds should
take care of the stacks you nearly melted getting up here with haste,
hmm?”
For a long moment, the only thing one
could hear was the chill wind blowing off the Frozen Straits, causing
warm-blooded longshoremen to wave at Valdiis leaning against a crate
to move so they could finish offloading it. Of course the ship’s
master had heard of him. There were few in the transport industry who
hadn’t.
The moment passed, and the captain
cleared his throat.
“Done. Who do I drop it off to?”
A parchment changed hands with a bag
of coins. “All the details are there.”
The two men parted company, Eredis
waving Valdiis over as the crates were stacked on the dock. He turned
thereafter and waved at another group of plate-clad Knights to come
over and start loading the crates onto the wagons, each pulled by
Deathcharger.
“Commander, let the Captain handle
the loading. We’re getting coffee.”
###
“Coffee,” Eredis started, “is
one of the greatest developments to come from Dalaran since sharp
cheese.”
They sat within the dockside inn, the
roaring fire enough to warm even the chill wafting off the Major
although both he and Valdiis sat half a floor above it at a small
table on the landing. The inn personnel seemed more used to death
knights than the average Stormwind citizen, which was a delight in
itself – they didn’t have to worry about rotten fruit and
poorly-worded epithets. The bloodstains from the Major’s inaugural
visit had long since been cleaned up, and the cultist who was the
cook in back had since been replaced.
And the coffee was wonderful.
Two such mugs rested on the table with
a tea service between them. One remained black, though there was
evidence of sugar around the mug. The other mug was full of a rich,
light brown liquid with swirls of white to which Valdiis added
another spoonful of sugar.
“Zis tastes horrible, Major.”
Valdiis made a stiff but clearly displeased face. “Zis tastes like
roots. Dirtied roots, at zat.”
Eredis laughed. “Just drink it,
Commander. It’ll warm your core while the Captain bungles the
loading operation. Then think of the taste and how it makes you feel
while you yell at them all for screwing up.”
She harrumphed, taking a second sip
and nodding approvingly, “Not so bitter now. Vhy are ve here
offloadink instead of fightink?”
Eredis rolled his shoulders in a
shrug. His mug was already half empty, and he was assessing the
battered pot that contained the rest with a calculating eye. “Because
it’s our duty, Commander. The General wants the gear there so we
can break straight in this time, instead of cracking open holes for
everyone else to scurry into.”
“Hmph,” she replied. “Stupid to vaste good fighters on supply runs.”
“It’s sti–…”
Eredis’s response was cut off by the shrill cry of a young lad out of breath, running for the inn door. “Major! Maaaaaajor! It’s haaaaappening!”
Coffee forgotten, the Major was on his
feet and to the door as the fur-clad stable boy burst in, cheeks pink
from exertion.
“What is it, Jimmy?” he asked,
stopping him with an ungloved hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“It’s like you said, sir!” the
stable boy replied, heaving for breath. “They changed the time! The
two Colonels – I just got word from the Temple caravan! They left
this morning with mounts and a full combat squad from Scourgeholme!
The assault is today!”
Valdiis and Eredis shared a look. No
words were exchanged, but there was a conversation lasting several
moments contained therein.
We should be there.
You’re right, we should.
But we are supposed to be here.
We can ask for permission to
engage. Once we get there.
“CAPTAIN!”
Eredis bellowed as they both raced outside, “You’re in charge!
Get those supplies moving double-time! Pack them on gryphons if you
have to! The Commander and I are going ahead!”
Inside, Jimmy took what had been
Valdiis’s seat at the table and beamed at a huge frosted cupcake
before him.
Two shrill whistles echoed in the
morning air, answering shrieks coming from the tundra. Within
moments, a green netherdrake and a snowy hippogryph were on the
ground, waiting for their riders.
“Let us move quickly!” Valdiis
shouted as she threw a hoof over the hippogryph’s saddled back.
“Zere vill not be anyzink left by ze time ve get zere!”
“I don’t think that will be a
problem,” came the somber, but entertained reply.
###
The trip went fast, both parties
silent as they urged their mounts as fast as they could go. They flew
into the glare of the sun, unable to see if there were errant Scourge
waiting. The tundra below flew by, Taunka pointing up and grunting an
alarm as they darted over the hunting camps that the tribes had
retreated to. Few other living creatures moved, the entirety of
Northrend waiting, breathless, for the events in Icecrown Citadel to
play out.
