Istrys @istrys - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook (2024)

Death and Rebirth

Areus gasped out with a wet cough, spilling blood and spit along the uneven stones beneath him. The icy hand of death no longer gripped his body, but merely hovered over him like an indecisive card player; the uncertainty of his surroundings only furthered his desperate need to survive. Areus ran his trembling hand across his chest- soaked and sticky with what had to be his own blood. He’d survived wounds far more grievous before, stabbed deeper and closer to his heart; with a simple binding spell and a lot of liquor he could endure, but this time it was different. The Holy Light intervened for all the wrong reasons. Without the shadows bending to his will, the old wounded soldier was blind and helpless to treat his own injuries, and now time was his greatest enemy.

The crisp breeze indicated early morning, but with most of his senses dulled, he couldn’t be sure. First he tried crawling to something stable enough to force him on his feet, but his legs wouldn’t budge, and the cold weight spreading over his chest and into his limbs made any sort of movement an agonizing uphill battle. His fingertips clawed into stone and dirt and snow with all his might, nails scraping against mortar from a fallen wall, threatening to tear off with every forceful yank. Bit by bit every attempt tore at the flesh of his fingers. He needed to make it out of the Bloodsworn Vanguard ruins and onto a main road but was bleeding out far faster than he had ever imagined. The man managed to patch together what was left of his shredded arm with what little mana he had left yet even with two halfway decent extremities, it wasn’t really working out for him.

Thoughts of the past flooded his mind as he struggled to lift himself up, crawling desperately with what little strength he had left for survival.

“Ash… I’m sorry for doing what I must… I plan on being back…--Being with you makes me smile and gives me a feeling that I c--I really enjoyed spending time with you toda--My heart will always be yours, as long as you want it.”

Areus managed to wrap his fingers around a rock with some weight to it; immediately he struck himself in the forehead one, two, three times, trying to keep himself conscious through the pain. His mind drifted to blissful instances of memories with his loved one. Letters he once sent her. This was a distraction allowing him to succumb to his fate- she was already dead. The thought was ever so enticing, so sweet and sickening. To be allowed to die only to be at her side again yet… he couldn’t stop thinking about those who were still alive. His son, his brother, his niece, his nephew, his sister-in-law… too many people to let down yet no matter how much he grit his teeth he couldn’t fix his predicament. Everything seemed to slow down and his movements felt so sluggish. If only he could have one more sip of his flask. If only he could have one last drag of his pipe.

“Ah… I could… really… go for a… drink…” he rasped in between breaths as the light in his dull glazed eyes dimmed like the sun drifting beneath the horizon. As he slowly closed his eyes, the distant sounds of feet pattering about barely caught his attention. The voice of a child whispered near his ears, likely no older than five or six; if a child that young was out here, their parents wouldn’t be too far behind. A surge of hope coursed through his stiffening body at the prospect of a traveler’s caravan finding him. “Who… ‘s… the-...?” his dry voice cut out. More little voices chirped and whispered amongst themselves, until it felt like he was surrounded by a small crowd. “Ge… he… hel-...” He used the last of his strength to speak, but his jaw was beginning to tighten shut as well. It felt like he was laying there for the children’s spectacle for years. Eventually he gave up trying to speak, and slowly rested his head into the grass to accept his fate. Not until heavier footsteps approached, not until the sensation of innumerable tiny hands grasping at his clothes, and not until the whisper of a foreign incantation did Areus find the resolve to open his dulled eyes again.

“Erana-dora isil,” The voice of a matured woman gently spoke. “You’re in good company.”

He felt the weight of his body wash away like the tide, his spirit rising off the ground to float suspended in the air; the agony of dying was gone, and so too were the voices. Areus felt free, liberated by the shackles of his once many burdens. He saw Azeroth again with his own eyes - a sensation he never knew he missed so badly. The splashing of vibrant colors of the trees caused the elf to choke on his own tears. The higher he rose the more he saw, until he could see the glimmering towers of Silvermoon City to the north, and the deep forests of the Hinterlands to the south. His thoughts then returned to Ashelin, and everything he would tell her when he saw her again in the afterlife; tears of joy rolled down his cheeks as he gazed at the first rays of light from the rising sun to the east.

A flash of light quickly covered the horizon and forced Areus to shield his eyes. When the blinding light dimmed he was able to lower his hand to gaze at a giant blue mushroom cloud a mile off the coast; it was the single largest mana bomb explosion he had ever seen, perhaps the largest anyone had ever seen. The sonic boom that reverberated away from ground zero ripped toward the continent and heaved blazing trees out of the ground. Within moments Quel’Thalas was engulfed in blue flames, and Areus was helpless to stop it. He screamed out in horror at the searing winds rushing over Silvermoon City, toppling its towers and searing the streets and walls black. Thoughts of his family crying out seconds before turning to nothing more than ash silhouettes against the explosion filled him with raw and absolute dread. He couldn’t hear their screams this far over the carnage, but he knew what it would sound like; a thousand voices screeching at the top of their lungs from the searing heat, then silence. He looked down to see the land reduced to ash and dirt, with the flames devouring the once beautiful Eversong Woods. Silvermoon City, the Amber Glade, the Ghostlands, all of it - gone in an instant.

A deep guttural roar caused his heart to run cold. Out from the boiling oceans a gigantic mountain of flesh, tendrils and teeth arose, seemingly uninjured yet enraged. The nameless Old God let loose its maddening wrath, coughing forth an army of faceless aberrations that clamored over the glassed shores to feast on anything or anyone that managed to survive. Even worse, it writhed and twisted its massive body, turning the very air around its mass a putrid black with noxious fumes and accursed magic. Within moments Areus watched a once beautiful land he called home for centuries completely obliterated by his own people, and further desecrated by the sleeping nightmares rising from the depths of the sea. On the other side of the scorched continent another Old God popped out of the churning waves, then another, and then another. Without a doubt, it was the end of the Sun’raels, the end of the Sin’dorei, the end of Azeroth.

Then he fell. Like a meteor reentering the atmosphere, Areus fell spiraling and twisting against the heat that seared his bones. He screamed out in agony while the blackened earth rose up to catch him, fearing what the warring Old Gods would do with his soul, and the souls of his kin, once they captured him. He wanted to rise up into paradise and walk with Ashelin for all time, but this madness would only be the start of his eternal torment. He fell into the cloud of fumes and choked on blinding spores, which filled his lungs with poison and his heart with maddening hatred; he grew swollen with malice and was bursting at the seams with a bloodlust so ripe and pure he forgot what happiness, compassion, and love felt like. Areus was ripped into a million pieces the instant he splattered against the ground, but his last thoughts were of dying over and over again, until either the Old Gods died of old age, or until the end of time.

When he opened his eyes again, a familiar darkness clouded his vision. His entire body ached like every inch of his body was impaled by needles, and when he tried to move, agony cut deep into his very bones. “Be still.” The voice from earlier spoke, causing his ears to twitch. “Recovering from the brink of death takes a toll on one’s body.” Areus opened his glazed eyes to see the face of the woman speaking, but his beloved sight was gone again; the Holy Light still lingered in his body as well, making her shadowy silhouette flicker erratically. “Let me know if you can feel this.” A sharp ache suddenly began throbbing in his wrist, flooding his head with the bitter memories of his brother.

Alucieus stabbed him. His own kin. His own brother. For the longest time they were rivals, polar opposites where one basked in the power of the Holy Light, while the other delved into the forbidden secrets of the Void; yet they were always there when they needed each other, always ready to save the other’s life, because family was more important to them than anything. Everything changed when Alucieus chopped off Areus’ hand, lifted him up by the throat, and ran his gladius into his chest. The last thing he remembered before blacking out the first time, was the hard thud from dropping onto the ground, and the heavy footsteps of his brother leaving him to bleed out and die. “Augh...nn-!” His throat was as dry as it could be.

“Here…” The frantic silhouette of her form drew closer with a pungent stench now biting at the tip of his nose. “Drink.” Areus barely had a choice in the matter, feeling a hand clasp at his jaw while she forcefully poured the foul contents into his mouth. For a while he coughed and sputtered, but eventually he was able to get at least some of it down his throat while the rest either sat in his mouth or slipped out from the corners of his lips. It was the most wretched slime he had ever tasted.

Yet despite the sudden urge to vomit, the room around him finally began to settle down. He was able to get a clearer image of his surroundings even with the Holy Light still stinging in his chest; something about that sludge she forced down his throat also helped calm the sporadic silhouettes that surrounded him. The woman in question was clearly a Nightborne, which only brought more questions than answers. She was stitching his swollen hand back onto his wrist while humming a hauntingly melancholy tune, as foreign magic enveloped her fingers. At least twenty children watched them with varying interest, but he couldn’t tell what race they were with their handmade masks covering their faces, each depicting some sort of animal or monster likely straight out of their wild imaginations; they often whispered amongst themselves, occasionally pointing at him before their giggling picked back up again. One child stood out among the rest, however. He sat away from the other children, and closest to the older woman; he wore no mask, revealing a leathery and decrepit face that seemed half-rotten- an undead child. “Where… am I…?”

“Your new home.” The woman quickly answered, gently tugging at the thin string to tighten another stitch. Areus didn’t like the ominous sound of that; he had no intention of being this woman’s prisoner.

“I should…” Areus started, gulping dryly as images of Ashelin cuddled up against his chest interrupted his thoughts. “... I should be dead.”

“You were.” The woman turned to look at him for a moment before continuing her stitchwork. “I brought you back.”

Areus stiffened as the ache shot up his arm again. He didn’t want to show weakness in front of this stranger if possible. “Why…?” the man asked dryly.

“Why?” She indignantly repeated. “Did Lord Augustus Sun’rael teach you to give up that easily? I brought you back because your story doesn't end with such a meaningless death at the hands of your corrupted brother. To let your talents go to waste would be an affront to your family. A crime to Azeroth.”

He reluctantly laid still. Whether or not he had a choice didn’t matter- the fact that this voice invoked the name of his father meant that they knew much more about the lineage of his family than anyone else. Neither he nor his brother spoke of the patriarch of their clan, they both strived to further the Sun’rael name in their own methods yet somehow this stranger was acquainted with their father, a figure both the brothers detested.

“Your family still needs you.” The woman continued, catching his attention again. “Your sister-in-law especially. She is in a dark place right now… almost as dark as yours.”

“My brother, is he-?”

“Dead?” She pulled one last string and his hand was finally connected with his wrist. “All done. Try to move your hand for me.” Areus was at a loss of words, but he obeyed all the same; agony rocked through his arm, and he was barely able to move a single finger. “That’s what I was afraid of. It looks like it will take a long time before you can control your hand again… but it will never be as it once was.” She watched his face closely while she gently put his hand down. The children continued their private conversations, all except the undead child, who continued to stare at him in morbid silence. “I never gave you my name… I am Aodin. Aodin Umbrose.”

“Well, Aodin,” Areus spoke with labored breaths. “If you're not willing to let me die, then I must be with the rest of my family.”

“Of course.” She seemed unusually complacent. “You are free to leave once your debt to me is paid.”

Areus narrowed his blackened eyes. “I hoped my sincere gratitude was enough, heh… so how much are you blackmailing me for?”

Aodin didn't seem amused. “I don't want your coin.”

“Well you're a lovely looking woman, but I can't provide that eith-"

“I want a treasure from your special vault.” The Witch didn't let him finish that thought. “A grimoire that predates the Black Empire… the Myurkodn.”

Areus blinked at the Shal’dorei for a few moments before chuckling lightly. “I don't know what you're talking about. Anything I can't sell on the market, I toss out with my trash. Ancient books aren't exactly high on demand.”

“You're an adequate swordsman, but a terrible liar.” Aodin leaned back in her chair to judge him with glimmering silver eyes. “I know the Aqir took it with them when they fled north to create Azjol-Nerub. I know you and your brother found it buried under a mountain of insect corpses when you plundered their desecrated kingdom. And I know the Keepers of Shadow tossed it into the very back of their vault, fearing its power.” She paused to let Areus silently question just how much she really knew about his past. “You and Syrahn Bloodfeather are the only two Keepers of Shadow left. I can’t get anywhere near the Glade Queen, and even if I could, she wouldn’t help me. The power stored in that book should not be abandoned. It should not be forgotten.”

His newly reattached hand twitched slightly and quivered, blood slowly working its way through the veins that had been stagnated. Holy light bled into the arteries as they began the long and arduous process to mend. The man’s murky eyes settled on her, “What do you aim to do with it then?”

“Use the knowledge against the true enemies of Azeroth.” She sighed, tapping her elongated fingernails against the arms of her chair. “Surely you’ve foreseen it; the Old Gods rising from the depths to conquer the world once again.”

The small scars etched into the blind man’s eyelids lit up with a soft golden hue before turning to a deep purple tone. The were the shapes of various runes on a much smaller scale had been inscribed into his flesh. The shades of gray and charcoal became a bit more clear and he was able to distinguish forms in tones of black. “Fine. If I get you the Miur Codex, my debt is paid in full?”

“Myurkodn.” Aodin corrected, as the friendly demeanor returned to her voice. “Get me that grimoire and you’ll never owe me another favor again.”

“It sounds like you make out much better than I do in this deal. A weapon to change the fate of Azeroth? No thanks. Like you said, only I and Syrahn know where the vault left by the Keepers of Shadows lies. There’s one way for you to get what you want and I am it. I want three more conditions.”

The Witch shifted in her chair, but kept her composure. “Speak them.”

“One. I want my pipe back filled with tobacco, and the matches with them. Two. A bottle of whiskey. And three. Undo these gods-damned straps.” he gruffly responded. A cruel grin spread wide across her face while she stared through him, clearly unsure if this was some sort of strange jest or not. With a snap of her fingers the undead child hopped off the nearby chair and waddled over to his side; another snap of her fingers and the shackles vanished into smoke. The boy held his mottled grey hands aloft to reveal his pipe.

“You are a strange one,” Aodin sighed, rising from her seat. “But I am glad we could reach an agreement.” A tiny spark of shadowflame flickered off her pointed index finger, offering him a light.

Areus shifted to a seated position on the table, his legs dangling off as he leaned onto his right hand, his left cradled delicately in front of his chest. “I didn’t know you would be this agreeable.” he puffed at his pipe a couple times, “I’m going to have to change the deal to two bottles of whiskey. Or bourbon. Doesn’t matter to me.” he responded casually between puffs. Of course, the alcohol, the smokes and the shackles were inconsequential. All would have been met to his fill in time, yet he was one for immediate gratification. “I’m happy enough with this deal. I’m alive. You’ve served your purpose to the Void and I get to continue mine. And maybe even help my family a bit longer. If it’s darkness you seek, then I’m more than happy to facilitate your request. Just don’t regret it when it’s more than you bargained for.” he offered her a smirk after exhaling a large plume of smoke, “I didn’t.”

The children surrounding Areus scampered off in random directions within the strange house as Aodin continued to watch him take long steady drags of his pipe. “I know the risks and I have safeguards in place to prevent… another disaster. But, I’m afraid this won’t be so easy…” She turned to open a chest he didn’t notice before along the ground. Slowly she raised another flask - this one holding the heart so inky black it hardly looked real; it was still beating. “This belongs to you, Areus Sun’rael. When your brother stabbed you in the chest, he filled your heart with the Holy Light. If I placed it back into you as it is now, the Light would kill you from the inside out. I’ll need time to purge it before I can operate on you again… and it serves as a valuable bargaining chip to ensure you keep your word.”

“You don’t need a bargaining chip. We’ve already made the deal, have we not? I’d like to think we’re both bound to our word as we are bound to the Void. Not like those little void-kiddies running around in the Alliance playing with things they don’t understand.” He took another puff from the pipe before clearing his throat as a wince overcame his face, clearly still in pain.

A shake of Areus’ head came before a response, “Rather than a bargaining chip or a tool for your blackmail, make sure you’ve got that ready for when I come back. I won’t be long.” Areus pointed with the pipe. “You can be sure that when I do come back, and you don’t hold up your half of the deal, you’ll die along with me and that grimoire will be in ashes the same as you as well as anyone within a mile radius.” a sigh came before he took another long drag from his pipe, letting the smoke escape with an exaggerated breath. “In the meantime, what do you have pumping my blood, anyway?” he asked, perking a brow while his right hand reached to adjust the pipe.

“Nothing. This is a forbidden incantation the Gurubashi Empire used for their most zealous warriors in wars long forgotten.” The Witch calmly started before she began to casually walk toward an empty wall of the room. “I won’t bore you with the details, but you’re essentially undead until I put your heart back into your body. The time one has before the heart dies by itself varies from days to weeks… so I wouldn’t get sidetracked if I were you.”

When she reached toward the wall with her left hand, the painted nails on each of her fingers stretched out for several inches. The wood quivered and melted by her touch like it was made of wax, until a gaping hole large enough to walk in appeared. “Once you’ve claimed my prize, go to the Scarlet Monastery. I’ll be waiting there for you.”

An angered smirk came to his visage before he raised the mask resting along his neck to cover his expression. “Fine.” he surged holy magic through his left hand abruptly. He took note of the fact that he did not feel pain from the Light, meaning that he hadn’t quite fullycrossed the bounds into undeath just yet, “You’re going to have to help me with this hand if you want me to brave the traps you won’t dare.”

Aodin perked a brow but stared at his hand for a few moments in silence. “And what exactly are you asking of me?”

“You expect me to believe you can tear someone’s heart out, keep them ‘alive’- I use the term loosely-, stitch them back together, have a gaggle of undead children about, know about hidden ancient grimoires from a long lost kingdom, know forgotten incantations from foreign empires and you can’t help me get my hand working better? If nothing else, it’s pretty f*ckin’ painful. And you’re partly at fault for my prolonged misery.” He state matter-of-factly, “You threaten me with my life but who’s to say I wouldn’t have rather joined my beloved and, maybe my brother, in the afterlife? Probably not that asshole for a little while, he did cut my hand off and stab me in the chest. Give me something to work off of here, woman. And where’s that bottle of booze? f*ck, I’ll take rubbing alcohol at this point.” Areus spoke plainly, taking another drag from his pipe as he gave her a deadpanned gaze.

“My you’re a chatty one when you’re excited.” The Witch snapped her fingers, compelling the undead child to step forward with that slender vial filled with a midnight blue liquid. “But you have the details wrong. Only one child - this child - is undead. I hope arcwine will slate your thirst for the time being.”

A shrug was given in response as he winced for a moment. His condition seemed unstable and wore on him before he nodded slowly, “Whatever works. Something. Anything. The voices are coming back and my wrist is killing me.” He haphazardly reached for the bottle, sloshing the contents as he pulled it toward him, keeping his mask lowered just enough to keep the pipe in his mouth and drink straight from the bottle. After a few long gulps he took an exaggerated breath. Areus looked to the Witch before opening his mouth to speak again, paused, and then brought the bottle up to his lips again before devouring the rest of the wine.

He cleared his throat as he tossed the bottle over his shoulder for them to hear it shatter on the ground behind him. “Okay. I guess that’s as good as it’s going to get. See you at the monastery, girly.” The Shadow Priest gave her a wink, “Won’t be long. Make sure you’re there. The vault isn’t far off from it.” A few steps toward the exit and tendrils of shadow reached out to consume him into nothingness while he disappeared from sight.

Aodin stood in her home in silence for a few moments before turning to look down at the forsaken child. “What do you think? Shall we kill him once he returns with my prize?” The child glanced up at the Witch with cold yellow eyes, but said nothing.

“Fair enough.”

Collaborated with @areussunrael

Mentions: @k-sunrael

L’appel du Vide

“O Maw of Blight, and Seething Spite! Sinning, grinning, Gnashing Night!” Zolaar chanted the summoning incantation with his arms stretched outward, as raw shadow magic poured out from his palms and dripped through his fingers like an inky black sludge. “I call on thee, the Umbral Curse! To sate thy hunger, and quench thy thirst!” The massive shadow rune before the Harvester began to glow and shimmer; the torches along the walls were snuffed out, draining the light from the flames until the oiled sticks were dry and cold. A tear in the dimension grew in the air above the rune like a festering wound, and before long a sinister voice with clambering teeth emerged from whatever blackened pit it calls home. Zolaar took a knee to show his subservience, as did his succubus and felguard. Rethandus, on the other hand, remained standing with his arms crossed; he may submit to the will of the Banshee Queen, but as long as he remains on this plane of existence, he will never bend the knee to anyone or anything else ever again.

“Aaahhhhh….” The sigh sounded like it rolled out from the very back of the otherworldly beings throat. “Zolaar the Haaarvester… my most… disappointing serrrvant. What do you offer me this tiiiiime?”

“Thirty souls from vanquished demons, O Ancient One.” Zolaar answered, extending the warped fel crystal in his cupped hands. “May I find favor with the Dark Titan’s sacrifice.”

“Haaardly enough to whet my appetite. You insult me with this meager tribuuuute.” it boomed, as tendrils plucked and dragged the crystal through the other side. “But you haaave my attention for now. Speak.”