“1113th, this is Major
Orill,” he started on the unit-wide communicator. “Colonels
Frostsprocket and Celuur have initiated engagement at Icecrown
Citadel. Commander Valdiis and I are moving to reinforce – all
available assets are to move to the Citadel immediately. Arthas dies
today. That is all.”
Eager to get a situation report,
Eredis set his communicator to ‘General Chatter,’ patching into
the open Allied line. The whistling of the air and the beating of
drake and hippogryph wings turned into the panicked noise of a
massive assault on the Citadel itself. Everyone, literally everyone,
was massing on the tower.
Netherdrake and hippogryph crested the
unusually silent cliffs of Wintergrasp, and the source of the radio
chatter became as clear as the chill sky that surrounded the Citadel
itself. Black specks cycled through the air in a hypnotic dance of
carnage, gnomish recon fighters and goblin heavy bombers firing at
anything that moved. Both Knights could see Skybreaker and
Orgrim's Hammer on opposite ends of the engagement area, the
early afternoon sun’s rays shining against the glow of heavy rounds
burning through the air, of rockets finding gargoyles, and of val’kyr
and frostwyrms harrying interceptors and airships alike.
The flagships were aflame in places,
damage sustained from fighting the Scourge and fighting each other.
The Hammer meant little, but the Skybreaker would be
too valuable to lose. Eredis shouted into the communicator,
“Skybreaker, this is Major Orill with the ‘Thirteenth. Get
fire control on deck! The Knights of Menethil will keep your skies
clear!”
Skybreaker wasn’t long in
responding. “Negative! Keep the val’kyr off the tower! We have an
assault team near the Lich King now! … But if you can slow down the
frostwyrms long enough for us to take a shot, we’ll take it!”
“Understood, Skybreaker!”
Keeping an ear on the chatter for a
moment, Eredis yelled, “Commander! We’re on air interdiction!
Whoever kills the most val’kyr wins dinner!”
“Vhat about ze vyrms?”
“I’ll bake a cake for every one
that dies!”
Galvanized by the battle before them,
both mounts spurred forward, talons ready. A cloud of spectral,
winged figures around the Citadel’s spire caught their attention,
and Eredis waved to Valdiis.
“Pull off as many val’kyr as you
can! I’ve got a dragon to slay!”
“Yes, sir!” she cried in response,
her weapon already readied in one hand as her hippogryph took the
lead. Eredis tucked into her left flank as the distance closed,
goblin flak rockets exploding alarmingly close as they sped through
the center of the combat zone.
Abruptly, Valdiis was without support
as the Major braked, then gained altitude as the cry of a frostwyrm
rang out in the air, followed by the huffing of its breath as it
tried to freeze the marines aboard the Skybreaker. Her backup
now otherwise occupied, she chose a val’kyr getting perilously
close to the platform where she could see tiny figures fighting
another she knew to be the Traitor Prince, Arthas Menethil.
Leaning forward to create less
resistance, she yelled a battle cry as her hippogryph crossed right
in front of the val’kyr intent on mischief. It sounded more like a
harpy than a death-maiden of the Scourge as it shouted an alarm, and
not one but four val’kyr broke off from their attempts at
harrying the strike force to give chase. A feral grin upon her
features, Valdiis nudged her mount higher, bleeding off airspeed
before she banked and dropped, turning both draenei and mount into a
ballistic projectile.
A scream muffled by the thin air of
high altitude mingled with the snicker-snack of an axe-blade biting
home into a form more spectral than corporeal. It was no less
susceptible than any other form to a blade imbued with death magic
aimed directly for the core. As the axe found its mark, so too did
the edge of a glaive against the hippogryph’s left side. The low
and armored saddle stopped what Valdiis’s armored leg did not.
Flexing her plate-covered knees – the first set of them – against
the sides of her specially-bred Argent war hippogryph and ignoring
the spurt of blood from beneath the crumpled titansteel greave,
Valdiis guided the white-feathered Kamilorah out of the way as the
val’kyr’s motionless form plummeted out of the sky.
A bubbling glow of decay faded from the edges of her axe, though the ever-burning metal still glowed hot. Wielding the giant two-handed blade in one hand as easily as if it were a small hatchet, Valdiis whistled a note to her hippogryph and together draenei and mount dove for another of the spectral val’kyr fighters which had broken off from harrying the forces battling on the Throne’s platform to give chase.
"Zat is one!” she shouted to the Major over the roar of air past her ebon-gray face, the stiffness of death subsumed beneath the exhilaration of battle. Spiraling back upwards after catching a val’kyr’s ire with a well-placed coil of blackish-green death magic, she came quite close to clipping the netherdrake Verdein’s right wing and laughed it off. As long as the spectral death-maiden was chasing her instead of carrying off the strike team below, everything was according to design – even the near misses and blood trails.
###
Aboard Skybreaker, a draenei
and a dwarf lounged near a quiescent cannon while marines hurried
about, putting out fires and fending off frostwyrms, gargoyles, and
val’kyr. Their attention was focused on the tiny figures darting in
and out of the defense zone, drawing off Scourge forces as best they
could. The cannon was silent, but prepared for anti-aircraft fire.
For the most part, they were left alone – their job had begun with
transporting the strike team to the upper floors of the Citadel
itself, and now it ended in spotting the frostwyrms so the cannoneers
could get a clear shot.
“Rosoe,” the dwarf abruptly
drawled.
“Bergmann,” the draenei responded.
“I bet ye...fi’ silvers tha’ th’
lass gets three afore she gets de...thingied.”
“What? Archimonde’s shriveled
balls! That is preposterous!”
“Why d’ye think tha’? I figger
m’ spirits know more th’n yer spirits.”
“It is not about the spirits! She is
a trained draenei fighter! She will take down at least seven, and
still stay aloft! And I thought you fought with her!”
“...An’ I’m sayin’ three. Fi’
silvers on et.”
“...Five silvers.”
“Aye.”
“Alright. I will take pleasure in
you losing money.”
“I dinnae see tha’ happenin’.”
###
Eredis could see Valdiis antagonizing a whole host of val’kyr as the body of one dropped on three more. A chorus of cries filtered down to the cloud that was starting to disperse from the Citadel’s spire. The Major smiled, nudging Verdein across a frostwyrm’s line of sight for a third time, throwing the bone dragon’s aim off.
Eredis could see Valdiis antagonizing a whole host of val’kyr as the body of one dropped on three more. A chorus of cries filtered down to the cloud that was starting to disperse from the Citadel’s spire. The Major smiled, nudging Verdein across a frostwyrm’s line of sight for a third time, throwing the bone dragon’s aim off.
After three such passes, it took the
bait. With a howl that could only be described as draconic rage, the
frostwyrm gave chase after the comparatively small enemy. Its jaws
started snapping after the netherdrake, and the Major risked a look
back to see how close it was.
It was at this moment that Eredis
realized that a frostwyrm’s breath stinks.
“Dive!” he cried as he flattened
himself against Verdein, the netherdrake abruptly dropping into a
controlled spin and narrowly missing doom at the jaws of the Scourged
wyrm.
###
High above the frozen ground, the thin
air seemed to amplify the distant sounds and muffle the closer ones.
The gentle, feathered whuffs of Kamilorah’s wing beats were drowned
out entirely by the sounds of the battle on the Throne far below.
Fireballs exploded with arcane power and blades blessed by the
righteousness of those fighting for life clanged. She could have
sworn she even heard an Alliance battle cry somewhere amidst the
incoherent shouts.
A battle-lust of such fervor and certainty as she had not felt since years before her death overtook Valdiis. These val’kyr were just vrykul spirits without the strength given by the Light to regain their freedom like she had or the ability to hold a solid body together like she could. They were nothing more than fleeting obstacles between her and vengeance for all the pain she and her brothers – in arms and in blood – had suffered. They could not even hope to reach her skill with a blade. They had no chance of landing a bl-…
A battle-lust of such fervor and certainty as she had not felt since years before her death overtook Valdiis. These val’kyr were just vrykul spirits without the strength given by the Light to regain their freedom like she had or the ability to hold a solid body together like she could. They were nothing more than fleeting obstacles between her and vengeance for all the pain she and her brothers – in arms and in blood – had suffered. They could not even hope to reach her skill with a blade. They had no chance of landing a bl-…
As she wove among the three val’kyr
surrounding her, her axe-blade singing last rites as it moved, the
few seconds of icy battle clarity Valdiis had shattered. So did the
bones of her right hand. The val’kyr pressed its spectral form
against the draenei as it tried to use the mace that had just crushed
her hand to catch the downward curve of her axe to disarm her and its
body to unseat her. Kamilorah cawed nervously as his wing became
entangled with the val’kyr’s legs and the three of them began
spiraling sharply down and to the right.