“You see all that is, was, and will be. I humbly ask for a portion of that knowledge, to aid in my harvest.” Zolaar spoke, but he kept his mask almost planted against the floor.

“You are aaaalready in my debt… and yet you dare aaaask for more?” A torrent of ominous wind lashed out from the black abyss and slammed into the Harvester, nearly flattening him against the floor; shadow magic coursed through his body, leaving him helpless before the wrath of the nameless voice. “Haaave you forgotten what was promised? Have you forgotten your betraaaayal?”

“N-no, Master! I haven't… I-... have n- not forgot… ugh…! Forgotten…!” Whatever the being was doing to him was depriving him of oxygen; Rethandus stared down at Zolaar with a hardened scowl on his face, questioning how he ended up in this monster's service.

“Wretched. Weeeeak. Worthlessss.” the voice hissed through unseen teeth, causing Rethandus to wonder if it was with those chambers this thing is apparently infamous for. “Death is too goooood for you, Duskwright. I should flaaaaaay your mind and devour your soul.”

“He wasn't asking on his own behalf.” Rethandus pushed himself away from the wall and approached the shapeless void. “He was asking for mine.”

“At laaast Commander Andu speaks.” the voice chirped, with excitement chattering against its teeth. “Do you not feeear me, undead?”

“It's Andu’al, now.” The Harbinger corrected, keeping his arms crossed. “I know where I'm headed after my second death. There is little you can threaten me with that isn't bound to happen eventually.”

“Very few are capable of understaaaanding that simple truth. In the end, everyone will belooong to me.” the shapeless void shifted and twitched above the radiant shadow rune, but Rethandus decided against stepping any closer. “However, you would be surpriiised. What could you possibly offer me?”

“What do you want? I'm sure you have plenty of disciples that feed you souls.” Rethandus bluntly answered, feeling the sickening aura of the black abyss tugging at his soul to lure him closer.

“Indeeeed.” Inky black tendrils furtively sprouted out of the ground around the Death Knight, and although he immediately took notice, he pretended not to. “Some more useful than others.” Zolaar collapsed onto the floor and clutched at his throat, desperately gasping for air as his skin was seared with the voice’s malevolence. “I have feasted on billions of soooouls… yet still I hunger.”

“So you want something you normally don't get?” Rethandus asked, narrowing his eyes. “Is there a special kind of soul you have in mind?”

“I seek a soul marinated in the Liiiiiiiight.” the voice answered after a brief moment of silence. “The Light fades. Their defeeeaaat is close. Their desperation… delicious.”

“You haven’t told me what I get out of all this yet.” Rethandus huffed, crossing his arms again.

“Sooouuuls for knowledge.” it answered plainly. “What is it you seeeek?”

“Your kind share an extreme hatred all creation, but even that pales in comparison to the Titans. Including Sargeras.” The Harbinger crossed his arms again while he glared vacantly into the black abyss. “I want to know how the Burning Legion is able to regenerate their ranks in the Twisting Nether, and if possible, learn of a way to stop it.” He paused to glance over his shoulder at Zolaar, who was rapidly losing consciousness. “... I’ll also need Zolaar alive and sane if I’m to get your prize.”

“Very welllll…” the voice hissed, causing the Harvester to fall limp against the ground while he wheezed and gasped, finally freed from the being’s wrath. “Bring me a soul of one of their greatest chaaampions, and I will give the Legion’s greatest secret.”

Before Rethandus could open his mouth to speak, the shadow rune finally gave out with a weak sputter, plunging the room into darkness. A few clicks in the blackened chamber and one of Zolaar’s demons was able to reignite a torch, but Rethandus continued to stare at where the malevolent voice spoke to him.

“T-thank you... for saving me... C-commander…” Zolaar coughed, still clutching at his throat while he struggled to regain his breath.

“I’m sure his extreme disdain for you is a colorful story.” Rethandus asked, breaking his gaze away from the corner of the room to look down at the Harvester. “So what do you think? Do you think he… it, will hold its end of the bargain?”

“My master is a fickle creature…” the Harvester answered, slowly rising to his feet. “If we give it the souls it desires we will be justly rewarded. But you already know its nature; it will cooperate with us as long as we remain useful.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Rethandus huffed, as a rolling boom echoed from the surface above, causing small specks of dust and dirt to fall down from the roof. “Keep this exchange a secret. If word gets out that we’re collaborating with the Void it would mean nothing but trouble.”

“Of course, Commander…” Zolaar paused to glance over at one of his demon servants. “But… how are we going to get the soul? Unless you want to harvest one of our own…?”

“That’s not going to happen. We’ll find another way.” He answered sharply. “There’s an Alliance presence out here on Argus as well. Stay prepared should the opportunity present itself, but continue conducting your own research into the Legion’s weaknesses.”

“At once, Commander.” The Harvester did his best to salute, but it was clear he was still in immense pain. Rethandus glanced over his shoulder and gave the two demon servants a narrow glare before turning to the door, still not convinced they wouldn’t turn on their master at a moment’s notice. The thought of claiming on of his own Paladins or Priests in order to appease the gluttonous beast occured to him, but he would never forsake his own men for the greater good, even if it meant unlocking the secrets of the Burning Legion. But with such knowledge just out of reach, and his enemies just over the horizon in every direction, he had to throw precaution out the window and take risks he wouldn’t dream of a few years ago.

But the times have changed, and if he didn’t adapt and do what needed to be done to ensure the Legion’s complete destruction, then they would all die on this desolate rock.

From the Pale Mist

Approximately a decade before the invasion of Argus….

Tyrasam was greeted by the soft orange kiss of the morning sunrise when she stepped onto her balcony. She leaned against the railing while she sipped on her tea, gazing down at the sprawling rooftops of Silvermoon City. With Jaeras still asleep at her friend Ambre’s house, she was free to do what she pleased, at least for the rest of the morning. Halfway through her morning stretch she heard the playful whistling from her neighbor Clonce across the street.

“Gorgeous as always, Ms. Ku’sol!” he shouted, leaning out of his window. “You've got to let me take you out sometime! How about coming over for some breakfast?”

“The city is under lockdown, Clonce.” She explained, while trying to think of a better excuse. “Anyone caught walking around is begging to be arrested.”

“Bah, I won’t tell if you won’t.” he winked, causing her to furtively furrow her brow at him.

“Sorry Clonce, but I still have a man off fighting in Northrend.” She pulled her shirt down to conceal her midriff. “Why don't you ask Ambre? She looks like she would love your company.”

“Ambre doesn't shine in the sun like you do.” he admitted, casually shrugging. “If you change your mind and need some company during these lonely nights, I'm just a walk and a knock away!” Tyrasam gave him a fake smile and a wave, doing her best to stay polite to a High Elf that just tried to tempt her with adultery. She turned to gaze back at the sunrise to continue her morning routine, but she would wait until her neighbor was back inside before stretching again.

“Huh?” she looked down to see soldiers marching through the streets, shouting at any civilians they came across to get back into their houses; the urgency in their voices piqued her interest, compelling her to go investigate.

“You there!” a Silvermoon City Guard quickly ran up to her immediately, holding his gauntlet out. “Get back inside! The city is in lockdown!”

“This is more serious than I thought… what's going on…?” Tyrasam took a few nervous steps back, but stayed inside the door threshold. “I thought this was just another troll attack on the outskirts of Eversong?”

“Just get inside and lock your doors and windows.” he avoided the question, but the cold sweat glistening in his face was ominous. “This is a level three lockdown, no citizen is allowed to be out here until this crisis is-" a violent explosion rocked in the distance, and she could feel the shockwave even from here.

“Gods, was that the city gates?!” Tyrasam covered her mouth while she glared at the billowing smoke. Her ears twitched to the sound of screaming, and her blood ran cold once she realized it was getting louder and closer. Figures cloaked in a thick fog came storming forward in the distance, but she didn’t get the chance to look at them for long.

“I said get the f*ck inside!” The guard shoved Tyrasam back into her home. “Lock the door and stay away from the windows! NOW!” the foreboding fog began rolling across the ground before he slammed the door shut. Tyrasam pressed her ear to the door to listen to what was happening outside. The sound of metal clashing and pained shouts rang through the wood, but it didn’t last. Almost immediately it fell silent, without a single sound peeping from the outside.

“Ahhh-!” She squeaked from the sound of something heavy slamming into her house. Another heavy slam against the adjacent walls filled her with dread and confusion, causing her to slowly walk back away in an effort to stay silent. She glared out at the windows, but she couldn’t see the through the thick fog and ominous shadows. Groaning crept out from beneath the door as more and more of those invaders gathered in front of her house. Tyrasam swiped a small knife from a nearby table, ready to stab them once they began poking through her windows, but the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh and blood nearly knocked her off her feet. A hand slapped against the glass, cracking it and splattering it with blood. Another hand shattered the window, causing the woman to stumble back in fear; but as she gazed upon the rotting hands that reached out at her, she became paralyzed with fear.

“What is this nightmare…?!” Pale faces covered in blood and ice pressed against the broken glass, slicing open their flesh to reveal their bones. Without any sense of self-preservation these creatures did everything they could to pull themselves into her home, shattering their bones against the stone walls and tearing themselves open against the glass. One such creature managed to fall through the opening and land with a wet flop along the floor, with injuries that surely should have killed him. The human rose to his full height, revealing half of his face was gone and the gaping hole in his chest where his heart and lungs should be. Tyrasam finally snapped out of her stupor once it opened its mangled jaws and screamed, charging at her with startling speed.

She immediately turned to her right and fled, barely dodging the creature’s lethal tackle as it crashed into the dining room table. She bolted up the stairs with the knife still in her grasp, turned the corner and slammed her bedroom door shut; pulled her dresser out and used it to barricade herself in, but the heavy slam from the human monster nearly caused her to fall back from being startled. The feral screams of the reanimated creatures was becoming deafening outside, but she was far too terrified to look out her window to properly assess the situation. Tyrasam crawled underneath her bed and covered her head once she heard her front door rip off its hinges, and hearing the innumerable footsteps of the undead flooding into her home turned her blood cold.

“No no no no no no!” she frantically repeated, covering her ears in a desperate attempt to block out the pounding against her door. “Please go away! Oh Gods someone help me please! Please!” She curled up into a ball in the farthest corner of her room beneath her bed, whimpering beneath her breath and praying for this nightmare to be over. “Zereth please come back! Whitstan! Jaeras…” suddenly she opened her eyes in the wake of her panic. “Jaeras…?! JAERAS!” Tyrasam scampered onto her feet and began to frantically look around for an exit. Her heart was pounding in her head while she pried her window open, and as her bedroom door shattered against the onslaught behind her, she leapt out into the fog below.

She ran for her life, sprinting as fast as her bare feet could take her; she couldn’t see three feet in front of her, but she knew the way to her friend’s house better than the back of her own hand. “There’s too many! Retreat! Retre-aaaauuugh!” Soldiers and city guards scrambled to defend themselves, but the undead swarmed and overwhelmed them; she jumped over mangled corpse after mangled corpse, tuned out the anguished screeching of the wounded being torn apart by ghouls, and ignored their cries for help.

“Save us! For the love of the Light, save u-” three ghouls descended onto an unarmed civilian and his injured wife, ripping them apart with snaggled teeth and infected claws; their grisly deaths and others just like them provided the distraction she unwittingly needed, allowing her to run through the chaos unharmed. Fear of Jaeras suffering their fates hastened her footsteps, propelling her forward through the winding alleys and narrow corridors of this once beautiful city.

“No… no!” she stopped at the other end of a courtyard to see her friend’s house in shambles. Bodies were strewn across the ground, and there wasn’t a single living elf in sight; but at least the undead seemed to have moved on as well. “Jaeras…?! I’m coming baby, hold on…!” Tyrasam was three steps closer to the house before she noticed a gigantic mass of flesh dragging half of a corpse behind it. The abomination took notice of her immediately, opened its festering mouth and belching out a gurgled laugh. One of its meaty hands raised a giant butcher’s hook and chucked it at her. Tyrasam instinctively raised her arms in defense, but she barely avoided impalement by tripping over a body; she rolled onto her hands and knees and began sprinting toward the house again, fearing the lumbering monstrosity would grab her by her hair and tear her in half. She ran through the open door without checking if there was anything waiting for her in here first, and with the abomination making its way here, she didn’t have much time to search the house. “Jaeras!” She called out, looking around the desecrated house.

Not a single piece of furniture was left intact in this place; the dining room tables were cut in half and shattered, the cabinets were bent and overturned, and the thick stench of blood hung in the air like a malevolent presence. There was no sign of the infant child on the first floor, not even any signs of her body. “Okay… okay…” she started, taking in long, steady breaths. “Calm down and focus. She’s in here. She’s alive. You just need to-” the abomination caught up faster than she had hoped, slamming its grotesque body against the wall and causing what remained of the house to shake. Tyrasam stumbled from the quake, catching herself before she fell face first onto broken glass; but her ears perked up to the sound of muffled crying from the second floor. “Jaeras! Jaeras I’m coming!” The stairs were also covered in broken glass and splintered wood, but she didn’t have the luxury of finding shoes to slip on, as the abomination crashed through the wall with another gurgled laugh. Pain shot up through her feet like needles pricking her soles, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins barely made the pain noticeable.

Upstairs was a living nightmare. The remains of her friend’s parents were splattered across the hallway, like they were dragged out of their rooms kicking and screaming. The source of that blood stench covered the walls, floors and ceiling, forcing the woman to gag before moving through; their blood was still warm on her feet, nearly causing her to vomit out of both disgust and fear. Tyrasam opened each room one after another, until she found where her friend had kept Jaeras. Ambre was dead, impaled in the wall by a sinister blade that seethed with frost magic, and although her once radiant blue eyes were now dull and pale, even in Tyrasam’s frenzy she realized she was staring at something. She followed her vacant gaze to the dresser, where the muffled crying caught her attention yet again. “Jaeras! Thank the Gods you’re safe!” The baby kicked and screamed in her bloodstained blanket, but a quick check of her delicate body put some of her worst fears to rest; it was either a stroke of luck or a miracle that Jaeras was frightened yet completely unharmed. With the little girl safe in her trembling arms, and the fate of her friend Ambre sealed, there was nothing left here.

The floor began to quake from the unholy bellowing from below. Before she had time to react, the bloodstained hook shot up through the flimsy wooden floor like a blade through parchment, and in a display of the monster’s strength, he tore the floor in half. Tyrasam screamed while she collapsed through the floor, landing hard on her back in a billowing cloud of dust and debris. Her strength was waning and her body was exhausted, but with Jaeras kicking in fear against her stomach and chest, she found just enough willpower to roll onto her side and force herself back onto her feet. The abomination grabbed one of the mangled corpses and proceeded to stuff the remains deep into its wretched and open gut.

“Scuuurrryyyy….” it gurgled, staring down at her with white, uneven eyes. Tyrasam tried to run again, but she stumbled and nearly fell from the burning pain in her right ankle; she must have fallen harder than she thought. With her free hand she steadied herself against the wall, limping away while the creature laughed at her meager attempts to survive.

“We're going to die!” Tyrasam thought to herself, almost smothering her infant while she desperately tried to find safety. “Why is no one helping us?! Why is this even happening?! What did I do to deserve this?!”

The pale mist was thinner here, allowing her to see further than she could near her house; the warmth of the sun still caressed her skin, but the panic and fear pumping through her veins made it impossible for her to notice or care. This boulevard was lined with houses that were boarded up, as these richer elves likely caught wind of what was happening to Silvermoon City hours beforehand; a glimmer of hope sparked in the back of her throat once she realized this street was seemingly untouched by the undead, which could only spell safety for her and Jaeras.

“Hello?! Is anyone in there?!” Tyrasam bashed her fist against the door of the closest house, before frantically trying to peek inside the barred windows. “Please, let me in! I have a baby, please!” No answer. Either they were locked down in their basem*nts to wait this nightmare out, or the undead got here first. She didn't waste any time limping to the next house to try her luck again. “Please let me and my baby in! We're going to die out here!”

“Back away from my house!” Someone shouted from the other side of the door. “You'll attract those monsters!”

“Please sir, you have to let me in!” She begged, with tears rolling down her cheeks. “At the very least take my daughter! Please! Save my daughter! Please!”

“I'll shoot you dead bitch, you hear me?!” the sound of a shotgun being co*cked whispered through the wood. “I open this door and my family dies! Get the f*ck out of here before I kill you!” She could barely see the elf’s spiteful glare through the cracks between the planks hastily nailed over the window; she was desperate to survive this day, but she wasn't about to call his bluff. The woman slowly staggered back from the door, and turned to gaze down the road. The abomination stepped out of the haze with bloodied bare feet, and a few of its giant stitches popped loose when it turned it's tiny head to gaze at her with a cruel grin.

Tyrasam held Jaeras close as she turned to flee, no longer able to risk knocking on any more houses lest she risk getting within reach of the monster’s hook. All of the homes she limped by were boarded up and silent inside, compelling her to hiss curse words under her breath; if she managed to survive this ordeal, she would remember this street. The sound of the undead breaking through windows and gunshots caused her to limp as fast as she could and not look back.

“You! Sammy!” a familiar voice called out, catching her attention. “Come here child! Hurry!” the old neighborhood drunk Argo waved her down in front of an inconspicuous door in the wall.

“Thank the Gods!” she wept, almost collapsing in his arms. “Thank you so much!”

“Get inside Sammy!” he huffed, escorting her through the door. About thirty other elves were huddled inside, weeping and whimpering, but safe; he closed and locked the door behind him, peeking out through a tiny hole to keep watch of any more survivors in the area. Tyrasam wasted no time trying to find a spot to sit down for some much needed rest; with the adrenaline leaving her system, only now that she felt safe and secure did she realize how exhausted and in pain she was. She sat in the back along the wall of this little bunker, setting Jaeras into her lap to begin soothing the poor girl.

“Tyrasam? Is that you?” another familiar voice graced her ears, compelling her to glance up at her neighbor Clonce; his shirt and arms were covered in blood, but the relieved smile in his face suggested it didn't belong to him. “Holy sh*t, you survived that nightmare too, huh? I thought I was the only one to make it off our street in one piece.”

“I thought I was going to die for sure.” She weakly spoke, staring down at her trembling hands. “I don't think anyone else made it. There were just so many of those… things… one of them even let me go… it was laughing at me…”

“You made it. Your baby girl made it too.” Clonce assured, sitting down next to her. “In the end that's all that matters.”

“Will you two shut the f*ck up?” a stranger hissed, glaring at them. “The last thing we need is those freaks hearing you talk!” Jaeras grimaced away from Tyrasam’s touch, upset, scared and hungry. “And shut your brat up too! I want to live, damn it!”

“She's not going to calm down with you screaming at us.” Tyrasam snapped raising the infant up to rest against her shoulder. “Shhh Jaeras, it's okay… we're safe now.” The child kept crying into her collar, despite her attempts to get her quiet again.

“Shut your f*cking brain dead kid up before I shut it up for you!” the elf rose out of his seat to glare gratefully down at Jaeras.

“You're not going to touch her.” Tyrasam hissed, turning away to put herself between her daughter and the increasingly infuriated man.

“Calm down there buddy.” Clonce quickly jumped to his feet to get in the stranger’s face. “She's just a baby. Plenty of people here are crying, and for good reason, so why don't you turn around and go sit back in the corner.”

“Don't waste your breath on him Clonce, if he even tries to lay a finger on Jaeras he’s- argh!” Tyrasam winced when she tried to put one of her feet down; blood was still dripping from the soles of her feet, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the shards of glass and wood splinters were putting her in an incredible amount of pain.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I think I… ran over some broken glass…” She winced again from the pain, but she let him lift one of her bloodied feet for a closer inspection.

“Your feet are torn up pretty bad,” Clonce started, “and you're bleeding a lot. We need to remove some of this glass and get you healed before any of this gets infected.”

“Oh no…” the stranger muttered, staring at her bloodied feet. “You said one of those things let you go…? You stupid bitch… they let you go to follow the trail of your blood! You've led them straight to us!” Before Tyrasam could open her mouth something heavy slammed into the reinforced door, nearly ripping it out of the wall. The startled elves backed away from the door while the bunker was filled with nervous murmurs. Ice began to form along its edges, stirring them into a panicked frenzy.

“Tyrasam?! Tyrasam hang o-” Clonce was cut short as the crowd tackled him and knocked Tyrasam off the bench and onto the floor. In their desperation the survivors surged away from the door to try and claw at the tiny window on the other side, but despite their attempts, the barred window wouldn’t budge; Tyrasam used all of her strength to shield Jaeras from their trampling, fearing even one good stomp would easily end the fragile girl’s life. She could hear the shattering of wood and iron from the door being obliterated, but she heard little else beneath the rising chorus of screams.

Shards of ice tore through the crowd like a hail of bullets, shredding their bodies and ripping them into shreds. Their bodies dropped shortly after their agonized cries fell silent, burying Tyrasam under a bloodied pile of severed limbs and broken bones; she could barely breathe with the massive weight of the dead bearing down on her; Jaeras was uncomfortably silent ever since they were trampled, but there was little she could do to help her.