Runes glowed like reddened coals
against the molten orange of the blade’s edge as Valdiis drew on
their power, coaxing the nascent magic of spilled blood to mingle
with blood runes inscribed on the titansteel vambraces strapped over
her forearms. The runes on her vambraces seemed to pulse with a slow
heartbeat while the val’kyr and draenei struggled against one
another. Her right hand useless for holding the axe anyway, Valdiis
released her grip on her axe with it and snapped her forearm up
beneath the val’kyr’s chin, releasing the magic of the runes in a
strike that ordinarily would have gone for the heart, but instead
left a gaping hole beneath the val’kyr’s chin.
Abruptly, Kamilorah’s rightward
spiraling stopped, although they were still losing airspeed at an
alarming rate. The val’kyr’s shriek was more of a gurgle as it
fell back, translucent wings beating heavily as it tried to recover
for another maneuver. It seemed proper somehow that the battle far
below at the Throne was louder to her than the crunching grate of
bone shards as she forced her right hand to obey her commands anyway,
unwinding a length of chain from her waist as her left hand held her
axe in a defensive stance across her torso.
The hippogryph stabilized and began
climbing, dodging the three val’kyr while his rider recovered.
Dripping ichor from the wound it had been given, the val’kyr shot
upwards and then folded its wings to drop down on Valdiis. Another
grate of bones being forced to do what they were no longer truly able
to and the length of chain snapped out, wrapping around the val’kyr’s
ribs and wings. A chill beyond even the frigidity of Icecrown’s
peaks flared briefly and the chain links locked in ice around the
val’kyr. Flightless, it tumbled away with a gurgling cry.
“Two,” Valdiis gasped out as her not-deadened-enough nerves set up an extra strong hue and cry over her hand. There were moments when the regenerative powers Lord Thorval had taught her to bring her body’s systems back to a muted sense of ‘life’ really…really…sucked.
###
In the skies above Icecrown, two dragons fought. One was entirely dead, fleshless and imbued with unholy power. One was alive and well, though carrying an entirely dead but ambulatory human on its back - also imbued with unholy power.
It
had all the sinuous movement of a pair of cats fighting. Verdein
darted in with talons and teeth, Eredis with mug and hammer, and they
would chip a bone or break a femur before moving off for another
pass. The frostwyrm spat blue flames at them or tried to buffet them
with its bone wings, focused more on the larger problem of the
Skybreaker.
During one of
those moments of diverted attention, Eredis and Verdein directed a
precision strike. Coming in low as if a shark in the skies above the
battlefield, Verdein flipped in a fast roll to snatch a talon off the
frostwyrm with his own, righting himself just in time for Eredis to
smash a second with his three-spined hammer. As the fragments rained
down on the field below, the air split with a furious screech of a
disarmed construct.
###
In a flurry of white feathers and
darkened plate armor, Valdiis and Kamilorah rolled in midair to the
frustrated shriek of the val’kyr on the hippogryph’s streaming
tail. The soft strands of bluish-white hair that made up the tail
were smeared with red and navy blood, but his wings still beat strong
and his beak was sharp. That sharp beak whipped to the side in tandem
with a distracting feint from Valdiis’s axe. The val’kyr –
intent on the death knight’s weapon – missed the fact that a
trained battle mount is just as much of a weapon in a death knight’s
hands as a blade.
The spectral-but-solid val’kyr cried
out some sort of curse about her master having the final word as the
hippogryph’s beak ripped through her side, but it was lost amidst
the howling winds buffeting the spires high above the Throne. Valdiis
tapped a knee against her mount’s right side and he canted left to
allow the val’kyr’s corpse fall free.
“Zat is three!” she shouted to the winds, tilting her head back to look up away from the Throne and try to spot Eredis and Verdein. She only searched for a second or two though, knowing that a fourth val’kyr was still in the air. Where was…? Aha. There. With a low whistle that was barely audible in the winds, but clear enough for Kamilorah to hear, she directed her mount into another upwards climb. The val’kyr in the air several dozen feet above her didn’t seem to have realized that its quarry was below it now.
Valdiis hefted her axe in her left
hand and drew upon one of the runes of death inscribed on the blade,
gathering a coil of blackish-green magic to smash into the val’kyr
as she approached. Before she had enough power gathered, the
val’kyr’s wings folded and it dropped rapidly, spinning as it did
so with a wickedly-curved spear pointed towards the draenei. Caught
off-guard – how did the val’kyr know she was approaching?
– Valdiis could only squeeze her legs tightly against her mount’s
sides as he banked left to dodge the spear.
Too late, too little, too slow. The
spear tore through the bird’s wing with a splash of red blood and a
flurry of white feathers. Despite the thin air, his shrill, pained
caw was loud as he jerked the wing to his side, the spear embedded in
the meaty flesh of the upper bend of the limb. The val’kyr holding
onto the haft of the spear was jerked in by the movement and used the
added momentum to barrel into the hippogryph’s rider. Battle cry
mixed with surprised yell mixed with pained shriek as the three of
them tumbled over and over in the air high above the glacier.
Valdiis released the coil of death
magic into to the val’kyr’s face as she caught a glimpse of
another wickedly-curved blade. The val’kyr’s dagger scraped
against her saronite breastplate with a horrendous screech, but she
was protected. With a howl of rage, the death-maiden scrabbled
against Valdiis’s breastplate with one hand, plunging the dagger
against her armored body over and over with the other.
Her left leg shook from the effort of
clinging doggedly to the saddle, the crushed plate on her calf
seeming to press her leg away from the saddle even as her knee
pressed inwards. Another tumbling roll. They were falling fast. She
had to do something about this val’kyr quickly.
And then the val’kyr did something
about itself. It braced its spectral legs against Kamilorah’s side,
wrapped its arms around Valdiis’s waist, and kicked backwards,
yanking them both free from the injured hippogryph. A Draenei curse
ended on a swiftly indrawn breath as the val’kyr’s dagger burned
a white-hot line up Valdiis’s ribs – the damned spectre found the
gap where her breastplate closed.
Valdiis chanced a glance downwards,
watching Kamilorah’s blood-spattered form spiral away below her as
the val’kyr kept stabbing frantically at the gap in her armor. Each
stab was tainted with the very Scourge magic Valdiis twisted to her
own ends, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t damned uncomfortable.
The blade jammed between two of her ribs. Her battle training told
her where to strike to break the grip on her waist, to knock the
val’kyr unconscious or dead with a blow – but some entirely
uncharacteristic instinct kept her hanging on to the val’kyr
instead of delivering the killing blow. It tried to break the
draenei’s grip on its torso, bobbing and dipping in the air,
screeching in frustration. This turn of events had left the val’kyr
and the death knight in an odd - if temporary - stalemate.
###
He’d lost precious seconds
antagonizing the frostwyrm when he saw Valdiis dismounted by an irate
val’kyr. Verdein evidently saw it as well – somehow he’d taken
a liking to the draenei, Eredis thought – and both of them moved as
one. The netherdrake dove, pulling up sharply as Eredis left the
hammer aside and took his tankard by the saronite chain, swinging it
as the dead-weight it was about to make the death-maiden.
What began as a faraway speck quickly
formed into an amalgamated blob of draenei and spectre wrestling with
one another, the weight of the death knight’s armor causing an
instinctual reaction to hang on instead of simply let go. Verdein saw
it, and the drake turned so Eredis had a clear shot as they sped from
below to above in the fraction of a second.
###
There was a massive jolt above her and
the spectral grip on her waist was gone. Top-heavy from her
pauldrons, Valdiis pitched forward in the air and began falling head
first. Far below her, she could see the flashes and fires of the
forces battling on the Throne itself. A slithering hiss, a clank and
a rattle – and the chain around her neck caught on the curve of her
horns, the small, pearly orb encased in delicate mithril filigree
swinging free to fall between her face and the battle hundreds of
feet below.
The Light. Faith. Righteousness,
she thought as the wind shrieked past her ears, the orb a symbol to
her of all these. Dagone helping her forge the mithril. Kensaij
teaching her to do the intricate filigree. Eredis nonchalantly
passing her the box in which he’d packed the orb. Friendship...
Images and memories flashed through her mind in seconds. Celuur
helping her lay her eldest brother’s ghost to rest. Kylea giving
her an awkward hug at the fire shrine in the Exodar. Bergmann
praising her command at Pyrewood. Watching from the shadows of the
Stormwind streets as her brothers, Diyos and Athos, leave their
bookshop, alive and safe and well.