“Start loading them into the wagons.” A dry and sinister voice hissed from above, but she couldn’t see who it belonged to. “I want this block cleared before we leave.” Tyrasam managed to work her arm beneath her to uncover Jaeras’ mouth, but the heavy sound of footsteps crushing bones compelled her to freeze in place. She saw his boots, ironclad in an icy and black alloy she’s never seen before; she slowly glanced up through someone’s fingers to see his burning blue eyes and the frost clinging to his pale skin. A survivor leapt up from behind and desperately tried to make a run for it, but the undead monsters sifting through the bodies quickly turned and tore him apart. “Some of them survived, did they? Find them and bring them outside. I want them inspected.”

“No! Wait!” Clonce weakly begged as one of the creatures pulled him out of the pile. Shards of ice were jabbed into his side and he was coughing up blood. “Please! Wait!” Tyrasam watched in horror while the ghouls dragged him off outside, but her attention was cut short as a sudden surge of weight was pressed onto her back. She felt her ribs bending while her lungs were squeezed empty, forcing her to gag and gasp for even the slightest breath.

“You knew you couldn’t hide forever.” the voice hissed in her ear, yanking the bodies off her; Tyrasam tossed Jaeras’ sheet over the baby’s face in a desperate attempt to hide her, just as she was pulled up by her hair. The undead dragged her across the blood-splattered bunker by her hair, letting her legs slide over the once-living. She grasped at the monster’s hands but to no avail; she was too injured from being trampled, too exhausted from running, and she was beginning to feel dizzy from her blood gushing out of her feet. She couldn’t tell if the ghouls had noticed Jaeras in the back of the bunker, but it was only a matter of time until she was found. Tears and blood burned at her eyes while she glanced up to see several others already lined up in the open courtyard, surrounded by nightmarish creatures and people shrouded in thick black cloaks.

“P-please…” Tyrasam weakly pleaded, catching the undead’s attention. “Get this over with… k-kill me….”

“I’ve been watching you run around this block. Your desire to push through your fear and save your child was… touching.” He released his grip on the woman’s hair, letting her collapse onto the ground. “I’m afraid your death will be neither quick nor painless.” A heavy amalgamation of metal and wood rolled up to the captives, reeking of rotting flesh and fecal entrails. “You see that?” he plucked her off the ground by the back of her neck, forcing her to gaze forward at the twisted metal blades protruding from the machine. “That’s a meat wagon. You’re going to go in there feet first, little lady. But I assure you… those blades you see there? They were razor sharp once… but I’d be surprised if they could cut butter.”

“Let her g-go…” Clonce hissed, coughing up more blood.

“What do you plan to do if I don’t, fleshling?” The undead asked, with a cruel smile spread across his cracking lips. “Are you going to… what? Bleed all over me?”

“I’ll k-kill you…” he hissed, causing the undead to throw his head back and laugh. “I’ll shove each and every one of you into that… into that wagon myself…!”

“That one still has fire in his voice. Even as his light fades.” The creature paused, gesturing to the cultists. “Show him the path.” A blade was ran across his throat by one of them, spraying his collar and chest red while he collapsed to his knees.

“Noooo!” Tyrasam screamed, reaching out to Clonce as he collapsed face-first onto the ground. “Cloooonce!”

“You’re to thank for their deaths.” His words struck her like a blunt club. “If we didn’t follow your trail, we likely wouldn’t have found this little treasure trove of fresh meat. For your service to the Scourge, you get to die last.” He snapped his fingers, causing the minions at his command to start pushing the flailing survivors toward the meat wagon. He reached down and grabbed Tyrasam by the chin to hold her steady. “Watch.” he commanded, just before a few ghouls lifted the first captive off the ground to push their feet into the wagon. Tears rolled down her pale face as she was deafened by their blood-curdling screeches. The mechanisms in the wagon began to turn, grinding and pulling them apart while the blades sank into their bodies. “Only the fiercest of your kind are allowed within the Scourge. Your friend over there… Clonce, was it? He will become a champion like me.” Cultists moved in to lift his corpse off the ground and carry him off into the mist. “You are brave, running through my maze to save your child. But bravery alone isn’t enough. You will join the others in the wagon.” he dropped her onto the ground again, and placed a boot against her back. “The wagon will be full soon. I hope for your sake it doesn’t stop halfwa-” Something beyond her perception stopped the armored undead mid-sentence. He stood up straight while he unsheathed his ruined runeblades, and squinted his frosty blue glare in the direction he sensed a disturbance. An undead like stumbled into view and collapsed onto the ground.

“W-Wendigo…!” it pleaded, reaching out to him; a large silhouette appeared behind the fallen undead, and it raised a large greatsword high above its head. Instantly the creature burst into flame, writhing and screeching along the scorched cobblestone floor. Tyrasam weakly glanced through her hair to see seven Paladins casually stride out of the mist, clad head-to-toe in painted titanium steel and radiating Holy magic.

“Prince Kael’thas sends his regards, undead swine.” The tallest one hissed from beneath his helmet, balancing his burning claymore on his plated shoulder. The cultists carried their quarry off and vanished into the mist while the undead horde surged forward to destroy them. The High Elves blessed the very ground beneath their feet in consecration, igniting the monsters as soon as they stepped too close; their blades cut through the wretched bodies of the damned like they were made of paper, leaving only crumbled heaps and ash in their wake. Wendigo snarled while he took a few steps back.

“You’ve already lost!” he hissed through his broken teeth. “Kel’Thuzad will be renewed! The Scourge has already feasted upon those you swore to protect!” The tallest Paladin dashed forward and dragged his claymore across the ground. His mighty swing nearly shattered the undead’s runeblades, forcing him on the defensive as the Holy Light jolted through his body with every connect. The other Paladins moved in to clean up the rest of the undead in the vicinity as well as search for any survivors.

“You there, stay with me.” A soothing voice called out, gently touching Tyrasam’s cheek. “Are you still alive? Please, answer me.”

“M-my baby…” she weakly raised one of her hands and pointed her finger at the bloodied bunker, but her blood-loss was becoming too much for her to handle, and the floor was starting to rapidly spin around her ghostly pale face. She saw the Paladin begin to briskly walk toward in the direction of her finger, but soon after her vision went black, and she fell unconscious.

Tyrasam slowly opened her eyes to the warmth of the sun peeking through a crack in the curtains. Her body felt heavy, threatening to sink into the bed and suffocate her. The woman glanced down to see both of her feet covered in thick bandages, but Jaeras was nowhere to be found.

“What… what?!” She weakly shouted, frantically glancing around the room. “Jaeras? Jaeras?!” Her heart skipped a beat from the door suddenly opening. One of the Paladins that rescued her cautiously walked in with his helmet in his hands.

“Ah good, you're awake.” he gave her a convincing smile, but she was far too focused on his burning green eyes to even notice. “My name is Augustus… but everyone just calls me August. I was part of the team that rescued you from Falconwing Square.”

“My child…?” Tyrasam weakly spoke, struggling to think clearly with her throbbing headache.

“We found her buried beneath a corpse. She will live. Right now she's resting from her injuries.” August paused to set his helmet on the nearby table before pulling out a chair to sit in. “I can only imagine what you two went through yesterday…”

“Yesterday…?!” Tyrasam shouted, but the blinding pain in her temples caused her to gasp and clutch her head. “How long have I… how long have I been out?!”

“Thirty hours.” He calmly answered. “You almost died. The glass that was in your right foot cut into an artery.” The Paladin quickly rose from his seat to pull the curtains away; Tyrasam froze at the sight of Silvermoon City in the distance, with plumes of smoke still billowing from the ravaged buildings. “That’s not all, I’m afraid. I have some very bad news about… us. Our people.”

“What happened…?”

“King Anasterian is dead.” August sat back down in his chair again and looked her dead in the eyes. “As his only heir to the throne, Prince Kael’thas will rule Quel’Thalas by birthright… well, what’s left of it, anyway. The Scourge- the undead that ravaged our homelands, is led by the human prince, Arthas Menethil.”

“Wh-what?! But… that’s not possible…!” Tyrasam’s gaze dropped to her trembling hands. “My husband… he joined Arthas on his expedition to Northrend! If Arthas is here, doing this to us… then…!”

“Don't give up hope.” He warned. “The Holy Light works in mysterious ways. Was he a footsoldier?”

“Warmage.” she answered quickly, looking up into his gaze again. “His name is Zerethel Kash’kaar… have you heard anything from him?”

“I'm afraid not.” August started, briefly pausing to stroke his beard. “No one has seen or heard from the Northrend deployment for over a month. But I’m familiar with House Kash’kaar; if your husband is as strong as his brothers, you have nothing to worry about. Pyromancy is a powerful craft against the undead… I'm sure he's still alive.”

“O-okay…” Tyrasam smiled unconvincingly, lifting her sheets a bit to see the bandages wrapped around her sore ribs. “So… what happens next?”

“The traitorous prince has thankfully left our city, but the Scourge he left behind still hold a considerable presence. You’ll have to stay here along with the other survivors until Silvermoon City has been scrubbed clean of undeath.” August’s ears perked up from the sound of the door being opened.

“There you are!” A female Paladin hissed, glaring angrily at him. “Lor’themar has ordered us to return to the capital already! Stop flirting and get going!”

“It appears my time here is up.” August shrugged light-heartedly, before plucking his helmet off the table while he rose to his full, towering height. “Farewell, ma’am. I wish you the best on your trials to come.”

“Wait!” Tyrasam called out, ignoring her blinding pain to sit up. “Can you… bring me my daughter…?”

“At once.” he bowed moments before putting his helmet back on. “A mother should never be away from her children for long.”

Mentions: @whitstanwilhelm

Just a Little off the Top

The air above Argus groaned and seethed as a temporal rift sliced the sky in half. The gaping wound grew in the wake of the howling wind, tearing open a portal from a distant planet; as the demonic denizens of this world gathered to watch this curious display, a heavy blast of frigid air bellowed from the rift and swept across the land. Istrys appeared riding atop a mighty frostwyrm, cackling madly while it soared close to the ground with tattered wings spread wide. The thick iron crate in its clutches was dropped onto the disoriented demons, crushing a dozen of them while it rolled to a sliding halt.

The nearby artillery responded immediately, turning toward the undead drake to shoot it down. Now unburdened by carrying such a massive crate, the frostwyrm was now too fast to accurately target, flying through the air with startling speed. It opened its frozen maw once again, creating a thick cloud of freezing fog to obscure itself before vanishing into the blackened sky above. The demons along the ground were caught by surprise at the sight of a horde of mindless undead that stormed out of the busted crate to swarm and overwhelm them; the human and elven ghouls were light and fragile, yet surprisingly fast, seemingly unhindered by the ice and snow that clung to their feet and claws. Istrys and the frostwyrm returned for a second passing, blanketing the artillery column of with its blisteringly cold breath.

“What is the meaning of this?! Who dares attack the Legion?!” A Doomlord stormed out of a defiled building, seething head to hoof in vile fel magic; his beady eyes narrowed at the sight of his underlings struggling to contain this undead outbreak. Before he had a chance to summon more underlings, their mortal calvary charged in from the south, emboldened by a rallying cry. Only a few dozen demons were able to break away from the undead swarm to challenge them, but getting caught off guard by this surprise attack was taking a heavier toll than the Doomlord cared for. He reached for his desecrated talbuk horn and prepared to alert the rest of his nearby forces, but just before he pressed his ragged lips against the horn, a chain made of ice wrapped around it and yanked it out of his grasp.

Rethandus appeared from the darkness, clutching the curious horn with his free hand, while one of his runeblades seethed a blinding white in the other. The Harbinger dropped it between his treads, and with one mighty stomp he shattered it into pieces. “Can’t handle the situation yourself, demon?”

“Argh! You will regret facing me alone, mortal filth!” The Doomlord bellowed, flapping his massive wings once to propel him up into the air. The Harbinger held both of his runeblades together, letting their frost runes reverberate off each other until the blades were hissing; with his runes overclocked and his blades empowered, he charged forward to face the demon head on.

The Doomlord swept along the ground with a mighty swing of his massive claymore, attempting to either cut the Death Knight in half or crush him against the wall. Rethandus frost the floor beneath his feet and slid beneath the sword’s edge, catching the end of his ice patch to return to his feet again. He turned around and unleashed a howling blast of frost magic that slammed against the Doomlord’s back, causing him to stagger and fall onto the ground. The demon roared with fury as fel and shadow magic sparked along his wings and traveled down to his chest; he unleashed a massive doombolt that hurled itself across the room. With a surge of unholy strength in his legs, Rethandus managed to dive out of the way just as the Doomlord’s powerful magic decimated the wall behind him. “This battle will be your last!” The demon bellowed, closing the distance far faster than the Harbinger was prepared for.

Rethandus braced himself by freezing the blood in his body solid before raising his blades outward, catching the brutal swing that would have easily crushed any living being into a bloody paste. He staggered back a few steps but he did not fall, catching another swing from his right that nearly shattered his arms. A hoof shot forward and buried itself in his stomach, sending him crashing through an ancient statue in a thick cloud of dust and debris. “Behold, mortal! Feel your injuries and know what true strength feels like!” The Doomlord cackled with his victory, but his laughter was short lived; the ice that fused his blade to his hand began to creep along his skin, causing him incredible pain. Without thinking he clenched his free hand into a fist and smashed it against the ice, shattering his blade and hand like it was made of clay. “AAARRGH! YOU WILL PAY FOR TH-” His words were cut short as a runeblade sang through the air, burying itself into his hand with enough force to nail him to the destroyed half-wall; the other blade shot forth from the cloud as well, striking one of his wings to pin him down.

Rethandus came sprinting out of the dust with a chain made of ice in his clutches. The Doomlord opened his mouth wide and unleashed a volley of shadowbolts to overwhelm the lesser being, but the Harbinger brushed them off with an empowered anti-magic shell. Another howling blast of magic struck the demon’s face, causing the blinded creature to choke on razor-sharp shards of ice that were embedded in his throat. Rethandus wrapped the chain around the demon’s neck while he leapt over him, and as he tightened his grip during his descent along the other side of the wall, he used his undead strength to nearly snap the demon’s neck. With his feet firmly on the ground Rethandus pulled on the chains, listening to the gurgling screams of the Doomlord’s asphyxiation. The ice from his runeblades continued to ensnare the demon, preventing him from freeing his remaining hand to help himself; the bloodied stump of what remained of his wrist flailed about in his desperate, yet fruitless endeavor. Rethandus froze his boots to the floor to prevent the Doomlord from lifting him off the ground. The chains creaked from the pressure but they held, now tight enough around the demon’s neck to prevent his last gasps of air. With a surge of unholy strength coursing through his body, the Harbinger yanked on the chains that cut deep into the demon’s throat, causing his head to violently snap backward. One final twitch was all the demon could muster as his head was severed from his body. Rethandus stood up straight once the head of the Doomlord crashed beside him with a meaty thump.

The battle outside was going to plan; with their commander dead their sense of order was in disarray, putting the advantage squarely in their hands. Gonthar and all of the Oathguard rallied behind him swept through the Legion’s forces, while Istrys cut off their retreat with strafing attacks atop the frostwyrm. Rethandus staggered out of the decaying building with the Doomlord’s head dragging behind him in chains; seeing how easily they handled their first battle on Argus was a relieving sight to behold, but he knew this was merely the first of a great many challenges ahead. Something lurking in the wake of the battle caught the Harbinger’s attention, immediately fearing it was some sort of trap that was about to flank and devastate his army.

Zolaar was spotted walking by the vanquished demons, drawing their power for himself; even at this distance he could see the lower half of the Warlock’s exposed face, and his unnaturally long teeth glistening in the dark. The Harbinger’s attention on Zolaar was cut short the moment he noticed Ijiro approaching.

“The Legion presence is almost dealt with.” The Hunter gasped, stopping to catch his breath. “Looks like we’ve got lucky today, yeah?”

“If even a single demon escapes our wrath we’ll be facing a counterattack before we have a chance to establish our footing.” Rethandus scowled, glancing up to see Istrys coming down to land. “Gather the others and get to higher ground. We need to dig our heels into a defendable position if we want to survive until morning.”

“Commander Andy! Yoohoo!” Istrys waved down at him. “Oh you took care of the big bat demon. Good work!”

“It’s called a Doomlord.” Rethandus corrected, dropping the chains. “We need to get ready for their retaliation and this dingy little hut isn’t going to cut it.”

“I saw what looked like a cathedral hidden in the mountain pass to the west while Ka’desh and I were getting to know each other.” The Necromancer explained, gently tapping the side of the frostwyrm’s neck. “I don’t know if it’s abandoned, but it’s gotta be better than staying here, right?”

“We need to reach that place before we’re caught out in the open.” Rethandus plucked the chains off the ground while he made his way to his frostwyrm. “Ijiro, alert the others of our next move. We’ll meet you at this cathedral. Let’s go, Ist- ah… Mistress Istrys.”

The Calm Before the Storm

Rethandus approached the Bloodsworn Ruins along the old broken wall, vividly remembering the terrible battle that claimed so many lives here. When he returned to the courtard, he returned to a crowd. Races from all walks of life were summoned by his call, not all of which were familiar faces. They stopped talking amongst themselves once they took notice of his presence, silently waiting for their new commander to speak.

“I’m not very good at speeches, but I’m not going to beat around the bush. The Argus Invasion will be one of the toughest campaigns you will ever endure, for the Burning Legion is the greatest threat to our way of life. People will die, no doubt about that. This invasion may end next month, it may end years from now. That is the hard truth of this ordeal.” Rethandus shouted as assertively as he could, ignoring the frost that billowed from his mouth. A quick headcount confirmed there were more than he predicted, yet he still wasn’t sure if it was enough to even put a dent into the Burning Legion; many of those that gathered below looked inexperienced, but he couldn’t turn their help away. “I’m offering you one last chance to step away from the Oathguard and break your oaths without consequence. I will not force anyone to endure the horrors of Argus, and if you leave now, I will not hunt you down.” He paused to let that sink in, already spotting several people pulling their hoods over their heads while they scurried away. Istrys caught the Harbinger’s attention in the crowd, gazing up at him with eager anticipation; at least someone here was itching to butcher some demons. “But know this: while you lay in your bed with your significant other, where it is safe, where it is warm, your brothers and sisters will be saving the world without you. Every day we spend on that desolate planet hanging over our heads right now is one day closer to discovering the secrets behind the Legion’s seemingly infinite army. We already know the frontline fodder they always throw at us are poorly disciplined and poorly trained. We already know the Burning Legion’s greatest strength is their sheer overwhelming numbers. But if we can find a way to make them mortal, to stop them from being restored in the Twisting Nether, all of their numbers will count for nothing. That will be our primary goal on Argus. Should we succeed… we will destroy them once and for all.”

“Those bastards murdered my wife in cold blood and for that they must die!” someone shouted from the back, stirring a rallying cry from the crowd.

“They created the Scourge that desecrated our home! Let's see how they like it!” another woman shouted, filling the crowd with angry murmurs.

“Are we going to sit back and let those demons go unpunished?” Rethandus asked, choosing to take advantage of the moment.

“No!” they all roared at once.

“Are we going to wait until it’s our children’s children fighting the Dark Titan’s fel army?”

“NO!” they repeated, much louder.

“Then let’s end this nightmare while we have their homeworld in our grasp! Let’s end this madness and permanently bury every last demon beneath the earth where they all belong! Do it for the ones we’ve already lost! Do it for the millions of orphaned children! Do it for Azeroth! For the Horde! For the Oathguard!”

“FOR THE OATHGUARD!” their crescendo of roars quickly became deafening for everyone on the ground level, but the Harbinger didn’t mind; this was the first time he’s ever inspired anyone, and he was going to ride this wave until it was finished. They cheered over and over again, drunk off their battlelust; Rethandus stood there with his arms crossed and watched them in amusem*nt, hoping this kind of enthusiasm would last once the actual killing started.

“We’re making camp here, so get some rest and prepare yourselves. We will be entrenched on Argus before sunrise.” Rethandus commanded, waving his hand to dismiss his army. “Ijiro, Eristel, Gonthar, Zolaar and Istrys; I need to speak with you before you head off.” He took a step forward and hopped off the wall, landing in the grass with a heavy thud; Istrys was already at his side before he could rise to his full height.

“Oooh I can’t wait!” The Necromancer rubbed her hands together with the biggest grin he’s ever seen. “So many demons… so much chaos! This wait is killing me!”

“We’ll spill demon blood soon enough.” Rethandus huffed, glancing away from the woman to see the others approaching him. “Ijiro. I’m glad you reconsidered.”

“I couldn’t just sit by and let my daughter fight this war without me.” Ijiro sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’d do if she died on Argus without me by her side, yeah? Just the thought of it…”

“She’s not going to die, because she’s going to be under your command.” Rethandus commanded, causing the Hunter to perk a brow in confusion. “You’re going to be my Intelligence Officer, which means I’m putting you in charge of reconnaissance, espionage, and strategic duties. She will answer to you first, and me second. I’ll fill you in on the details later.”

“Thank you.” He sounded more relieved than Rethandus expected, almost like he was holding his breath this entire time.

“Gonthar I want you to be my Field Captain. You already have more than enough experience leading the charge during your tour in Draenor.”

“I won’t let you down.” The Sunwalker pounded his chest.

“Eristel, you’re good with numbers, right?” The Harbinger asked, turning to the Mage.

“Of course,” Eristel started, “I graduated top of my class in the institute of-”

“Excellent. You’ll be my Quartermaster. Keep a sharp eye on our provisions and make sure nothing goes to waste.”

“I’ll see to it.” The Mage bowed before turning to leave.

“Zolaar,” The Warlock stiffened at the sound of his name being called. “your intimate knowledge of our enemy is paramount to our success. We’ll need any edge we can get, and that means letting you do as you please. I don’t have any official title to offer you, but know that you are equal to my other officers.”

“Y-yes, Commander.” Zolaar nervously adjusted his mask before glancing back up at the Harbinger. “But in order to work at maximum efficiency… I w-would need to summon my servants… something that was strictly forbidden on Dalaran…”

“We’re not on Dalaran anymore.” Rethandus huffed with a wave of his icy gauntlet. “Give them tabards so we can tell they are on our side, and keep them in line.”

“What about me, Andy?” Istrys piped up, gently running her hand down his arm. “What cute pet name do I get?”

“You’re my Advisor.” The Harbinger turned to the woman, seemingly ignoring the other officers while they departed. “You have a knack for keeping me level-headed. And I’ll need your opinion more than the others for future operations.”

“Advisor Istrys doesn’t really roll off the tongue, though.” She sighed, tapping her chin.

“Advisor Autumnstone does.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Istrys sneered. “How about Mistress? I think that’s a little more sexy, don’t you think?”

“This isn’t a game.” Rethandus said. “But it honestly doesn’t matter what you’re called as long as you continue to keep me anchored to reason.”

“Mistress Istrys it is then.” She grinned at him wickedly.“And I have an idea for our little invasion. How much can your frostwyrm hold?”

“Ka’desh can easily lift an adult mammoth.” He started, partially bragging.“So we’re looking at around six to seven tons.”

“Damn, really? That’ll do nicely.” Istrys began rubbing her hands together while she cackled to herself.“Let’s go get him. I have a feeling we’ll need to prepare him for this ordeal before we head out.”

“Fair enough.” Rethandus sighed, glancing over at the Oathguard already settling in the ruins of the Bloodsworn Vanguard.“Also, Ka’desh is female.”

Let Vengeance Guide Thy Hand

The Bloodsworn Ruins were almost as he remembered them. The crumbling buildings were lit aflame after the terrible battle at the end of an era, leaving nothing but skeletal structures still stubbornly defying the march of time. The ground that was once frozen mud and dust had been completely overtaken by wildflowers and weeds, effectively blanketing the entire area with lush plants that no doubt fed on the copious amounts of blood that once flooded this dreadful place; and despite the years that have passed, the few cobblestones still exposed to the elements remained stained a murky brown from that mystical eclipse.

He decided to go to the old blacksmith for old time’s sake first. The beaten down building no longer had a roof, and the sawdust and debris from the long year of his toiling weren’t completely gone; when he stepped in to see what the interior still looked like, Istrys glanced up with her hand on the anvil, and gave him a welcoming grin. “There you are. When I heard the news, I got here as fast as I could.” The Necromancer ran her hand along the beaten anvil, tracing the cracks and dents with the tips of her fingers. “So this is it, huh? The place you spent countless hours by yourself when you served old Zerry boy?”

“Not entirely by myself, no.” Rethandus glanced around to see some of his old weapons were still leaning against the walls; yet exposed to the elements for all these years made them useless. The Harbinger turned to glance at her, “So you know what happened? And what this means?”

“It means you’re still my master, Andy.” Istrys winked, leaning over one of the tables at him. “And we’re going to show the Burning Legion how an invasion is really done. I can’t wait to get started!”

“Glad to know you’re coming with me. I’m giving everyone who served under the Sun’raels a chance to step out and live the rest of their lives here on Azeroth.” The Harbinger carefully lifted one of his old swords off the wall, but he could tell any sudden movements would snap this piece of junk in half. Still, it was interesting to see his old work, and seeing how much he’s improved. His faint scowl turned into a grimace for a moment before he glanced up at Istrys again. “... so Alucieus is missing…”

“About that…” She started, standing up straight again. “You see, Whitstan and I had a hair-brained idea to get him back on his feet… and it worked! Sort of…”

“You used Necromancy on Alucieus?!” Rethandus hissed, causing the flimsy sword in his hand to crumble into pieces. “You raised him into undeath?! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

“The bastard’s not undead!” Istrys objected. “We managed to cleanse his blood of the fel poison! But… something happened when he grabbed my hand. Some unexplained feedback sparked between us… and I saw his entire life flash before my eyes. Judging by the way he reacted immediately after, he also saw mine. Including when you spilled the beans to Zerry’s widow.” The Necromancer crossed her arms while she studied Rethandus closely. “... he was less than pleased.”

“What happened?” The Harbinger asked, taking a small step forward.

“He got pissed, that’s what happened. The bastard exploded with the Holy Light and sent me, Whitty and some nosy tauren were sent flying into the walls. If it weren’t for Vesk I probably would’ve been knocked out cold.” Rethandus clenched his fists while she spoke, trying to imagine what the High Justicar could’ve seen to make him lash out at his own people. “I pretended to be unconscious until he left the room. Once the coast was clear I dragged Whitty out into the hallway and through a Death Gate. Alucieus is coming after you, Andy. And soon.”

“He thinks I betrayed him.” Rethandus ran a hand through his frozen hair while he was seemingly lost in thought. “He’s not wrong to blame me for Zerethel’s downfall, but… I did what needed to be done. It was messy… and innocent people died… but I did it for the greater good. A few hundred died as opposed to what? Thousands? Millions?”

“You don’t have to convince me. You and I both know Azeroth is better off without him, but…” Istrys walked around the table to approach the Harbinger. “He doesn’t see it that way.”

“The Sun’raels aren’t famous for their forgiveness.” Rethandus stroked his chin, trying to think of where Alucieus could even go to gather his strength again. “If he’s deadset on killing me, he’ll go after everything I have first. Which isn’t much-.... oh no…”

“Huh? What happened?” Istrys asked, perking a brow. Rethandus shot a worried glare at the Necromancer but didn’t answer, instead turning to rush out of what used to be the door. “Rethandus?! Where are you goi- wait for me asshole!”

The Harbinger turned his gaze over to the hill; the hill. Quickly he disappeared from the Bloodsworn Ruins, making his way up the winding road; the once beaten path had been completely erased thanks to the flourishing wildflowers, but he knew the route by heart. Eventually he reached the lonely hill, still covered in dead grass, still untouched by the nature that surrounded it. Yet, as he reached Zion’s grave, his worried scowl contorted into a grimace of maddening hatred.

She was gone. The massive hole where her grave once was seemingly screamed at Rethandus, deafening him with an overwhelming sense of despair and blistering fury. No animal would dare dig up an undead corpse, and the Scourge have long been cleansed from these lands for miles upon miles around. Despite his best efforts to keep her grave a secret, someone found her, and deliberately dug her up. The thought of her corpse being used as some necromancer’s experiment caused Rethandus to collapse to his hands and knees, barely able to contain his anger. The new and improved runes along his body and armor seethed with a flex of power they were not made for, causing the land around him to freeze with each pulsating wave of raw frost magic radiating outward from him. For a moment he was lost in his torment all over again, thinking nothing of slowly flaying the frostbitten flesh off whoever did this terrible deed. For a moment he was not himself, forever falling into a darkness he had only visited once; and if he crossed the threshold, he would never be able to turn back.

“f*ck you’re fast… what’s happened? What’s wrong?” Istrys called out, glancing over his shoulder to see an open grave.

“SHE’S GONE!” Unadulterated hatred dripped from his frozen, cracking lips. “ZION’S BODY IS MISSING!” Istrys didn’t speak, shooting her gaze between the Harbinger and the open grave; seeing him this angry was a new and unsettling experience. His mind was shattered, his thoughts were erratic and his body was locked in place, frozen stiff by the frost runes that exhausted themselves by his command. The Necromancer covered her face and took several steps away, unwilling to endure the relentless winter wind that swirled around him. Slowly his thoughts began to click back into place as he struggled to connect the dots; slowly but surely, he found his answer. “Whitstan did this.” His voice echoed over the howling wind, catching Istrys’ attention. “Whitstan seized Zion’s corpse when he got his memories back. He did this!”

“Hold on, he couldn’t have!” The Necromancer protested, pulling her hood over her face before bracing herself against his storm. “Whitty was taken back to the Sun’rael estate! He has been with at Kaevia’s side ever since!”

“Kaevia…!? Kaevia did this…?!” Rethandus hissed through his frozen teeth, while untamed frost magic crawled along his skin and armor, threatening to freeze him solid.

“You need to calm the f*ck down!” Istrys called out to him, but he could barely hear her. “You’re not thinking clearly! Rethandus?! Hellooooo??”

“The Sun’raels did this.” Rethandus thought to himself, no longer able to speak now that his teeth and tongue were frozen together. “They think they can just lock her body up like some sort of claimed trophy? For what?! To keep me in check?! To make sure I follow their every command like some sort of dog? They didn’t trust me… none of them do. None of them have ever trusted me. They need to be punished. They need to suffer for what they’ve done. Suffer. Suffer. Suffer! Die! Die! DIE! DIE! DIE!”

He felt Istrys hands wrap around his neck and disable his runes, causing the violent winds to immediately vanish. Half-frozen solid the Harbinger continued to glower at the open grave, struggling to wrestle with this pure hatred. “Now you listen to me.” Istrys whispered in his ear, causing him to lose track of his own thoughts. “You want to kill them for this? You want to make sure they answer for hurting you? Fine, let’s do it. But you have an obligation now. You can’t just run off and slaughter them for this. The Sun’raels have too many friends and we already have too many enemies. You need to snap out of this stupor and lead the Oathguard, or we’re all already dead.” Slowly she began to manipulate his own runes, thawing him out of the shell he put himself in.

“I can’t just let this go unanswered.” Rethandus suddenly sounded exhausted, more than he’s ever been. “I can’t just let her sit in some f*cking box beneath their estate…”

“If you attack them, you’ll invoke the wrath of all their devout followers, their close friends and the High Justicars. I’m not saying let this transgression slide, but… we don’t have the means to make them pay yet.” Istrys winced as she peeled her arms off his body, underestimating how easily the chaotic ice gripped her skin. “Let’s go to Argus. Let’s kick some ass. Let’s make some friends. You follow me?”

“How am I supposed to take the fight to Argus knowing she’s not where she should be? How do you expect me to just… set this aside for later?” Rethandus turned his head to look up at the woman, still moderately trembling with anger.

“Use this hatred against the Legion.” The Necromancer suggested. “Take your anger out on them to cool yourself off. Practice getting used to your new runes. Train and train and train. This isn’t just one Death Knight you’re going to be up against. These are Clerics. Paladins. Umbramancers. Rogues. And a whole lot of would-be heroes eager to kill you in defense of their Redblood king. Do what you did preparing for Whitstan’s death, only on a much larger scale.” Istrys knelt beside him and placed her hand on his chin. Eventually he glared up at her after a few moments of her liting up his chin. “Do you hear me in there? We’ll get her back. Let’s go and get ready.” Rethandus’ grimace slowly eased back into his scowl, but the pain was still written all over his face.

“Okay.” he reluctantly sighed, cracking the ice off his arms and legs to allow him to get back onto his feet. “We slaughter the Legion. We get prepared. Then we get put Zion back where she belongs.”

“I think we should cremate her so this doesn’t happen again.” Istrys shrugged, catching his angry but exhausted glance. “Come on, we have an invasion to join.”

“A year ago if someone told me you would be my voice of reason, I’d probably laugh at them.” Rethandus huffed, brushing the rime off his knuckles.

“You don’t laugh at anything.” The Necromancer corrected.

A Grim Awakening

“How do I look?” Istrys asked, lifting the ends of her dress while she curtseyed as formally as she could; with the illusion rune in full effect, the life seemingly returned to her pale skin and eyes. But unlike the other runes she would normally use, this one applied a small dash of freckles and turned her hair into a rich black. The clothes she decided to wear also made her appear deceptively young. “Think I can pull off a Sun’rael with this rune? I’ve been working on my voice for it too.”

“I think that will do. Dark hair, fair skin. They seem to carry a tone of superiority about them as well. At least the ones I encountered.” he paused, contemplating his interactions with Kaevia’s relatives. “I suppose my experiences might be a bit skewed.” He sighed. “It will do though. We don’t have time to waste. Are you sure you’re prepared for this? Your life hinges in the balance.”

“You had me at fair skin.” Istrys winked, smiling briefly before turning to walk. “And I’m more than prepared for those filthy f*cking High Justicars and their brainless lackeys.” The Necromancer casually brushed her hair away from her face. “If we managed to pull this off, that Arveld asshole will be out of my hair forever. That alone is worth it.” She paused while she cleared her throat and straightened out her dress. “Let’s go.”

He let out a light, frosted breath. Slight discomfort was apparent. Hopefully the place wasn’t laden with wards dispelling illusions, although since it was Dalaran, anything was possible. Another deep breath and he was prepared for the worst. They turned the corner into the rehabilitation ward of the medical facility and casually came across a door. No more special or elegant than the next, yet a couple of Paladins stood guard nearby. He approached, attempting to enter.

A large hand blocked his approach. “You. Whitstan. We accept your presence only in that of Lady Sun’rael. She isn’t here Death Knight, what business do you have entering? High Justicar Sun’rael has nothing for you, nor anything to say to you.” the Sunwalker bristled, the other hand resting on the hilt of his blade. “And you dare to bring another here without the consent the Justicars or Kaevia Sun’rael? You must have a death-wish.” Whitstan grit his teeth as his swirling blue gaze settled on the Paladin, eyeing his weapons and armament along with his partner’s.

“Excuse you!” The way Istrys enunciated her voice made her sound like a sixteen year old brat. “I am Belandia Sun’rael, and Lord Wilhelm here is escorting me!” She took several steps forward to poke the Tauren in the chest. “I have traveled for weeks to get here! You will step aside or there will be hell to pay! … in fact, who’s your superior officer?! By the time I’m done chewing him out you’ll be back grazing in Kalimdor, Cow-Man!”

The Tauren breathed out sharply through his nostrils, eyes narrowing to stare at the woman. A multitude of thoughts raced through his mind. He could stand his ground and deny her entry yet he know that often the sad truth was that political courtesy was held above security policies when it came to nobles or others of some import. He huffed again, nodding his head as he slowly opened the door for the two. “Watch yourself Death Knight.” he spoke in an aggressive manner in attempt to save face after having bowed to the whims of a spoiled Sin’dorei.

“That’s better. Come along, Lord Wilhelm.” Istrys huffed with her bottom lip stuck out, turning to grab him by the wrist to pull him around. He leaned in toward her as he walked into the room, waiting for the door to be shut behind him. “You know I’ve never been referred to as a Lord, right?” he asked. Istrys turned around to shush him, squeezing his hand while she picked up the pace. He paused. It didn’t matter at this point, he was in the room and Istrys was present as well, as they had planned. He looked to the Paladin laying in the bed before him, restraints holding him in place due to his mental health. Fel poisoning had eaten away at him slowly and unravelled his senses. A shallow breathing could be heard but the man was otherwise unresponsive. “How the mighty fall in the face of the Legion. The Light can’t save any of them.” he responded in a low, echoed tone.

“Whatever you say, dramaqueen.” The Necromancer shrugged, pulling Alucieus’ arm out from the covers. “Gods he’s lost weight… was he always this frail and sickly? I remember thinking I could grind cheese on his abs before.”

“No… this is what remains of months of torment. He’s a shadow of himself. Locked away in this room… I’m sure he would have chosen another path if he was presented with the option… but luckily for you, too many people want to see him stand again.” Istrys rolled her eyes as she turned his wrist upward, pausing to pluck a small switchblade out from a strap on her thigh.

“Let’s get this over with before ‘Cow-Man’ comes snooping around. Our problems are going to get a whole lot worse if we’re caught.” She reached into her bra and withdrew a small swirling vial. “You know the plan, right? Drain his blood…. slowly… and I’ll filter the poison out of his body. Judging by how his wrists are as tiny as mine, he’s particularly fragile right now. So we need to be extra careful.”

“You don’t need to remind me of the gravity of the situation. Just do your part. We’ll both walk away from this a little more at ease.” Luckily they didn’t bother to rid him of his runeblade when since he was escorting a ‘Sun’rael’. He uttered a few words drawing on his hemomancy which the spirit in his blade enhanced. The runes etched into his arms began to glow a bright red as he droplets of blood formed into a slow stream down Alucieus’ arm. Istrys raised her hand and followed suit, letting the unholy rune carved into her palm seethe and glow. From there the blood would flow out into the open and form a into a river around them, as this occurred the Justicar’s skin grew even more pale. “We need to act fast…” he muttered, “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Let’s get this done.”

“Slow is smooth, smooth is fast…? Right. Got it.” Istrys popped open the vial and put a few droplets into Alucieus’ open mouth, only to press his jaw closed once he began to struggle. The blood-draining had to be especially painful, and she couldn’t risk him being conscious for this ordeal lest he die from the agony. With her other hand she manipulated the blood with a surge of unholy magic, causing the stream of life-essence to splash around and stain his once clean dressings. The Necromancer focused, letting Whitstan cycle the affected blood back into the High Justicar’s body. “I don’t even know if this will work, but I don’t care; worse cast scenario we raise him into undeath and I get as far away from this place as I can.”

“That’s not an option. If he dies, we’re both branded. You think they were upset…” he grimaced and let out a slight grunt as he attempted to retain his focus, “... because the right hand of a Justicar fell to a Death Knight? Imagine…” he continued speak, the very life essence of the Paladin being drained and restored simultaneously as they used sinister magic to draw the poison away from him. “... that two Death Knights snuck into the room of one and he was left for dead. Or worse… raised into undeath. In his unstable state we can’t even assume that he’d make a decent ghoul, much less an unholy warrior…” his voice echoed lightly. The blood shifted tones from a tainted crimson with hints of grey into a vibrant red as it was returned to the slit in his forearm.

“I’m not afraid of them. I’m not afraid of anyone.” Istrys mumbled beneath her breath.

“Then what is it you are afraid of?” Areus spoke in a soft voice to the little girl. He glanced over at Tyrasam for a moment, then back to Jaeras. “I heard you could use fire magic without a problem. Is that wrong?”

“Go ahead honey.” The Paladin soothed, gently running a hand through the little girl’s hair.

“I-I have scary nightmares…” Jaeras started, wearily glancing up at her mother for further confirmation. “Sometimes I dream that I’m hurting people… that I’m doing bad things with my flames. I’m scared but I don’t stop… even Momma gets hurt…”

“Well…” he spoke in a kind tone, lowering his mask to look directly at the child with a slight smile. He hoped the smell of bourbon wasn’t too off-putting to the child. “You’re a very special girl, with very special parents. I just want to help you control those powers so you don’t have any more nightmares and so momma won’t get hurt. Uncle Areus just wants to teach you a few things. I think you might be able to learn some other magic too. That way you can help momma whenever she’s in trouble. Will you help me teach you? Can you show me what you can do?”

She struggled to prevent Alucieus’ blood from going all over the place, but there was little she could do to stop it; her grasp on blood magic was extensive, but without any blood runes to work with, all of that knowledge was moot. The Necromancer furrowed her brow and cursed to herself while she did her best to guide the stream back into Alucieus’ open wrist, but even with all of that visible concentration, she was still making a bit of a mess. “Is this all of it? We didn’t stop his heart, did we? Cause that’s going to complicate things…”

“... f*ck…” he felt his heartbeat slow drastically. It became more of a chore to draw from his life essence without the engine behind the blood-flow. “He stopped breathing… we just have to keep the flow going.” his voice was calculated and quick, “If we stop, his heart will stop. Then we have to gamble with resuscitation. Let’s not reach that point.” His voice sounded rushed and hurried at this point. “Just a little more to go, we’re almost done.” he spoke as he drew the rest of his corrupted blood from him.

“Come on, you son of a bitch…!” Istrys hissed, doing anything she could to hasten this ordeal. Alucieus’ body began to convulse, even under Istrys’ paralyzing spell; his eyes were open but he was still unconscious, gazing up at nothing while foam began to form on the corners of his dry lips. “Don’t you die on me, you self-righteous f*ck! Breathe…! BREATHE!”

Jaeras inhaled deeply while she rose to her feet, clearly uncomfortable with casting her craft while sitting down. Just like she practiced a hundred times before, she clapped her hands together for a few prolonged moments before slowly opening them, revealing a soft orange light between her palms. Her flame was tiny but fierce, flickering at her slightest manipulation. Tyrasam watched her face carefully, seeing that same familiar fear in her eyes from months before. Jaeras blinked a few times but kept her breath steady, glancing up at Areus to see his reaction.