The wind whistling past became a
deafening scream and the battle – still far below – became a
flash of blue-white light so brilliant that she was forced to close
her eyes against the glare. Her leg ached, her side ached, her hand
ached. She was so tired…
At least I got my three kills.
An ear-splitting screech of talons on
metal accompanied a second, massive jolt and the pain in her side
increased exponentially as her downward plummet arrested. Her eyes
snapped open only to see the world spin madly around her as she was
caught in – she twisted her head to look – a netherdrake’s
talons. A familiar netherdrake’s talons… Major Eredis Orill’s
boot was just visible around the mount’s side.
“Not done yet, Commander!” he
yelled as Verdein took a better hold despite the draenei’s pained
scream. “I still want my dragon!”
###
“Rosoe.”
“...Bergmann.”
“Tha’s fi’ silver.”
“...I hate you.”
“Rosoe.”
“...Bergmann.”
“Tha’s fi’ silver.”
“...I hate you.”
###
They became less like a drake and
rider and more like a ballistic dart. Verdein’s wings folded back
along his spine leaving Eredis between them and Valdiis below. Before
the unlikely trio, the frostwyrm the Major had been hunting was
making a strike on the Skybreaker’s port engine, breaking
off as the flash of shadow against sunlight clued it in that hostile
intent was fast approaching.
As quick as the gunners on the
Skybreaker could blink, a saronite-and-emerald blur had
flashed past both airship and frostwyrm, a blast of unholy energy
getting the construct’s attention. With a hiss, it forgot about the
battery-bristled airship and gave pursuit.
Eredis let the tankard fall to his
side and swing from the chain while he took his other mainstays - the
three-spined hammer anchored to his belt with another length of
saronite chain, and the rope-tethered throwing-spear he’d had on
Verdein’s back ever since he stole it from the Hyldsmeet - and
managed an ungainly stand on the drake.
“Commander!” he shouted, readying
the spear. “Get back to the Skybreaker and remount when you
can! Verdein, get her there!”
He could see the frostwyrm diving from a higher elevation, and he readied the spear. Wait for it...
The moment came. Eredis threw the
spear, the rope around his wrist as he saw it fly true.
“Verdein! Break!”
The netherdrake juked hard right then
rolled left, bucking Eredis off as the frostwyrm dove towards the
ground. It was only a moment before the Major was jerked after the
wyrm, the rope snapping taut then becoming slack again as inertia
closed the gap. He scrabbled for his hammer as the frostwyrm leveled
and prepared to turn to attack the retreating netherdrake, readying
for a potentially deadly collision.
###
“Rosoe!”
“BERGMANN, WH—”
“No’ now! Get on th’ cannon!”
“For what? We are not going to hit a frostwyrm!”
“Rosoe!”
“BERGMANN, WH—”
“No’ now! Get on th’ cannon!”
“For what? We are not going to hit a frostwyrm!”
The dwarf pointed at a dark speck near such a frostwyrm that was leveling out. Draenei and dwarf both watched the speck collide, and the wyrm’s screech echoed throughout the valley as it bent under the impact in midair, then started bucking wildly.
“Bergmann, you are crazy!”
“No! Tha’ man’s crazy! ‘E’s goin’ tae give us a shot!”
“Fine! FINE! We have six rockets!”
“Fuse ‘em fer contact! We’ll get one wee sho’ at et!”
###
The wyrm’s shrill cry wasn’t the
only one. The human on its back was crying out with it – less a cry
of pain than of irate annoyance, the saronite plating on his legs
buckled and bone jutting from one leg. The three-spined hammer was
embedded in the frostwyrm’s ribcage now – but so was the Major’s
foot. He had certainly gotten the construct’s attention.
Hovering almost even with the front
gate of the Citadel, the bony frostwyrm began bucking in midair,
trying to throw the plate-wearing monstrosity off its back. Each
undulation brought additional elevation, but could not dislodge the
death knight who was quite attached to his new steed. It heaved with
great bone wings, hissed, roared, and spit blue flames at the
battlefield below – yet it could still feel the spines of a heavy
saronite hammer lodged near what once were vital areas.