The man slowly and gently brought his palms to the outside of her delicate hands, “Close your hands and extinguish the flame, Jaeras. I want to try something, little one.” he said, looking to her reassuringly. She silently obeyed, cupping her hands closed to snuff out the flame with a weak hiss. Jaeras watched his hands intensely, feeling a sudden surge of cold tickle her palms; she instinctively tried to move her hands away, but Areus kept them closed and steady. Tyrasam watched them both with mild curiosity, but the soft smile spread along her lips instantly vanished the moment she saw it; a tendril of living shadow the size of an infant snake coiled out from between Jaeras’ fingers, seemingly running down her hand before disappearing altogether.

“Whoa…” Jaeras squeaked, feeling feathers rustling in her enclosed hands. “What is happening?! Did you put a bird in my hand?!” He nodded carefully, “Yes, can you make the birdy fly?” he asked softly. His gaze rested heavily on their closed hands, a twitch of his eye came as he tried to concentrate on how well she maintained the intricate structure and workmanship of the finely shaped shadow raven he placed in her hands. He withdrew the magic sustaining the delicate form as his hands slipped away.

Slowly she opened her hands and gazed down at the manifested creature, not much unlike a toddler finding a wounded infant bird for the first time. With one free hand she reached down and poked its peak, jerking away at the sheer intensity of the cold emanating off the shadow raven. It ruffled its ‘feathers’ while it slowly stood upright by her command, reluctantly spreading its wings wide to take flight. Tyrasam watched in horror at the creature, already imagining Jaeras completely engulfed in a shadow form, wreaking havoc on anything and anyone who dared come near.

“O-oh no!” Jaeras squeaked as the bird jumped from her palm, suspending itself in the air with a series of frantic flaps of its wings before dive-bombing into the ground; it crashed with a soft plop and dispersed, disappearing without a trace. “It’s okay…” he responded to her, “The birdy just returned to the shadow. You did good Jaeras…” he said, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, “You did well…” he said, breathing in slowly. The little girl smiled up at Areus, but said nothing, suddenly looking very exhausted; manipulating a foreign magic for the first time took more of a mental toll on her than he previously thought, but it wasn’t all that surprising. After all, she was only a twelve year old.

He exhaled sharply as the last of his blood entered his system. His vitality restored and his body cleansed of fel taint. He grit his teeth as he shot up in the bed. His bloodshot eyes held teal glows that burned through the two at his bedside. His left hand clutched at his chest as he struggled to breathe, eventually gasping at air. The wound on his arm had already healed as he subconsciously called to the Light. As his focused settled a Tauren burst into the room thanks to all the noise, “What’s the meaning of this?! What is this disturbance?!”

“Stand… down…” Alucieus breathed out. His eyes fixated on Istrys. A jolt of Unholy magic had escaped her unknowingly when she called for him to live. At the same time, a bit of his Holy Light had been absorbed by her. He had touched his mind, ever so briefly as he had touched hers in his broken state. In that moment, truths were made known to the both of them that only the other had known. Istrys tasted the sensation of living for the briefest of moments and held memories only Alucieus held. On the other side of that same token, he had felt the darkness and despair that came with the cold truth she held. His withered arm grabbed forcefully at her wrist. Whitstan stood ready to intervene, although for a moment he was unsure who he was trying to protect. “Rethandus… where is he?” Alu asked, his voice rasped from the dehydration.

“Andy is busy in a meeting with your daughter.” Istrys quickly answered, pretending not to notice the peculiarity that connected their minds in an instant, while ignoring the screeching of the Val’kyr in her head. “Apparently she needed to talk to him about something? A lot has happened while you’ve been… um… resting.” A loud grinding noise was heard as the Paladin released Istrys from his grip. Dry knuckles cracking could be heard as he made a fist.

“I’ve rested enough.” A blinding flash of light jolted from his presence, searing everything within reach of him with a bolt of Holy Light. Istrys had enough time to cover her face and partially shield herself with an anti-magic shell, but the ferocity of the High Justicar’s wrath pierced her defenses and sent her crashing into the adjacent wall; Whitstan didn’t fare better, using his armor and weapon to prevent the Holy Light from searing his face clean of his undead flesh, but the force was still enough to send him airborne. “Rethandus… betrayed my friend… caused so much pain and suffering, yet he has the audacity to be near my daughter?... I’ll rectify that soon enough.” he uttered out dryly between grit teeth only to see the Tauren, Istrys and Whitstan all incapacitated against the walls of the room, slumped down in a seated position.

His body was withered and frail, but his determination was stalwart. Alucieus barked out in pain the moment his bare feet slapped against the cold floor for the first time in over half a year. He struggled to walk, let alone stand, using the nearby railing to help him maneuver around his ‘visitors’ while he made his way for the exit.

The little girl was fast asleep now, “Your daughter…” he said, looking to Tyrasam, “She can control magic, regardless of the source. That’s not normal. I don’t know who her birth-mother was, but her father is… according to records, the youngest warrior to bear the mantle of Spell-Breaker and was adept at deflecting magic with little to no training. Now he’s a nightmarish Death Knight that can control blood magic with surgical precision. While the figure she called father all these years was a pyromancer beyond reckoning, and without even a blood relation she is able to control the element of fire at her whim. She’s dangerous. She adapts to her surroundings and uses them to her advantage… much like her biological father. She’s the daughter of Whitstan Wilhelm.” He spoke, solemnly, taking a puff from his pipe. “She needs guidance… or she’ll go down a path you can no longer follow.” he spoke to the Paladin.

The news didn’t hit Tyrasam as hard as she thought, for deep down she had known this for a very long time. Seeing how well she learned Pyromancy without a single drop of related blood in her veins proved the theory she had harbored for half a decade; seeing her handle Umbramancy so effectively for the first time in her life only confirmed her worse suspicions. “I don’t want her learning shadow magic.” Tyrasam spoke flatly, staring intensely at Areus while she cradled Jaeras’ head on her lap. “Maybe if she’s capable of all forms of magic… maybe she can be granted the gift of the Light. But I’ve seen what the Void does to people… and… I don’t want that happening to her…”

“... Tyrasam… it doesn’t matter. We can show her the Light or lead her to Shadow. All that is irrelevant. We may be born to embrace Light or inherit the Darkness... and while I might not be a shining example of either I can recognize the potential for darkness when I see it… and ultimately, whether we’re born for one or the other… it’s up to her to decide what she truly is...” he said, taking a sip from his flask, a grim expression on his face before he situated his mask, “Good… or evil. It’s all about perspective.”

Collaberinos: @istrys @whitstanwilhelm

Turning Pages Turned to Stone (Finale)

Tyrasam took her time walking down the hallway. There was a lot she wanted to tell the woman who destroyed Zaldrannar, but she was conflicted; she knew Whitstan was the one who took Zerethel’s life, yet this Istrys woman was being punished for it all the same. Guilt crept up into the back of her throat for not speaking out against this obvious injustice, but judging how High Justicar Arveld addressed the three Undead, it wouldn’t have done them any good. The hallway itself was dimly lit with candles, spiraling down further into the earth, hidden away from prying eyes and the warmth of the Holy Light. When she found the single cell and the two guards near the end of the hallway, the Paladin took in a sharp breath before they took notice of her presence.

“I want to speak with the woman who poisoned my husband.” Tyrasam addressed them as politely and assertively as she could, hoping they were in the generous mood to give her what she wanted; but they stared at her for several moments, questioning her intention.

“Keep it brief.” One of them commanded, while they both stepped away from the iron bars. “And you will not enter her cell… and we will be within earshot.” She didn’t respond as they walked away, giving her enough space to step to the cell. The room itself was pitch black and silent, causing the Paladin to question whether or not Istrys was even in there. After several prolonged moments in deafening silence, Tyrasam suddenly heard the woman shift around in the furthermost corner of her cell.

“Have you come to mock me?” Istrys asked, while her fading cerulean eyes opened to reveal herself. “If you have anything you want to get off your mind, now’s your last chance.”

“I’m not here to taunt you.” Tyrasam squinted to get a better look at the Necromancer, but for the most part she hid herself well in the darkness. A part of her wanted to tell her exactly what she thought of this silver-haired witch of a woman, but it didn't feel right to insult someone waiting for their execution. Tyrasam never trusted her around her husband, and the few times she walked in on them having a conversation alone would always spoil whatever good mood she had; thoughts of Zerethel cheating on her with this harpy made her stomach churn, but she did her best to hide these feelings, knowing no good would come from such paranoid delusions. “I wanted you to answer a few questions for me. When Zereth gave the order to betray Alucieus… what was he doing? What did he look like?”

“Looked like a man who was losing his sh*t.” Istrys spoke dryly. “When Rethandus and Whitstan were done with their duel, which was fantastic by the way, your hubby wasn’t too pleased. He clutched his head and collapsed to his knees, mumbling something underneath his breath. When he rose back up to his feet, he was-”

“I get the gist of it.” The Paladin frowned, tightening her grip around the iron bars. “So it really was fel poisoning… are you absolutely sure you weren’t responsible for that? I know you likely lied to High Justicar Arveld’s face… but was what you said true?”

“I didn’t poison your damn husband.” Istrys hissed, her sense of humor vanishing once more. “I didn’t stop it from happening either, though, so I guess that’s just as bad. Not that it matters now.”

“It matters to me.” She sharply inhaled again, momentarily distracted by her own thoughts. “And Rethandus? Whitstan? Were they involved…?”

“You already know the answer if you have to ask.” The Necromancer closed her eyes and seemingly vanished from sight, but she was too weak to move around. “Ask them yourself. Both of them seem to have a weakness for your pampered princess of a daughter.”

“I saw him and the Blackguard leaving Zaldrannar when I was shopping in Silvermoon.” Tyrasam started. “I saw the plumes of smoke rising from the nearby island an hour later. Was that Zereth’s doing?”

“It was.” the Necromancer leaned forward, letting what little light leaking into her cell illuminate half of her face. “A bounty was placed on you, your little girl and your late husband. Your grandfather-in-law wanted you dead. I’m sure you’d know why better than I do.” Tyrasam remained silent, unable to speak a coherent sentence with her thoughts in such disarray. She knew Zerethel’s father hated his youngest son, and hated her for loving him, but never in a thousand years could she believe he was capable of putting a hit on his own flesh and blood, his own daughter-in-law and even worse, sweet little Jaeras; the thought of his cruel grin spreading across his wrinkled face with their three heads presented to him on a silver platter made her stomach turn. Eventually she managed to push those thoughts aside, and glance back up at Istrys.

“He would never…” She stuttered, unsure how to handle this news.

“When Zerethel caught wind of this bounty, he decided to strike first. He brought me along with the Blackguard Elite, and we visited the homes of both of his brothers before we found Kolos himself locked away in Dalaran.”

“He did it to protect us.” Tyrasam declared, unconvincingly. “He did it to protect me…”

“Did he?” Istrys asked, slinking back into the darkness. “Or did he need a reason to slaughter his kin? He didn’t just kill his father, you know. He killed both of his brothers as well. He even killed their children. Zerethel wiped out the entire Kash’kaar bloodline, sparing only you and your girl. And the worst part…? He enjoyed it.” Tyrasam began breathing heavily while she glared at this vile woman, but she didn’t have anything to say. She was frozen in place, envisioning her husband’s spellflame consuming children. Children. “You should have seen the look on his face when he was deep frying his nephew. When he watched his brother flail slowly die by his flames. This wasn’t about revenge, or the need to protect you… he enjoyed it. He was smiling the entire time.”

“I can’t…!” Tyrasam covered her mouth, but the Necromancer continued.

“I’m a bitch, I’ll admit it. I got a thrill from killing people even before I became undead… and a few months ago I wasn’t above killing kids… but for him to do what he did to his own family? That’s a whole new level of f*cked.” Istrys paused while she let the Paladin take in her words; if she was going to die tonight, she might as well tell this poor sap the whole truth. “That’s why I left the fel rune alone when I found it. Someone wanted him dead, and quite frankly, the world is better off without him.”

“He wasn’t a good man…” Tyrasam started while she dropped her gaze to the floor. “But he was all I had…”

“Well, what you had was legit evil.” The Necromancer leaned back to rest her head against the cold stone wall. “Be honest… if you knew a man who was capable of something like that… would you want him around? Would you want him around your little girl? Would you stop someone else from killing him?”

“I…” She stuttered, nervously running a hand through her hair. “I don’t know how to… how to answer that…”

“You already know the answer to that one, too.” Istrys’ words cut through Tyrasam like a blade. “You seem sweet… but you’re too gullible for your own good. I never got to know you well enough to say you deserve a good man in your life, but everyone deserves better than him.” The Paladin struggled to keep her composure as her tears began rolling down her cheeks. Despite months of supposed healing, against day after day of trying to put him behind her, he still had a firm grip on her body and soul. He would visit in her dreams, wheezing and scowling like he once did; and every time she would wake up in cold sweat. The woman was harsh, but her words rang true. Tyrasam let her husband do some twisted things; it was time to set things right.

“I’m going to have a little chat with High Justicar Arveld.” She sighed while she rubbed her face dry from her tears, causing the Necromancer to slowly lean forward again.

“What for? Trying to get my execution over sooner than later?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.” The Paladin reluctantly released the bars and turned her back to the Necromancer. “I wouldn't give up just yet if I were you.”

Istrys was carried by her two guards, too weak to even lift her feet to stop them from dragging along the floor. She could barely keep her eyes open by this point, struggling to lift her head up while they set her in her podium. Rethandus watched her in a scornful silence as he wondered how he would rescue her from this nightmare in one piece.

“Thank you all for your patience and understanding.” High Justicar Arveld started while he stared down at the Necromancer. “As you are all aware, the Undead are a blight to this world, an unholy creation with the sole purpose of destroying and converting all life. They are a pestilence, who walk a very thin line of tolerance and usefulness. That is why we must punish any creature who strays from the path.”

Whitstan grit his teeth as he listen to the pompous and self-righteous preaching condemning his own kind.

“This isn't right.” Rethandus thought to himself. “They are going to butcher her and there isn't a damned thing I can do about it!”

“Esmeralda Autumnstone. I find you guilty of conspiring against High Justicar Sun’rael with Councilor Kash’kaar, and the attempted coup that ended the lives of over a hundred in our order. I find you guilty of invoking madness in Councilor Kash’kaar with fel poison, and subsequently his murder after his attempt on High Justicar Sun’rael’s life. I find you guilty for the destruction of Zaldrannar: the Black Judge, and the terrible danger you put all of the citizens of Quel’Thalas and the rest of the Eastern Kingdoms. There can be no greater treachery than your heinous crimes… and for that, your punishment is death!”

“This is outrageous!” Rethandus blurted out, catching the attention of the nearby guards. “Whitstan already admitted to killing Zerethel yet you found her guilty anyway?!”

“Another word and you will be joining her!”

Whitstan himself instinctively reached to grab at his blade to no avail, he was disarmed in this enclave of the Light. He breathed out a deep sigh as he contemplated his options. He wasn’t about to give his life for Istrys but this disregard for justice made what left of his blood boil.

“This is not justice! This is not how you Paladins are supposed to conduct yourselves!” Rethandus no longer cared about the High Justicar’s threats, raising one of his boots to slam on the back of the bench before him. “The Light is supposed to help people! The Light is supposed to-!”

“Enough, Rethandus.” Tyrasam called out, catching him mid-sentence. “She’s not going to be executed today.”

“Hmph…” High Justicar Arveld stroked his long wiry beard for several long moments, apparently conflicted with his own thoughts. “Lady Ku’sol is right. Ms. Autumnstone is sentenced to die, but not today.”

“What?! But her verdict is guilty!” The Draenei woman screeched, rising up from her seat; what appeared to be what was left of her family rose along with her. “She needs to die for what she did!”

“Indeed she does.” The old man slouched in his chair while he pinched the bridge of his nose. “But a High Justicar’s word is his very oath. High Justicar Sun’rael pardoned her of her crimes, and as long as his breath remains his bond, she… cannot be executed.” The crowd quickly became unhinged at his unorthodox announcement, causing many guards to move in to stop them from killing Istrys herself. Rethandus stared wide-eyed at Tyrasam, who noticed his glance, but didn’t acknowledge it. Eventually High Justicar raised his hand, no longer even holding his gavel. “But know this: if Alucieus Sun’rael dies, whether it be on that death bed in Dalaran or surrounded by enemies in a future battlefield, his word will no longer protect you.” He waved his hand dismissively while he turned away, clearly too exhausted from all of this madness today. “Reclaim your criminal and get out of my sight.”

Rethandus didn’t waste any time getting to her the moment the guards lowered their weapons to let him pass. The Harbinger ripped through the chains keeping her locked in the podium with relative ease. Istrys said nothing while she was quickly turned around and heaved over one of his shoulders. “We’re getting out of here before he changes his mind.” Rethandus whispered to her, unsure if she could even hear him. The woman said nothing while her arms and legs swayed limp and freely while he hurried to free her of this terrible place, and her unresponsive silence only hastened his steps.

Whitstan glanced at the two, still remaining vigilant at Kaevia’s side. “Good for them.” he commented, his eyes wandering to the bloodthirsty mob, wondering how many of them simply wished to see his kind burn for countless other reasons or buried feelings. He couldn’t help but shift his gaze to see how far along they had gotten. He spoke out to the Priestess, “Justice wasn’t done here today however you cut it. We’ll see it met and done when it all settles.”

Rethandus continued to walk until he could no longer feel the Holy Light seeping out of the ground beneath his feet. Gently he set her down against a nearby tree, fearing the worst. “Istrys…? Open your eyes… Istrys?!” The Harbinger reached down to rudely smack her face, desperate for a response. “Don’t you die on me! Istrys!”

“Uuugh…” She weakly mumbled, sheepishly pushing his hand away. “What… happened? Everything went black for a really… l-long time…” The Necromancer hesitated to open her eyes, glancing around to find herself in the now lush forest of the once infamous Plaguelands.

“High Justicar Arveld sentenced you to death. But he will only carry out your sentence should Alucieus die prematurely.” Rethandus sounded relieved, clearly not caring about the potential grass stain he was begging for on his right pant knee.

“How long has he been in his coma again…? Three… four months…?”

“Seven.” Rethandus answered, clenching his jaw.

“f*ck… then I’ve got some preparations to take care of before they find me aga-” Istrys’ sentence was cut short the moment they both heard footsteps, causing Rethandus to rise to his feet and face whoever approached them.

“Tyrasam…?” The Harbinger called out, catching her attention. “Did you know this would happen? That Arveld would let her go on a technicality?”

“High Justicar Arveld, and yes.” The Paladin softly answered, peering down at the nearly-paralyzed Necromancer. “Like I said to you before, Istrys: I wouldn't give up so easily if I were you.”

“There's something I need to tell you Tyrasam.” Rethandus reluctantly spoke while he approached her. “It's about the details of that so-called trial.”

“You don't have to tell me.” She insisted, taking a small step back. “You have your secrets and I have mine.”

“I'm responsible for your husband killing the rest of his family.” His deep voice pierced her like a spear, causing her to freeze in place. “I caught wind of what Zerethel was planning for Zaldrannar, but I couldn’t approach anyone who could stop him without any solid proof. I discovered a bounty on his head, and yours, and forged it to make him believe his father created it himself. My hope was for him to confront the family he left behind and die by their hands. I underestimated his resolve.”

“Why are you telling me this…!?” Tyrasam squeaked, causing the Harbinger to pause. “How could you do this?!”

“He was going to slaughter every living being aboard that black citadel, Tyrasam. If you knew the things he did in the Bloodsworn Vanguard… the things I helped him do… you would understand.” Rethandus watched the trembling woman carefully, but he knew he couldn’t simply leave it at that. “When I heard Aethos was dead, I rushed to his estate as fast as I could. There I found a pile of charred corpses- your sister-in-law and nephew. I held their broken bodies in my arms, and all I could imagine was Jaeras and you sharing a similar fate. I couldn’t let their deaths be in vain, and I certainly couldn’t let Zerethel harm you two. So during his rampage to finish the rest of his extended family off, I placed a fel rune in his office in hopes of it killing him in his sleep. Once again, I underestimated his fading strength…”

“That sickness was your doing…?!” Tyrasam cried out, forsaking her composure. “When I turned to you for help, you knew exactly what was happening to him?!”

“Yes.” Rethandus answered coldly, causing her to stumble backwards a bit. “My plan was to get you and Jaeras to safety before he finally snapped, but… you insisted on staying by his side.” Rethandus reluctantly broke his stare with the woman, glancing down to stare at his pale frozen hand. “I’m sorry it had to be this way, Tyrasam, and I wish I told you this sooner… but I did what I did because your husband was going to cross a line that could have ended your life. Hate me if you want… but I don’t regret Zerethel’s downfall.”

“I… I don’t…” The Paladin stuttered, grasping at her hands.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Rethandus took one last step forward before bowing. “Try to get some rest tonight. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through this year.” Tyrasam said nothing while she watched him turn his back on her and pluck Istrys out of the grass. For the longest time her words were resting on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t summon the strength to speak them. Eventually she collapsed to her hands and knees once they were out of sight, forced to reopen formally closed wounds once again.

“You really think that was a good idea?” Istrys whispered in his ear, able to speak clearly now that the Holy Light’s influence was gone, but otherwise still too exhausted to walk herself. “That might come back to bite you in the ass.”

“Honesty was a virtue I once held to a higher standard.” Rethandus huffed, keeping his gaze on the path ahead. “If she tells Kaevia, I’ll explain myself. If Alucieus learns of this, I might be in more than a little trouble. But…” the Harbinger paused while he was temporarily lost in thought. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“You better be more careful, Andy.” The Necromancer warned. “You keep up with this honesty bullsh*t and you'll end up with more enemies than you can handle.”

“We’re undead,” Rethandus sighed, taking notice of a wounded doe and her two fawns. The mother was stuck in a bear trap, and her children were seemingly too terrified to leave her side; the perfect opportunity to get Istrys back on her feet. “Disappointing the living and in turn making them hate us is all par for the course.”

Collabudddies: @Istrys @k-sunrael @whitstanwilhelm

Turning Pages Turned to Stone Pt 2

Istrys sat in the dark, cradling her knees into her chest while she struggled to ignore her debilitating pain in her bones. It had only been a few days since last she sated her curse, but being around so many of the living was eroding both her patience and sanity. Wearing nothing but a loose knit robe, the Necromancer stared angrily off at nothing through her matted hair, nauseous from being in proximity to so many followers of the Holy Light.

“Istrys, I've been thinking a lot since you saved me from the Vault of the Wardens.” Vesk’s voice whispered in her head. Normally she wouldn’t pay her much attention, but her voice was a welcome diversion from her own thoughts about the agony she was currently enduring. “Do you remember skipping through a field of flowers while you ran away from your older sister? Do you remember her name?”

“Sure.” The Necromancer mumbled under her breath, remembering it like it happened only a few years ago. “Her name was Sigrlinn.”

“Just as I feared… you're an only child Istrys. Sigrlinn is my sister. Our memories are starting to bleed together!” She could almost hear the Val’kyr’s nonexistent teeth chattering, and even though all of her pain she knew such behavior was incredibly unusual for Vesk; but ultimately she could no longer afford to care, knowing if this trial was as biased and thorough as she suspected, then neither of them would last until nightfall.

The sound of approaching footsteps stirred her to slink back into the farthest corner, fearing another zealot would strike her with his ‘blessing’. The heavy wooden door creaked open, and much to her relief, a familiar scowl greeted her in silence. Rethandus was in civilian clothes for obvious reasons, wearing a simple cloth shirt and jeans; the black veins along his ghostly pale skin were exposed for all to see, and it was clear he was self-conscious about them.

“What did they do to you?” He huffed, moments before the guards nearby closed the door behind him. He reached out to touch her burned leg, but she slinked away from the pain.

“Some of these Redbloods had a little fun after they tossed me in here.” Istrys struggled to speak, keeping her gaze away from the Harbinger as best she could; her curse demanded spilled blood, and thus she could no longer trust herself; the last thing she needed is Rethandus killing her to defend himself. “They toyed with me, but I’ll remember their faces. And if I ever get out of this cell I’ll skin them both alive.”

“Did you get their names?” Rethandus asked, kneeling beside her. Istrys shook her head while she tightly closed her eyes, instinctively rubbing at her arms in a desperate attempt to null the pain. “Here… I got you something to help what ails you.” The Harbinger opened a large sack and let loose several Dalaran Sewer rats, who scampered around in abject fear and confusion of their unfamiliar surroundings. Istrys wasted no time catching them, as her curse demanded; she held one by the throat and crushed it with a surge of unholy strength, while she flattened the other beneath one of her bare feet. The anguished cries of the dying creatures were music to her ears, and a relief she missed like never before.

“f*ck that’s good…” The Necromancer sighed, still clutching the twitching rat corpse in her dead grip. “How did you manage to sneak this little bastards in here?”

“Sneak?” Rethandus perked a brow. “The High Justicars allowed it. They want to put you on trial… and if they couldn’t get you to speak, then… well…”

“Then I’m a goner.” Istrys reluctantly dropped the rat, before pressing her back against the cold stone wall again. “This is really going to happen, isn’t it? Is this how I meet my second, true death…?”

“Just tell them the truth.” The Harbinger narrowed his eyes at her. “These High Justicars won’t take kindly to you lying to their faces.”

“I really appreciate your help. And that’s not sarcasm, I actually mean it. But you shouldn’t have came here.” Istrys huffed, wearily glancing up at Rethandus. “If I tell them the truth… the whole truth… then I’m going to die down here.” She paused for a moment while she grabbed his icy hand. “... you would be close behind me too.”

It wasn’t the rattle of armor that turned heads or barked commands but the clicking of heels down the marbled floor right into the room where the High Justicars settled themselves. Windows were drawn open allowing the light in, and chairs upon chairs lined the room in preparation for all those who would gather. Stained glass murals and long drapes decorated much of the white walls for aside from their color, there was a bare sadness lining the room.

“This better be a good enough reason to tear me from meetings.” The Priestess spoke half expecting Whitstan to be trailing behind as per usual. Unclasping her cloak she tucked it over the back of her chair, taking a moment to take in the situation and where they had summoned her.

Kaevia heard of the many holdings the Justicars had beyond Hearthglen and other outlying towns and outposts, Light’s Hope and her chapels were nothing new to behold, however, this room? Well this was something different.

The Death Knight made his presence known. Whitstan often seemed to be a few steps behind her even to escort her. “Oddly enough I’m here because I’ve received a summons as well. It was quite unexpected. I wouldn’t have assumed my kind got a voluntary invite, much less specifically myself. Your father and I never got along especially well, with, what, you know. Trying to kill each other and all. Although he proved himself to be the better man at the time.” he said, looking to a man across the distance who had turned his attention to the two, opening his mouth to speak.

“The former leader of the Ashen Verdict’s Blackguard is being put on trial for her crimes against your father.” High Justicar Arveld explained, seemingly ignoring all of the hustle and bustle around him as they prepared the Sanctum of Light for this court hearing; he shot a distrustful glance at Whitstan, but otherwise didn’t address him at all. “The coup that took place aboard Zaldrannar put Quel’thalas at risk. A renegade Black Citadel could wreak havoc in all of the Eastern Kingdoms if left unchallenged. We suspect her of being primarily responsible.”

“Wonderful. My week could use another wrench.” she offered and without further to add, Kaevia drew into a nearby chair to await whatever fresh hells were lined up for the Oathguard this day.

“Rest assured, this may only take a few hours.” High Justicar Arveld responded, adjusting himself in his chair. “A day at most.”

“Very well then we will begin at your leisure.” the Priestess offered a wide smile and a simple wave of her hand.

It wasn't much longer until the preparations were made. Paladins clad in shimmering gold and white steel stood armed to the teeth along the walls, radiating the Holy Light like beacons. Four High Justicars sat in their elevated seats, so that they could look down at the accused with ease. One Paladin stood alone on the other side of the room, wielding a broad axe that looked like it had been baptized by the Holy Light; the hood concealing his face was glimmering and golden, but it did not take away this executioners ultimate purpose.

Rethandus slowly approached the benches, keeping his frozen leather cowl over his face in an attempt to shield himself from the radiating Light. His icy scowl turned to Kaevia and then to Whitstan, but he said nothing while he sat down, crossing his arms in contempt.

“Bring her in.” a High Justicar commanded, gesturing toward the guards with his decrepit human hand. With the benches now full of people from both the Horde and Alliance, they all turned to gaze at the woman they believed had destroyed their lives and severed their families.

Istrys was escorted down the aisle in chains. The cheap loose knit robe couldn't conceal the burns notched along her pale skin, and being held subject to the Holy Light without proper protection was clearly taking its toll on her body; too weak to walk by herself, every time the Necromancer stumbled and fell onto her hands and knees, the Paladin holding her chains would violently yank her back onto her feet. Rethandus watched this injustice in silence, but given how the others sitting near him were giving the Harbinger a wide berth, even they could tell he was absolutely livid.

Istrys could barely sit up straight once they chained her inside the enclosed podium like a caged animal, and her escorts forcefully life's both of her hands, one held upright while the other was pressed onto a holy book.

“Istrys Bloodwake, you must swear you will not tell a single lie in the presence of the High Justicars, and the Holy Light.” High Justicar Arveld commanded, watching her intensely. “Refusing to comply or breaking this single vow will condemn you to death. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Istrys hissed through clenched teeth, glaring hatefully up at him.

“You stand accused of the murder of Zerethel Kash’kaar. How do you plead?”

Whitstan’s brow twitched as he continued to watch Istrys.

“Not guilty.”

“The attempted assassination of High Justicar Sun’rael and the coup to overthrow his command?”

“Not guilty.” several people began to angrily murmur to themselves again, but the Necromancer ignored them.

“The sabotage of Zaldrannar: the Black Judge and its violent destruction?”

With the murmering filling the room and the bolted questions in Istrys direction, Kaevia simply kept her silence to take it all in but she wasn’t without pointed looks to several of those in the room, Rethandus included while awaiting several more answers from the Runeweaver.

“... guilty.” Istrys reluctantly spoke, feeling the burning glares of the people behind her burrowing into the back of her head.

“Very well.” High Justicar Arveld huffed beneath his breath, turning to gesture toward a Human whom eagerly awaited his turn to speak. “Samwell, you have the floor.” Istrys watched the approaching Human through her matted hair with mild disinterest; he looked a little too smug and excited to be here.

“So, Istrys Bloodwake… hmn... that's quite an interesting name, isn't it?” the Prosecutor asked, causing her to narrow her glare. “But you've gone by many names, haven't you? The Eclipse… the Laughing Fox… Lady of Bones…” Istrys’ lips turned into a snarl while she plotted how she was going to murder this man if she ever got out of this; Vesk silently persuaded her of such dangerous thoughts. “Even Istrys isn't your real name. Could you tell everyone what your real name is?”

“Esmeralda Autumnstone.” the Necromancer hesitantly answered, feeling her skin crawl at the sound of her own name; it brought her nothing but trouble and misery, and whenever she spoke it, a host of bad memories came flooding in every time.

“Ms. Autumnstone, you claim you aren’t guilty of Zerethel’s death… do you know how he died?”

“I don't.” Istrys lied, slightly turning her head toward Whitstan’s direction, but she kept her skeptical glare steady on Samwell. It was the first lie of many she planned, fully aware that any trace of deception could hasten her one-way trip to the Void; but she did it anyway, threading the needle to begin her web. Istrys didn’t do it to save her own skin, however. Despite her last encounter with Whitstan beneath the Amber Glade, she wasn’t going to risk putting him on the chopping block as well. Lying is an art, and she was the best painter in this room. “When he gave us the order to overtake the living, he disappeared to the higher reaches of Zaldrannar. Next thing I knew he was reduced to a pile of charred flesh and bones.”

Whitstan shifted his eyes slowly to Kaevia who was calmly observing the proceedings. A multitude of thoughts ran through his mind. If they didn’t know it was him who ended Zerethel why did they invite him? Would answering that accusation help or damn Istrys? Did he care? Would it help or damn himself? He looked around to size up all the Lightbearers in the room. The power they emanated was annoying to say the least but it paled in comparison to the agony swirling within him from the lack of killing. As a Death Knight all of them were bound by this curse of anguish. Whether it was through some misguided sense of altruism, a method to be seen in some light of favor by Kaevia, or just to test himself… he didn’t know. But perhaps this would prove to be a bad idea.

“Do you know why Zerethel chose to betray High Justicar Sun’rael?” The Prosecutor asked, clutching a stack of papers.

“He wanted Zaldrannar for himself. Ever since Draenor the late Councillor pushed to use the Black Judge to its full potential.” Istrys shrugged lightly at the man. “If I had to guess, he didn’t like playing second fiddle.”

“Surely there’s more to it than that.” Samwell stroked his chin while he spoke, and turned to glance up at High Justicar Arveld. “I’d like to summon a witness. I believe she can shed more light on this tragedy… and fill in the holes of Ms. Autumnstone’s story.”

“Proceed.” He commanded while he waved his hand. Istrys remained silent while the soft clammer of iron boots from behind caught her attention; she was too exhausted to be bothered to look over her shoulder, but her demeanor changed the moment this witness stepped around the podium into her view.

“Please tell us your name before we get started.” Samwell spoke, gently helping the woman into her own podium.

“Tyrasam Ti’shier Ku’sol.” She answered, keeping her hand firmly on the holy book. “Zerethel Kash’kaar was my husband.”

“My condolences, Ms. Ku’sol.” The Prosecutor sighed, though his fake empathy did not go unnoticed by those who were paying attention. “If you could retell that fateful day, we would surely appreciate it.”

“Zereth- uhh…” The woman stuttered for a moment before clearing her throat. “Councillor Kash’kaar was hardly a good man, or a good husband… but… he would never betray Lord Sun’rael like that. He wasn’t himself in the final days before his death. He was quiet… sick even. Lord Sun’rael and a handful of his advisors and I were talking about how unstable he was becoming… and then the coup happened.”

Between the questions, Kaevia’s eyes darted here and there from the prosecutor and Tyrasam, nearly forgetting that it had actually been Istry who stood trial. Tightly the Priestess wound her pinch and turnover the end of the quill within her lap out of silent agitation.

Rethandus watched the woman in somber silence. He wanted to tell her the truth, to explain himself for what he did; but a man willing to slaughter his innocent family had no place among the living, especially around her and her pure daughter.

“Did you see how he died?” Samwell asked, leaning forward.

“No.” Tyrasam glanced over and met Istrys’ gaze. “When next I saw my husband he was already dead. It looked like he was eaten alive by… b-by his own spellflame.”

“Do you have any idea how that could have happened? Was it suicide?”

“He wouldn’t do that.” Tyrasam spoke sharply, struggling to maintain her composure. “He loved us with everything he had. H-he didn’t kill himself… he couldn’t. Someone killed him.”

“ -- Or turned his own casted spell against him.” Kaevia finally spoke up, daringly her eyes peered over to Tyrasam. She turned to meet the Priestess’ gaze, unsure how to react to that.

“And what could do that, I wonder?” Samwell asked rhetorically, glancing over at Kaevia. “Perhaps some sort of anti-magic shell? A spell most infamous with the Undead.”

“I didn’t kill him.” Istrys hissed, glaring at the Human.

“If you didn’t, then who did?”

“Could have been any of his Death Knights in service. Truth be told if you really want to examine further, a Mage could be fast and clever enough to deflect a spell.” Slowly her quill dropped with a clatter to the book in her lap and Kaevia motioned to Istrys, “ Why her, what evidence is against her other than the fact she was present and worked for him? Where are the others you intend to question? Assuming you DO intend to question everyone and bring each to their knees?” the Priestess snapped her fingers towards the prosecutor, “Better yet, drag my father from the bed in Dalaran and question him on the stand.”

“Your father is getting the rest he deserves.” High Justicar Arveld spoke coldly, squinting down at her. “Samwell, get to your point.”

“My point is nobody saw his death. But we know Zerethel died from his own spellflame, and we know only an Anti-Magic shell could be strong enough to incinerate him so thoroughly.” The Prosecutor shrugged, before pointing his finger at the Necromancer. “It had to be a Death Knight, and therefore it had to be Esmeralda!”

A gentle chuckle erupted. Kaevia wasn’t about to let it stand and her fingers drummed along the table at her front while she sat cross legged at the knees in the chair, “He deserved it. Every bit of his end for what he did and tried to accomplish. Instead of caging this woman, offer her a damn medal if you are insistent on her being the culprit. She did the Guard a service.” the weight of her words -- she felt them and her eyes bore towards both prosecutor and Samwell knowing that the sting would only be felt by one in the room. Sometimes honesty had its downfall.

“There will be order in this court!” the High Justicar slammed his mallet down, causing the crescendo of murmurs from the crowd to abruptly stop. “Whether he deserved his fate or not is irrelevant. He was an officer of the Ashen Verdict, and he died before a proper trial.”

“He didn’t…!” Tyrasam coughed, trembling in her boots; she glared hatefully down at the floor, unable to stop the tears from burning at her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. “He didn’t…!”

“There there, Ms. Ku’sol. Please, that’s enough.” Samwell assured, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Your Honor if I may excuse her from the stand. She’s answered enough questions for today.”

“Hold on.” Kaevia rose from her chair, “It is very much relevant if he was a good man or not or if he deserved his fate.” She looked between the three or four people around, “If you are all wrong then he was a danger to the people around him including his commanding officer. Innocent people, countless others. If we’re looking for evidence to condemn on person then where is the evidence that proves he was an innocent man?”

“With all due respect, Ms. Sun’rael,” Samwell started, casually leaning against Tyrasam’s podium. “This isn’t about Zerethel’s treason. We already know he tried to seize Zaldrannar for himself, and if he were here today, he would likely be executed after his trial. But if something wasn’t right in his head, especially only a few days before his death… then that is very relevant.” He turned to glance over at Istrys. “... and very damning.”

“I wasn’t there when Zerethel bit the dust.” The Necromancer hissed, doing her best to ignore Tyrasam’s hateful glare.

“The leader of Zerethel’s Blackguard didn't accompany him during his failed coup? I find that remarkably hard to believe.”

“I was in the bowels of the Black Judge. I didn’t return to the upper levels until after the fact.” Samwell glanced over his shoulder to stare In a moment of silence directly at Whitstan; almost like he knew something he chose not to say.

“And what were you doing in the depths of Zaldrannar?” He asked while he returned his stare back onto the Necromancer.

“I was breaking the Black Judge with everything I had, as fast as I could.” Istrys answered, ignoring the whispers in the crowd behind her. “Anything to knock it out of the sky.”

“So you admit to the sabotage?”

“I said I was guilty of that already, didn't I?”

“Indeed you did.” the Prosecutor glanced over his shoulder at Tyrasam, who still stood in silence at the podium. “But by crashing Zaldrannar: the Black Judge into the Ghostlands, you put Quel’Thalas at- no… the entire Eastern Kingdoms at risk. How many undead ghouls were aboard that necropolis before its downfall? Several hundred? A few thousand? What about the amount of corpses it used as fuel to stay afloat? How many of those could be raised into undeath? Too many to imagine, I’d wager.”

“I did what needed to be done.” Istrys defiantly answered, but her gaze fell to her burned hands while her grimace remained; she was well aware of the direction this so-called ‘trial’ was headed, and judging by this sniveling worm’s choice of words, this wouldn’t end well.

“Those undead could have ravaged the Ghostlands, making it worse of a nightmare than it was the months following the desecration of the Sunwell. If they ventured south, they would have undid everything we managed to accomplish in the Plaguelands, and they would have easily overrun Light’s Hope Chapel itself. If they ventured north, all of those towns and villages between here and Silvermoon City would be ravaged. Without a fast enough response all of Quel’Thalas could have fallen.”

“Taking Zaldrannar down at the border between Eversong Woods and the Ghostlands was the best possible outcome.” Istrys hissed. “If I did nothing and Zerethel succeeded in his plans, he would’ve had a fully operational necropolis filled to the brim with an army of the dead.”

“Carving Zaldrannar out of the ice and rock in the mountains of Icecrown was no small task.” High Justicar Arveld huffed, glaring down at the woman. “Nearly half of our coffers were emptied just to make that nightmare a reality, and only High Justicar Sun’rael was willing to use the dead as a tool for the Light. It seems that was a mistake.”

“Why didn’t you just kill Zerethel instead of endangering the lives of several thousand innocent people?” Samwell asked, keeping his gaze steady on the Necromancer.

“Because he had the uncanny ability to not only sense undead, but their intentions as well.” She pulled at her chains while she spoke, using them as an anchor to keep her standing straight. Tyrasam bit her lip while she watched the Necromancer closely; either this woman didn’t know of Zerethel’s darkest secret, or she actively chose to avoid saying it. Either way, she was grateful. “He would instantly reduced me to ashes if I tried anything. Before the coup started he engulfed Rethandus and Whitstan here in molten flames. He then collapsed to his knees and clutched the side of his head like a madman before giving us our orders. Instead of obeying him, I split off from the kill squads and went to work bringing Zaldrannar down.” She turned to sneer up at High Justicar Arveld. “I still stand by my decision. It was the only option I had to ensure he wouldn’t usher in a second Scourge. Sorry I didn’t take your coin purse into consideration.”

His swirling blue orbs shifted to watch Kaevia carefully as she listened to the others. A cacophony of thoughts continued reverberating through Whitstan’s mind. He had learned painstakingly, again and again, that he should weigh every decision with patience and temperance. He should never make a decision out of passion that would yield him a disadvantage. Yet he felt a passion long dead began to arise in his chest; The urge to intervene in this trial. Ultimately he didn’t care if Istrys suffered or not, however, he felt something else compromised within him as the trial continued while he remained silent. No matter what he did to bend the truth to his whim and advantage, he had never lied. He was always a man of his word; a man could only be measured by the worth of his words.