It was the rocket burst that finally
drew the wyrm’s attention away from the ineffectual Knight on its
back. A rickety bomber of goblin design had broken away from the
sortie higher above, where val’kyr, fighters of both Horde and
Alliance, and gargoyles all scrambled together in one giant ball of
blood and ichor. Figuring on an easy kill, the little green pilot had
fired a barrage from his wing-mounted pods, but only one had gotten
close enough to make the dragon feel the explosion.
As the frostwyrm changed modes from
hover to evade, the pattering of heavy-caliber rounds walked down the
tail and up the spine, moving perilously close to Eredis. He
inscribed a fast frost rune so the rounds chipped away at a thick
sheen of ice which covered his armor and flesh – though the burst
sheared through the rope holding him to his spear and he lost the
weapon in the smoke and movement.
The next moments were a blur to
everyone on the field as a fast-moving goblin interceptor chased a
faster frostwyrm through clouds of gargoyles and val’kyr, too fast
for anything to take aim at. Bullets ripped through the air where the
wyrm had been moments before, sending a gnomish bomber down in
flames. The flying drew close and closer to the Orgrim's Hammer,
flak cannon on board still tracking even as the flight crew worked to
put out the fires and repair the damage incurred during the short
fight with the Skybreaker at the Citadel’s spire.
Through the smoke and frosty air,
Eredis could see the trailing tip of his Hyldsmeet spear and the
rope, just a few feet from where he was stuck. The weapon had gotten
tangled around the frostwyrm’s neck and it didn’t notice,
occupied as it was by the pursuit of the goblin and the large airship
about to fi-...
Explosions ripped through the air once
more as the cannons fired and shells burst around them. The wyrm
banked sharp left, away from the airship and into the grand melee
around them – and then rolled hard right to head straight for the
Hammer itself with the goblin fighter in close pursuit.
Shouting erupted from the Hammer as the flight crew saw the
frostwyrm hissing steam, creating a cloud thick enough that Eredis
couldn’t see.
And if the Knight couldn’t see, the
goblin in the plane behind him certainly couldn’t either. The wyrm
flashed past the dual airbags of the Horde airship, just skirting the
deck as the fighter impacted against the deck itself. Eredis could
feel the heat of the exploding plane as its payload ignited, sending
orcs, trolls, and every Horde in between for the evacuation gigs.
The wyrm shook itself a few times and
seemed satisfied with the result. Lazily, as if it felt it had
achieved total victory, it drew its attention back to the other
airship in its skies. Eredis realized in but a moment what had
happened: the wyrm had forgotten.
He
looked around, gaining his bearings, and saw a flash of green behind
him. Neither Commander nor netherdrake had listened to his order - he
did make the order, didn’t he? - and were gaining ground. The
chatter from his comm told him that the Skybreaker
had its hands full and could do little, if anything, about the
frostwyrm coming up on its aft.
Well
then, he thought, it
will just have to be up to us.
He
leaned forward just far enough that he could grab the spear as the
shattered bone in his leg ground against the saronite boot he wore.
The anchor rope attached to it was still too far out of reach! The
Knight gritted his teeth and continued to strain and pull as the rope
grated across the wyrm’s neck - and at this, it took notice and
began to buck again as it got closer to the Skybreaker.
Eredis could tell it meant to hit it from below, nice and fast, to
try to detonate the large bomb in the bay.
Nothing
for it, he decided. They
can put back together what’s left.
With a battle cry,
he threw himself forward and felt the tendons and ligaments that kept
his knee attached to the rest of the leg separate. His hand extended
out as far as he could reach, his fingers could just touch the frayed
end of the rope where the goblin had shot through it.
The
Skybreaker grew
closer. The wyrm flew faster. The Knight reached just a little
farther...
And
pulled back as hard as he could. As if by instinct, the frostwyrm
flung its wings out to catch a draft and flew up
instead of forward, right past the propellers that kept the
Skybreaker aloft.
Right past the cannons that had been pouring fire into Scourge air
units and ground units alike. All forward momentum had stopped as it
graced the top of the flight deck, illuminated in the afternoon sun.
“TITAN’S TESTICLES!" the Major heard in the short moment of absolute silence as the wyrm began to stall. "FIRE!”
The chill of the afternoon air gave
way to an incredible heat and pressure as his world detonated. The
force of the blast blew him off the frostwyrm as it exploded, the
rope and saronite chain attaching him to his anchors incinerated in
the blast. White-hot pain faded back to the dull, chill ache of dying
flesh and icy air. Surrounded by scraps of bone, many battering his
armor before he fell free, he was to herald the arrival of a white
rain of decay onto the ground of the glacier below.