Perhaps it was a useless mortal sentiment that lingered within him long after his death, perhaps it was something else that was unlocked within him when his memories were shattered. He grit his teeth slightly, on the verge of intervening, taking a breath to calm a torrent of conflicting thoughts that affected his very being. The slightest twitch in his fully bandaged left arm was visible as it tensed, the runes forcefully embedded in it subtly flashed a sinister green. He casually moved his right hand to cradle his bicep. He had hoped that with the forcefully shining light in the Justicar’s chambers that his little abnormality went unnoticed.

“The other two Death Knights were there as well?” Prosecutor Samwell asked, perking a brow. “And what did they do to provoke Zerethel’s wrath?”

“We were fighting.” Rethandus finally spoke, slowly rising from his seat; he kept his eyes on the human, seemingly unnerving him with his glare. “Councillor Kash’kaar wanted to kill Whitstan himself… but I took matters into my own hands. He found us in the inner chambers, weakened from our duel. I spared Whitstan… and Zerethel took exception to that.” The Harbinger paused while he shot his gaze over to the former Spell Breaker, choosing his words carefully. “We are rivals and enemies, he and I.”

“One reason to purge undead is as good as another.” Samwell shrugged, unintentionally letting a bit of his bias slip out from under his breath. “But you said Zerethel was clutching his head before he gave the order to betray High Justicar Sun’rael? Can you confirm this, Mr….?”

“Rethandus.” He answered, returning his gaze to the Prosecutor. “... and yes. He looked like he was in terrible pain.”

“He was suffering from fel poison.” Istrys admitted, feeling the Harbinger’s gaze fall upon the back of her head. “Not much unlike Alucieus suffers from now… but on a smaller degree.”

“How do you know it was fel poison?” Samwell immediately asked.

“A rune was placed in the Councillor’s chambers.” The Necromancer hesitated to speak through her excruciating pain, but she ignored Rethandus’ glare. “It leaked just enough Fel Magic to possibly warp his mind. Or maybe make him do something he wanted all along… either way, it was the final catalyst to betray Alucieus.”

“Do you know who placed this rune?” he asked.

“... no.” Istrys lied, wrapping her fingers around her chains.

“Are you lying to me Ms. Autumnstone? You swore to tell the truth… breaking that oath is a death sentence.”

“I don’t know who placed the rune in his chambers.” The Necromancer retorted, staring at the Human intensely.

“You know what it sounds like?” Samwell started, turning to address the crowd behind her. “It sounds like you know something you don’t want to admit. Like you’re hiding something from us.” Rethandus clenched his teeth while he listened to the man, fearing something like this would happen during this trial sooner or later. “Aren’t you a Runesmith, Ms. Autumnstone?”

“... I didn’t plant the fel rune.” She answered bluntly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“... yes, I’m the Runesmith of the Oathguard and the former Ashen Verdict.”

“So you mean to tell us that a Runesmith, infamous for her crime sprees and apprehensive acts in the past, who used her knowledge to destroy a necropolis that housed an army of the dead, who knew about Zerethel’s stance on using said necropolis to its quote-unquote, ‘full potential’, didn’t inform High Justicar Sun’rael of Zerethel’s treasonous acts, didn’t stop Zerethel when she had the chance, and knew about a fel rune placed in his chambers, yet simply let it happen?!”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Istrys hissed, sounding defeated.

“Do you think this is some sort of joke, Esmeralda?” Samwell asked, leaning on her podium to look her straight in the eyes; being this close to a breathing, living being caused her to instinctively tighten her grip on her shackles, knowing that if she managed to slip her hand free, her choice to ease some of her pain with this man’s death would be the final nail in her coffin. “You placed that rune that poisoned Zerethel, didn’t you? Admit that the fall of Zaldrannar rests entirely on your shoulders, and you may be blessed with the Light’s mercy! If you continue with your shoddy story, you will be purged from this world!”

After a long moment of silence, Whitstan’s voice echoed deeply throughout the room, “Purging undead might be sightly to you, but it’s as unsightly to us as a warm-blooded being murdered to you. One of which factors is a charge against Esmeralda, here. I think the moral of the story should be that all souls are precious. But, exclude me in your preaching about morality in a court full of murderers. The fact is, Rethandus and myself should be apprehended as well. I killed Zerethel Kash’kaar. Both he and his servants, Rethandus and Istrys were too blinded by their ambitions to prevent what brought them to their deaths, or equivalently this trial in the first place.” he announced as he stepped slightly away from Kaevia, attempting to mitigate the collateral damage in the anticipated physical response to his words. The crowd behind them began to whisper amongst themselves, as Rethandus kept his mouth shut and his eyes focused on Whitstan; Istrys closed her eyes while she tried to push out her murderous thoughts while her curse began to tighten around her bones. Hearing Whitstan speak her true name didn’t help her at all, either.

“Whatever he suffered, he deserved to die. I deserve to die. Half the people here, deserve to die. Also, for the record, I spared Rethandus. Wanted to mention that before any of us got evaporated by the almighty holy Light.” he said raising his hands as if to display himself as unarmed and void of any hostile intent.

“This is not your trial.” High Justicar Arveld spoke flatly. “Nor is it Rethandus’. Nor Zerethel’s. If you want to be executed for your crimes, I will allow it… but we are here to see if Ms. Autumnstone is guilty of these accusations, not any of you.”

Whitstan continued, “So we aren’t here to mete out justice? We’re here to focus single-mindedly on a track where a scapegoat takes the full blame for an incident outside of your omnipotent control? Does that let everyone here rest at ease as you claim to protect the innocent? I’m pretty sure I know people who actually serve the Light that aren’t as fickle as you, worrying about where blame lies as opposed to striving to find a path to the better good.” he glanced at Kaevia before clearing his throat, his echoing voice travelling even further than before, “Here we stand, the Legion at our doorstep, Argus floating above Azeroth threatening to rain down demons to engulf everything we know… but we take the time to accuse a killing machine that could be used to save the world of being just that… instead of using everything we have to our advantage. I understand he was a High Justicar. But if you condemn her for her actions regardless of whether he pardoned her verbally or not, don’t you just invalidate his actions when the Legion takes over our world? What if her strength was the very last straw that would help crumble the demons? Everything he did would have been for nothing. I just live here though, don’t mind my opinion.” he said as his unfeeling gaze found Arveld.

“I demand justice!” A Draenei woman shot to her feet near the back, no longer content with keeping still and quiet. “That bitch murdered my husband, crippled my son and destroyed my family! I want her dead! DEAD!”

“There will be order in my court!” High Justicar Arveld slammed his gavel down several times, but the uproar from the crowd continued. Istrys kept her gaze on the High Justicar, watching him whack that stupid gavel over and over like it would make a difference to any of these people. The Necromancer suspected this was a sham from the beginning, and this uproar only confirmed what she already knew; it was just as Whitstan claimed - these people weren’t interested in the truth. She wasn’t here to be judged.

She was here to be punished.

“Give me my husband back you monster! Give me my life back!” The Draenei pushed through the crowd and charged for the Necromancer, prepared to kill her with her own two fists; but the guards noticed her advance and quickly intervened, nearly tackling her to the ground before clasping her wrists in irons. Tyrasam watched her in silence, trembling at her podium; she knew what that hatred felt, and how it turned good people cruel. The Paladin pitied her, but otherwise ignored her while she was dragged outside, wailing, kicking, and thrashing.

“Lock this room down! Now!” The High Justicar bellowed, while the guards moved in to protect Istrys if the crowd collectively decided to get as violent and aggressive as the widowed Draenei. Rethandus felt vulnerable without his armor and weapons, caught between a raging crowd after Istrys’ blood and the heavily armed and armored paladins that wouldn’t hesitate to cut him down; he glared angrily at Whitstan for several moments before he lost him in the surging tide of angry faces.

As the commands were given and the whispers soon erupted into shouts and grievances, they too soon started to simmer. All the while the Sun’rael Priestess sat in her chair -- even several minutes before with her hands folded to her lap and her eyes closed. It might have been hard to gauge her expression or thoughts through it all. No eye contact was sought with anyone in the room as she made to collect herself through a different approach.

“I said ENOUGH!” High Justicar Arveld rose from his seat while the Holy Light shimmered in his hand. The blinding flash nearly knocked most of them off their feet, while the Paladins under his jurisdiction remained unflinching in their attempt to quell this outburst before it became a riot. Istrys did her best to cover her face, but since her chains only let her lift her hands no higher than her waist, she was forced to simply shut her eyes and turn away from the blast. A part of her feared she had died, instantly vaporized by the Holy Light. Much to her fortune - or dismay - she opened her eyes to see herself still standing in Light’s Hope Chapel, while the guards ‘helped’ the people quiet down and return to their seats. “The crimes perpetrated by Ms. Autumnstone are the only concerns I have today.” High Justicar Arveld flowered down at Whitstan. “If you and this Rethandus want to be punished for your crimes so badly then you both are welcome to join her. But until I give her the final verdict, you will keep your mouths shut! No more outbursts, no more interruptions!”

“With all due respect, High Justicar…” Rethandus stepped forward, almost bumping into the line of Paladins preventing the crowd from tearing Istrys apart. “But Esm-... Istrys has no defense counsel. There is no jury either… and I would hardly call Samwell trying to get her to confess what he's already predetermined as a fair cross examination… can we really call this a trial? This is more of a witch hunt.”

“This is what she gets.” He huffed, visibly flustered from the rowdy crowd. “It's more than what she deserves.”

“Judges aren't supposed to pick sides" Rethandus continued, ignoring his hostile glare. “You're supposed to use the evidence presented before you and judge her fairly. You had no intention of giving her a real chance to defend herself!”

“One more word from either of you undead…” The High Justicar pointed his withering finger at Rethandus and then at Whitstan. “And I'll throw you both in the dungeons so you can properly wait for your turns.”

“Leave it, you two.” Istrys weakly turned to glance over at them both, but she couldn't complete the motion to meet their gazes. “No point in getting yourselves killed too.”

“He isn’t wrong.” Kaevia swiveled from her chair and stood, aiming to wander past the table in which she sat and along side of Rethandus, where she didn’t hesitate to place her hands together and insist on casually wedging herself past the sea of plated justicar’s, “I’m afraid until you can offer a defense for Istrys and a fair trial along with jury, I will be taking her with me. I can say I honestly don’t like her…” The Priestess clipped her words long enough to shoot Istrys a firm glance, “But she is under my banner.” she finished and the Priestess looked up to the Judge, “Fair trial. Innocent until proven guilty and she has already told you, she did not kill Zerethel nor aided in his demise. That is, after all the reason for being here at current, no? You said it yourselves, really.” Reaching up she held her palm out expectantly, “I will be taking her freedom here this afternoon until a proper summons and trial find us. I suggest you all devise your next plan of action. You cannot keep her here anymore.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Lady Sun’rael.” He hissed through his teeth, slamming his gavel down one final time. His Paladins turned away from the crowd to surround Istrys, causing Rethandus to wearily take a step forward. “I am High Justicar Arveld, Prime Arbiter of the Holy Light. Here in Light’s Hope Chapel my word is final, and my word is law. You may be a Sun’rael, but you are no Justicar. You have no authority here.” He turned to glare angrily at the Necromancer, who weakly met his gaze. “We are going to have a two hour recess to give some people time to breathe and calm down, as well as give me enough time to take all of this evidence under consideration. Court adjourned.” His Paladins unchained Istrys from the podium and began to drag her off. Rethandus took another step forward, hesitant to try and stop them, but the guards took notice and moved in to intercept his path to her. Without her Oathguard soldiers standing by her side, High Justicar Arveld was unfortunately right; she couldn’t enforce her will here, not when she was surrounded by this man’s personal guard.

“Don’t do anything brash.” Samwell warned, raising a hand at the Harbinger. “Lady Sun’rael will simply be escorted out… but an undead such as yourself wouldn’t be let off so easily.” Rethandus scowled at the Human, pacing back and forth while Istrys disappeared down the hallway.

“Your hatred for my kind is not unfounded.” He hissed through his frozen teeth. “But you have called upon the Undead to defend this world, your homes, only to cast us aside when during brief times of peace. Continue to treat us like animals, and the next time you call for us, we may not answer.” Samwell simply shrugged at him and turned away to leave with a smug grin on his face.

Tyrasam pursed her lips while she watched them. She knew Whitstan killed her husband but she refrained from telling the High Justicar in fear that he would execute the former Spell Breaker as well. Slowly she opened the door to her podium and stepped out of it, visibly conflicted with the information she acquired during this so-called trial. After a few moments of deep breathing and self reflection, the Paladin turned to enter the hallway Istrys was dragged off into.

Collaborinos: @whitstanwilhelm @k-sunrael @istrys

Turning Pages Turned to Stone Pt 1

“La la la la laaaaa~” Istrys walked through the forlorn halls of the Ebon Hold with a skip in her step, clutching the large sack of her goods over her shoulder. Snagging the reagents from Quel’thalas went off without a hitch, despite running into the Oathguard Commander herself; Whitstan remained skeptical of her presence there, but the fib she managed to cook up on the spot was enough to lure them off her scent. The Necromancer failed to find Lilthessa’s whereabouts, but that was hardly a pressing issue. Eventually she would find that scheming witch, one way or another.

“Halt, Rider of Unholy.” A Death Knight called from across the hall, just as she made it to her chambers. “You are Istrys Bloodwake of the Oathguard, correct?” The Necromancer perked a brow while she opened her door, turning to narrow her eyes at the three Undead that stood behind her. They were adorned in Mograine’s personal colors, no doubt projecting their self-importance all over the place; the one that talked was a human, accompanied by a night elf and a tauren. None of them looked friendly, even for Death Knights.

“Who’s asking?” Istrys asked, dropping the sack inside before turning to face them.

“You have been summoned before the Grand Council for trial.” He slowly unrolled a scroll that revealed the infuriating insignia of the High Justicars. She had only seen it once before, when Zerethel was explaining Alucieus’ rank among them aboard the Zaldrannar; it felt like years ago.

“Trial?! For what?!” Istrys asked, slamming her door. “I’ve been on my very best behavior for weeks! Months even!”

“You stand accused for your crimes against High Justicar Sun’rael, for the downfall of Zaldrannar and the death of Councilor Kash’kaar, among many others.” The Human stared at her menacingly, while his two colleagues remained silent. “You will have to come with me immediately.”

“And here I thought I was finally leaving that business behind me for good.” Istrys sneered, watching them carefully. The idea of paying for both her actions and inaction aboard the Zaldrannar was frustrating to say the least, especially after she finally achieved some level of trust with the current commander of the Oathguard, Kaevia Sun’rael; but at the end of the day, she was not a High Justicar like her father. She held little to no authority over their operations, and couldn’t persuade them out of their recent decisions. Now that the other High Justicars turned their attention on the Necromancer, she was likely in a world of trouble; especially with Alucieus still invalid in the hospital in the heart of Dalaran. “And what if I refuse their… compelling request?” Istrys asked, noticing the furtive shift in their movements; one of them subtly placed their hand on the hilt of their runeblade.

“Unfortunately it isn’t a request.” The Tauren huffed through his half-eaten snout. “You are under arrest. You may leave your runesword here- or we will confiscate it before we turn you over.”

“We cannot defeat them.” Vesk’s voice whispered in the back of her head, after weeks of silence. “I know little of these Justicars… but it feels unwise to challenge them.” Istrys clenched her fist while she glowered at them for several moments, choosing to drop her sheathed runesword off her back to toss into her chambers.

“Do you three enjoy being on the beck and call of those Redbloods?” She sneered, causing them to unsheath their weapons.

“We won't ask you again, necromancer.” The Human huffed, clutching his blades tightly; they were too close to fight, and she didn't have enough corpse dust on her to adequately defend herself; even if she did manage to kill them, she would be on the run from the High Justicars for decades, perhaps even centuries.

“Fine, fine. I'll come along quietly, Paladin Puppets.” She huffed, turning back around to see one of them withdraw a pair of shackles. “You will tell my Commander about this, right?”

“Your armor.” The Tauren started, eyeing her up and down while he avoided her question. “Remove it.”

“What?! Why would I do that?!” Istrys shouted indignantly.

“You’re a Runesmith. Most of your runes are etched into your armor.” The Human watched her menacingly. “Remove your armor or we will remove it for you.” Istrys scowled at them while she began to undress, letting her shoulder plates and gauntlets fall onto the floor first; much to her displeasure they watched her in silence, catching a furtive grin from the human. They were enjoying her humiliation, but their entertainment would not go unpunished.

“You three will pay for this.” the Necromancer hissed through her clenched teeth, with her sense of humor and resilient sass long gone.

“Be quiet and keep pace.” The Night Elf hissed, tossing her a large cloth cloak to drape over her naked body. “If you try and resist I will break both of your hands.” Istrys opened her mouth to dare him to threaten her again, but the Val’kyr silencing her discouraged from angering the Knights any further. She turned to glance over her shoulder before they turned the corner, gazing wearily at her chambers; Rethandus’ runes would have to wait.

A shock of Holy Light jolted through her back from the Night Elf the moment they turned the corner, causing her body to lock up while she collapsed face-first onto the floor. “F-fuuuck….” she managed to mutter under her breath before she fell unconscious.

“Where is that woman?!” Rethandus huffed, slamming his fists onto the table; he tried to be patient while the Necromancer did her errands, but his patience was at an end. Istrys insisted she needed to go to Quel’Thalas alone, likely to try and find the witch that was spying on them, but she was taking far too long for his liking. The Harbinger slowly rose to his feet, choosing to go out for a walk to clear his head. When he opened his door, an unfamiliar Death Knight stood in his way.

“Oh- good evening First Sergeant Rethandus. I’m glad I caught you on your way out.” The Blood Elf started, extending his hand for a handshake; the Harbinger narrowed his eyes at him, but kept his hands to his sides. “I’m assuming Istrys is still under your jurisdiction?”

“She is.” Rethandus glanced down to see the fellow undead offering him a scroll, and a large sack carrying what was clearly her discarded armor.

“She is set to appear before the High Justicars of the Holy Light, in the Eastern Plaguelands- Light’s Hope Chapel, to be precise. Here are the directions to get there, as well as the terms of her court proceedings.” He saluted the Harbinger before abruptly turning to leave, allowing the Harbinger open the scroll to see for himself. He cursed beneath his breath when he opened it, seeing the insignia of the High Justicars.

“Not good.” Rethandus hissed through his teeth, crumbling the scroll up out of spite. “Not good at all.” He already knew why the High Justicars wanted her, but killing those they wanted to reprimand and punish was never their style.

An informal pardon from Alucieus himself aboard Zaldrannar: the Black Judge before it's decay and ultimate destruction wasn’t enough to convince the other High Justicars, it seemed. To attempt taking one High Justicar’s life was an affront on the entire order, and clearly they took it far more seriously than most; but to wait so many months before arresting her felt unorthodox from how they usually operate. If they planned to hold her trial beneath Light’s Hope Chapel, she would be at the mercy of the Light, and she would likely die from over-exposure.

With luck he would reach the Necromancer before that happened.

The Vinterblot Pt 10 (Finale)

Rethandus stood still as a faint hissing whispered beneath the pounding rain. The light of a fuse shot from between his treads, side by side with other burning fuses that vanished into the darkness before him. After a delay of silence, a series of violent explosions split the air around them in half, flinging body parts and gore in every direction; the dead forest was now aflame, bathing the land in a sinister orange glow. The second round of fuses were lit, detonating traps that were much closer to the defenders on the outside of the wall. The Death Knight covered his face from the blinding flash and burning debris while the sonic boom nearly knocked most of them off their feet. “ADVANCE!” He shouted, charging forward into the blazing forest.

His first target was caught off guard from the traps, deafened by the explosions and engulfed in fire. The Death Knight swung his runeblade down and buried into the worgen’s back; the beast let out a pained howl before the second blade struck it in the back of its head, causing its burning body to collapse into the bloodied dirt and snow. Another worgen leapt out of the fiery haze faster than he anticipated, slamming dead center in his stomach. They flew twenty feet through the air before touching the ground again, rolling several more feet while he struggled to fend off his attacker. The worgen’s claws slashed his chest and shoulders, scratching his armor in a frenzied attempt to tear the elf apart. Rethandus saw his opportunity to retaliate and shot his hand up, snatching the beast by the throat. His frost runes lit up in an eerie blue, freezing its lower jaw solid. His other fist side-swiped his attacker, shattering the ice while removing half of the worgen’s face.