It took Eredis a moment to reorient
himself, as high up as he was. He could tell he was falling but not
how, until he shifted and could see a flash at the top of the
Throne tower as he sped by it. The jolt that accompanied it caused
his heart to beat once, and magnify all of his pains a hundredfold.
Arthas had fallen. The strike team had
succeeded.
As quickly as it came, the feelings faded. A satisfied smile on his face, Eredis twisted in the wind to face the ground as it rushed towards him. His feet above him and facing directly down, he closed his eyes.
Hell of a ride.
The falling Knight heard a whistle and
a silvery flash of feathers flying straight up met a plate-clad stone
falling down. Eredis felt ribs separate as four cries split the air -
two animal, two other - and opened his eyes.
Kamilorah, Valdiis’s hippogryph, had
caught him. One wing looked to be in terrible shape and they were
merely gliding towards the Skybreaker flight deck with no
control of speed. The creature seemed dazed, feathers and fur matted
with blood. Above him, Eredis could see glistening bone in Verdein’s
right flank, shrapnel from an exploding frostwyrm changing the way
the netherdrake was flapping his wings.
That is to say, flapping them not at
all.
###
“Clear th’ deck! Two comin’ in hot!”
The shout startled marines and support crew aboard the Skybreaker to scatter, two wavering specks in the sky solidifying into a netherdrake carrying one Knight in his talons, and a hippogryph with a second Knight barely mounted. Neither looked like they were particularly rated for flight at the moment, but the trajectory both had chosen was one that didn’t exactly require a lot of skill.
One of the specks dipped erratically, gaining speed as the Skybreaker’s crew cleared as much space as they could allow. It wasn’t enough for the netherdrake to land, but he didn’t seem to mind it as he released his undead cargo unceremoniously onto the deck and banked off in a one-winged starboard glide for greener pastures – or snowier glaciers.
The hippogryph had no such fortune. A vicious crosswind whipped up, shearing the bird off his intended landing pattern and he skidded across the deck, finally throwing his passenger off as his front talons scrabbled to find purchase on the polished planks.
The plate-clad passenger clattered against the decks before finally coming to rest contorted most painfully against a pile of crates that marines had been more recently using for cover against both frostwyrm and val’kyr during the assault on the Citadel proper. From the state of his equipment, onlookers could easily see he knew all about both aerial foes, and they had seen both him and the draenei the netherdrake dropped off attempting to deny Arthas his sky-borne assets to deploy against the strike team on the Citadel’s Throne.
The ringing in his ears subsided, and his vision swam until it focused on two plated boots standing in front of him and – farther off – another pile of saronite and titansteel armor that had to have been Valdiis. She didn’t look much better than he did.
“Is our air secure?” Eredis asked. His voice sounded like he’d swallowed a pound of gravel. Looking up, he saw the plated boots were indeed attached to legs which were attached to a shining crimson beard. Of course it would be the dwarf. The dwarf was everywhere.
“Oh aye, Major,” the dwarf replied. “Brilliant bit wi’ th’ frostwyrm. Rosoe go’ a nice piece of et.”
Eredis coughed, trying to look around. It still sounded like his ears were ringing a bit.
“I’ll have to bake her a cake. What’s the status of the rest of the battle, Sergeant Bergmann?”
He could swear he saw the dwarf smile somewhere in the recesses of that beard. “Kinnae ye ‘ear, Major? Arthas ‘as fallen, an’ et was by th’ grace o’ th’ Light an' th' spirits th'selves tha’ they ‘eard me clear th’ deck for ye.”
Amidst the cheers of the crew he could now hear, there was another distinctly draenei voice, “Major Grumpypants said he would bake a cake? Ask him when!”
The dwarf said something back which Eredis didn’t catch, then looked down at him again. “Ye be in a bad way, Major. Ye kinnae keep doin’ this, else ye’ll no’ live t’ see th’ sun rise!”
Despite the pain, Eredis started laughing, a low roar that started to rise above the cheers on the deck. “Hear that, Valdiis? We might not live to see sunrise!”
He heard an answering hysterical cackle from the other pile of saronite on the deck being tended to by corpsmen. Eredis closed his eyes, satisfied.
“Tell your gunner tomorrow, Sergeant. We’ll celebrate tomorrow.”
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