Rethandus was barely on his feet before another one of Whitstan’s hounds lunged at him with startling speed, but he was ready this time; he froze his blood solid and turned himself into a pillar of ice, catching the worgen beast the moment it crashed into him. He slid a few feet thanks to the slick blood that continued to pour in the forest, but the sudden and violent obliteration of the beast’s velocity almost knocked it unconscious. The Death Knight lifted it high over his head and slammed it into the ground at his feet as hard as he could, shattering the beast’s spine and crushing most of its ribs. It howled in agony but an icy boot came down hard against its chin, crushing its skull like a grape. The other defenders finally caught up to assist him, catching several other frenzied worgen midair with their spells and weapons. “Any further out and we’ll be out of range of our support. Hold position here.” Rethandus commanded, turning to glance over his shoulder at the others. “Form a defensive perimeter to halt their adv-”

“Look out!” Gokarsh bellowed before slamming into Rethandus’ side. Several tendrils of pure shadow lashed out from the darkness, slashing the chest open of one of the defenders while beheading another. “Arveld and Vinnie are down! The Triptych Cult is here! Get behind something!” Rethandus scrambled back to his feet to prevent another tendril from taking his arms off, leaping to cover behind a thick tree. He could barely make out their silhouettes in the distance, and the intensity of their spells empowered by the eclipse made it foolhardy to run out in the open to challenge them. “Damnit! We can’t kill what we can’t see!”

“Gokarsh, Kito! On me!” The Death Knight bellowed, hunkering down as chunks of the tree were torn off from the cultists’ foul magic. An Orc and a Forsaken leapt to Rethandus’ side, covering their heads in tandem of the now destroyed tree to await further orders. “If we can’t disrupt their chanting we won’t last out here. I want both of you at my side when I charge in- understand?!”

“Dabu!” Gokarsh huffed, clutching his axe tightly.

“Ready to kill.” Kito hissed through his snaggled teeth.

“On three! One… two… three! Go now!” Rethandus pushed off his cover and dashed madly into the darkness. He focused his aggression on the first silhouette he spotted deep in the burning forest. These cultists were vastly different than the ones that infiltrated the Bloodsworn Vanguard Halls; the influence of the Triptych was on full display, warping their bodies and forever disfiguring them. This one in particular erupted out of its shroud the moment it noticed the Death Knight, lashing out with its own intestines to ensnare him. Rethandus rolled forward and to the left, avoiding the entrails entirely; his runeblades were buried in its open gut, which turned out to be a mistake.

“Shuragg shurag’vo ko’theem.” The cultist whispered through a gaping hole in its throat, causing his entrails to wrap around Rethandus’ arms, preventing him from ripping his blades out. A ghostly hand shot out toward his face, and the unnaturally long fingers wrapped around his head. “Myrg’thig ptuuz…” it laughed, seemingly immune to the frost magic that he was using to freeze its body solid.

“Your Vanguard will be defeated.” A sinister voice echoed in his mind, tearing away any and all focus he had while disorienting him. “Your Zion will be devoured. Your existence will be destroyed.” It began to pull the ensnared Death Knight into its gut, wrapping its intestines around his waist and neck to further draw him in. “Your will belongs to Vyrl. O Hanging God, unborn fetus of a dying world; we are your humble servants.”

“RaaaaaAAAAGH!” Rethandus surged with power in his unholy frenzy, enraged at the mention of her name. The cultist screamed as the Death Knight’s hand closed around its spine, snapping it in half like a twig. Another twist in the opposite direction and he was released. The cult collapsed on the ground, flailing madly before a frozen boot came down hard on its rotting face.

Another cultist came charging at him, opening its robes to reveal a thousand teeth lining a massive gash along its pale chest. He was unable to free his blades in time before the cultist leapt at him. Out of options he raised his hand as best he could, sending a howling blast of ice to tear at its legs to slow its advance. The blood rain turned out to be more of a blessing than a curse, allowing him to freeze it with little effort despite the cultists’ peculiar resistance to Frost Magic.

“Lok’tar ogar!” Gokarsh came flying through the air with his axe over his head, pouring every ounce of raw orcish might into an overhead slash that cleaved the snared cultist in half; he severed the head of the dead cultist with another swing, just to make sure it wouldn’t get up again. “Rethandus! We shouldn’t be out this far! We need to fall back!”

“Agreed, we’re beyond the range of the wall.” The Death Knight angrily ripped the last tendril off of his leg. “Where did Kito go?!” Rethandus strained his eyes to see through the burning smoke of the forest fire, but the silhouettes flicking just out of view were too unrecognizable. He had little time to think about that Forsaken’s whereabouts before thundering footsteps shook the earth beneath their feet. Gokarsh and Rethandus both shot each other glances before diving in different directions to cover. Something not of this world let forth a guttural bellow, causing the dead canopy above their heads to tremble.

A horde of cultists drunk off the power of Old Gods lurched through the smoke unfazed, whispering to themselves with their elongated mouths and rows upon rows of jagged teeth. Rethandus clutched both of his runeblades while he hid in the bushes, waiting for the perfect time to strike them all down; but the aberration they escorted stopped him dead in his tracks. An amalgamation of an undetermined amount of wailing souls and stolen flesh lumbered through the dead wood. Its skin was as pitch black as the night sky, painfully stretched over solid muscle; its pearly white head sported two soulless eyes, and a ravenous maw that crunched down on a rotting flank of meat between its massive teeth. Rethandus looked across the way to see Gokarsh wisely choosing to stay hidden, letting this monster and its underlings pass by without incident. They both scrambled up onto their feet the moment it was out of sight.

“What do we do..?!” The Orc huffed under his breath, fearing something equally terrifying would be just around the corner. “That… thing looked like it would have little trouble smashing through the wall…!”

“We can’t take it down ourselves. And we can’t let the others outside the wall face that thing themselves.” Rethandus stroked his chin for a second before glancing in the direction of the Bloodsworn Vanguard Halls. “We need to get back to the wall and warn them before it’s too late.”

“And Kito…?” Gokarsh perked a brow, unsure whether it was a good idea to let that Rogue run around out here by himself. Rethandus said nothing as he reached down, plucking up a chewed arm from the blood gorged grass.

“He’s beyond our help now.” The Death Knight grimaced, tossing the appendage away. “Let’s move.” The outer defenses of the Bloodsworn Vanguard were waning, but most of them were still on their feet. By the time Rethandus and Gokarsh regrouped with them most of the defenders were growing exhausted by the constant surge of feral worgen and zealous cultists; they fought beside piles of corpses, while the riflemen and magi along the wall continued their barrage into the forest.

“We thought you two were dead!” A Sin’dorei Cleric gasped, bathing a nearby ally in the Holy Light to get him back on his feet. “Where’s Kito? He was right behind you wasn’t he?!”

“He’s dead, Katari.” Gokarsh huffed, kneeling to catch his breath. “We will be too if we don’t retreat.”

“Retreat?! We’re the Bloodsworn Vanguard! We never retreat!” The Cleric scoffed, twirling his hammer around in his right hand. “We just need to hold out a little bit-” a guttural roar caused the three to whip around and glare fearfully into the orange blaze behind them. “What was…?!”

“We’re sitting ducks out here- fall back!” Rethandus commanded, plucking his Horn of Winter from his waist; although it was covered in blood and bile, it was still loud enough to boom over the chaos of this battle, signaling the outer defenses were lost. Rope dropped down from their support, allowing those still standing to climb up without having to open the portcullis. Katari cursed under his breath while he turned, clearly frustrated with this retreat; but Gokarsh and Rethandus knew better, knowing they would need all of the defenders combined effort to take that monstrosity down.

“Welcome back.” Ijiro called out, reaching down to help pull the Death Knight to his feet. “Looks like you’ve seen some real sh*t, yeah?”

“A creature is on our way to breach the wall. We may slow it down, but we don’t have enough men to stop it.” Rethandus glared at the Hunter. “If it reaches the Council Tower…”

“You better get a move on then.” Ijiro slipped an anti-tank round into his rifle and turned to point it down into the darkness. “I’ll slow it down as much as I can, yeah? Make sure the Councilor knows what’s coming.”

“Karsh, take a breather if you’re exhausted.” Rethandus huffed, quickly glancing in the Orc’s direction.

“No, you stay here and protect Del’daro.” He retorted, using his axe as a cane to support himself. “I’ll go warn the Councilor.”

“So be it.” the Death Knight stood alongside the Hunter, who knelt beside the railing of the wall. “Aim for the legs, don’t bother with the head. I doubt you’ll be able to kill it.”

“So that ugly, yeah?” Ijiro perked a brow, letting the other defenders along the wall pick off the enemies down below. “How will I know when it shows up?”

“You’ll know.” Rethandus narrowed his eyes, stepping away from the Hunter to handle the problems currently scaling the wall. Once the worgen reached the top, it was greeted with a howling blast of ice; the Death Knight buried both of his blades into the beast’s chest, prying it open like an overstuffed bag of pork. Another worgen leapt at him from below, but Rethandus was ready. He took a step back, slinging a chain of ice out that wrapped around its throat during its ascent. The Death Knight violently yanked down, snapping the worgen’s neck and killing it before it even hit the floor.

“f*ck me sideways!” Ijiro shouted, shortly before firing into the darkness. Rethandus glanced over his shoulder to see that lumbering beast stagger from the shot, but instead of slowing down all Ijiro did was piss it off. The unholy creation let out a bellow that shook the walls and nearly knocked Rethandus off his feet, shortly before charging forward with startling speed. “f*ck f*ck f*ck!” Ijiro fired again and again, but the meaty legs of the beast were moving around too fast for an accurate shot.

Rethandus wrapped a chain of ice around the Hunter’s waist and yanked him out of the way, pulling him into his arms before leaping off into the courtyard. They were showered with dust and debris before they even reached the ground, buried under rubble from how easily the beast was able to tear through the wall. The Triptych Cult now had unhindered access to the heart of the Bloodsworn Vanguard Halls, using their aberration level the nearby buildings with its two nightmarish appendages.

“Are you alright?” Rethandus pushed a large stone rock away from their bodies, as Ijiro struggled to rise to his feet. “Can you walk?”

“Right leg feels like sh*t…” the Hunter winced, almost collapsing onto his face. “Go on- find a way to kill that thing. If it knocks the Council Tower down this battle is lost and we’re all as good as dead.” The Death Knight dragged him over to a corner, hoping no worgen or cultist found him while he was otherwise defenseless. “And Rethandus…?” Ijiro hissed, grimacing as pain shot up through his leg. “Don’t do anything stupid, yeah? You’ve f*cked up once… let’s not make the same mistake twice.”

“Stay hidden, stay alive.” Rethandus waved him off before turning to sprint down the destructive wake left behind by that creature. He ran as hard and as fast as he could, suddenly feeling unusually alone; the silence surrounding him and the lack of both friend and foe was particularly unsettling, but the Death Knight clutched the hilts of his blades and maintained his speed all the same. An eruption of fire in the direction he was running compelled him to pick up the pace, as Zerethel was finally engaged in battle.

The monstrosity reared up and screeched, flailing its front legs and appendages wildly in a desperate attempt to put the devouring flames out. The Councilor took in a deep breath beneath the pouring blood rain, releasing another blast of blue flame to smash and engulf the creature. Cultists moved in to surround the Pyromancer in an attempt to impale him with their magic, but they underestimated his awareness.

Zerethel’s merciless flames swept across the bloody streets, filling the nearby alleyways with screaming cultists and disintegrating worgen. The amalgamation charged forward in an attempt to trample him, letting out a blood-curdling screech as the flames continued to eat at its legs and chest. The Councilor disappeared in a cloud of billowing smoke from the now decimated tavern he once stood in front of; but a blinding white flash of his incantation revealed his position before more of his flames enveloped the creature’s flank. “Die!” Zerethel bellowed, pouring all of his incarnate wrath into a flurry of pyroblasts. It roared in agony before toppling onto its side, no longer capable of withstanding the spellflame that cut through its thick hide. “DIE!” He continued to walk toward it, ducking just in time to avoid one of its outstretched appendages before another wave of his flames struck the inflamed monster.

Rethandus moved in to dispatch the cultists that accompanied the creature, choosing to tear through the ones who weren’t being eaten by Zerethel’s flames first. They chattered loudly while they winced away from the flames, seemingly injured simply by the light that was cast upon them. Rethandus buried one of his blades into the back of the nearest cultist, reaching around with an open gauntlet to snap the bastard’s neck. He moved to the next one as quickly as he could, slamming his boot into the back of its knee to force it to collapse. The blood rain suddenly stopped its downpour, long after it had flooded most of the land. The Death Knight was knee-deep in filth by the time he had reached the last crazed zealot of the bunch, choosing to lop its head off with one clean strike. Zerethel stood over the twitching monstrosity, still funneling his flames into its exposed underside. Although his roaring flames were nearly deafening this close, the look on his face while his spellflame cut through the creature was that of pure ecstasy; he was laughing at such brutal carnage, enjoying this victory far more than he possibly should.

“Rethandus!” an unmistakable voice called out from above, snatching his attention away from the Pyromancer. Zion stood along the roof of a destroyed building, waving her arms to get his attention. “Do you need a hand?”

“Zion?!” He coughed, losing his footing and nearly dunking himself beneath the blood current. “What are you doing here?! I told you to stay with the caravan!” A worgen crawled up along the other end of the crumbling building, causing the Death Knight’s eyes to widen. “Look out!” As it lunged at her, her ghoul stepped in its path and took the blow, wrapping its arms around the beast to prevent it from escaping. She turned around and buried her runesword into its back before it could tear her ghoul apart.

“The caravan reached the Eastern Plaguelands by the time I turned back. We fight our battles together, whether you like it or not.” Zion looked around for a good place to reach the ground without diving into absolute filth, but thanks to that cursed rain her options were severely limited. “Hurry up and get up here! I need to make sure none of that blood is yours!” Zerethel’s cackling laughter was abruptly cut short, replaced with an anguished scream; one of his arms collapsed into the bloodstained soil as he crumbled onto his back.

Whitstan’s lifeless eyes flickered in the darkness, his body faintly illuminated by his hellish blade. The shock and agony of losing his arm prevented Zerethel from casting any spells to defend himself. Whitstan buried the top of his seething runesword into the severed arm, causing it to rapidly decay and rot from a plethora of virulent diseases. “You let your guard down, old friend.” He casually spoke, glaring down at the wounded Pyromancer. “It will be your last mistake.”

“The Councilor is down! Protect him!” Gokarsh bellowed before tearing his face out of a cultist’s head. Every defender within earshot bolted to Zerethel’s aid, invoking a cruel grin to spread across Whitstan’s face.

He smacked the blade of Katari away and caught him by the throat. With a surge of unholy power Whitstan squeezed his head hard enough to pop it like an overdue zit. He dashed forward faster than the defenders were prepared for, slamming his shoulder into another victim to implode his chestplate and chest cavity. Whitstan’s blade whipped around, clipping another’s face and blinding him; he staggered back in pain, clutching his face as the skin and bone began to rapidly rot from the unstable necrosis. Zerethel gasped out in agony while he channeled his flames into his hand, cauterizing what remained of his arm to prevent any more blood loss, as well as stopping Whitstan’s infection; the agony he endured left him incapacitated. Laying in the blood and dirt focusing on breathing was the only thing stopping him from slipping out of consciousness.

“Zerethel needs our help…!” Zion started, glancing back and forth between Rethandus and the path Whitstan was carving to get to the downed Councilor.

“Lord Sun’rael will handle it!” the Death Knight barked, picking up his pace; he was more than willing to freeze her to the roof, but he needed to reach her first. Whitstan shot out his outstretched hand, ripping an archer off a nearby building. The defender let out a gurgling screech the moment he landed on the accursed runesword, rotting away before their very eyes as Whitstan pumped his body with otherworldly diseases.

“People are getting slaughtered!” She began to pace back and forth, unsure if she should pull Rethandus out of the muck, or rush to Zerethel’s defense.

“Don't you f*cking dare!” Rethandus hissed, thrashing against the bodies that entangled him. “Get out of here! NOW!” She gave the Death Knight one last glance before breaking off into a sprint toward the Councilor. “Wha- Zion?! f*ck!” Rethandus was able to steady his footing on a corpse sunken beneath the blood, allowing him to accurately throw his icy chains toward the building; pulling himself out of the grime was much easier now that he was anchored to something sturdy.

Gokarsh dropped his father's axe before collapsing to his knees. The Orc Warrior vomited a quarter of his weight in blood and bile, staring defiantly up at the elf that managed to best him. “Victory… o-or… d-dea-” Whitstan denied him the time to finish his last words, plunging his runesword through Gokarsh’s collar until the hilt stopped at his neck. When he retrieved his insidious blade from Gokarsh’s corpse, he let it fall limp and lifeless at his feet. The few defenders that survived Whitstan’s onslaught trembled away in fear, surrounded by the crumbled bodies of their allies and friends; Zerethel was alone and defenseless, and ready to reborn anew in his service. He reached out to grab him by the ankle to take his prize back with him, but the weak crackle of shadow magic filled his ears, yanking Zerethel out of his reach. A woman now stood in his path, clutching her runesword tightly with her ghoul shambling to her side.

“Another fool gets in my way.” Whitstan sighed, standing up straight to face her while cultists and worgen alike continued to battle around them. “What's worse, you too have turned your back on the grave.”

“Zion! Zion run!” Rethandus called out, finally free from the clinging muck and filth. He charged forward with everything he had, desperate to reach her before it was too late; but Whitstan’s pawns swarmed and impeded him.

“Now it's all starting to make sense.” Whitstan took a step forward while he tightened his grip on his runesword. “I can see why Rethandus would decline my offer now. He needs to protect his… wilted flower.”

“Not another step!” Zion warned, glaring at him. “You aren't going to lay another finger on the Councilor!” Whitstan chuckled to himself, noticing her blade was trembling in her hands.

“You're welcome to try and stop me.” he grinned, taking another step forward while he casually sheathed his sword. Zion didn’t hesitate when she charged forward, sending her ravenous ghoul in first to take the first strike. As expected he tore through the ghoul with ease, barely exerting any effort; but the remains violently erupted in his face, forcing him to close his eyes for just a split second. Zion ran low and fast, dragging her sword through the dirt for an upward slash across his chest.

Whitstan caught her sword with his gauntlet without even looking. His elbow came down immediately after, and shattered the sword into pieces. Before she could retreat for a counter his knee shot up into her stomach, imploding her armor while breaking several ribs. Whitstan grabbed one of her arms during her recoil, sending the back of his gauntlet into her face; several of her teeth scattered across the ground. Whitstan held her suspended in the air while he closed his fist, sending it back into her face. His ears twitched to the sound of her neck breaking, causing her body to fall limp.

“You fight like him.” He sneered, dropping her with fading interest. “Did he teach you how to fight as well? Pathetic.” Whitstan glanced over to see Rethandus still struggling to reach them, too preoccupied with his fodder to see what had happened. The woman crumbled at his feet gasped out in pain, revealing she survived his beatdown, but was likely paralyzed from the neck down. “Watch how Rethandus struggles.” He started, lifting the woman up by her hair so she could gaze at him. “He has only a few left to defeat until his path to us is clear. But he won’t make it in time.”

“R-Rethandus will avenge m-me…” Zion coughed, as her ichor dripped from the corners of her lips. Whitstan shrugged nonchalantly, remaining silent until the Death Knight finished the last cultist in his way.

“I’m looking forward to it.” Whitstan whispered in her ear, placing his boot on her shoulder while he clasped both of his hands around her mouth and chin.

“ZION…?!” Rethandus’ eyes widened in horror at the sound of her muffled screaming, and the wet snapping of her bones shattering under Whitstan’s strength; he dropped his runeblades and collapsed to his feet, stunned as Whitstan held Zion’s severed head. “ZION! ZIIIIOOOOONNN!”

“Now you have no more distractions.” Whitstan looked into her fading eyes before casually tossing her head over his shoulder. “Come here. You will be joining her soon.” Rethandus’ body shuddered while he screamed, surging with unholy power while his frost runes on his armor and blades ran amok. He stared at her headless corpse laying flat in the bloodstained dirt, incapable of coherent thought while he struggled to process what had just happened before his very eyes.

Zion was pure. She was a beacon in his existence, keeping him steady on the path away from useless self-destruction. The single glimmering light he could focus on when he was surrounded in darkness, and now that light was snuffed out. The Death Knight could barely hear his own screaming, completely oblivious to the chaos surrounding him. All he could see was the corpse of the woman he failed, and the cruel grin of the elf who took her away from him. Whitstan was enjoying his despair, drinking in his sorrow like an aged wine. Desperation and fear abandoned Rethandus the instant he snapped out of his stupor, replaced with agony, regret, and unbridled hatred.

“Well?” Whitstan started, raising his hands. “You won't be able to avenge her if-...” he stopped mid sentence from a familiar tingling sensation crawling along his skin; the faint whistling of an indistinguishable object caught Whitstan’s attention, compelling him to glance over his shoulder.

A shield of blinding light spun through the air toward him; he spun around as quickly as he could, smacking the shield away with the back of his hand. He drew his sword in response, trying to see through the chaos of battle surrounding him to find his target. “Show yourself you coward.” He hissed through clenched teeth.

An elf clad in white and gold laced armor leapt high through the billowing smoke. He arched his back in his descent, leaning forward with a shield wall the length of a man; Whitstan jumped out of the way, feeling the Holy Light singe his flesh despite the surprise attack missing. They glared at each other while they cautiously strafed in a circle.

“Sun’rael.” Whitstan grinned, rolling one of his shoulders. “Your champions are scattered. Your men are dead. Victory is mine.” Alucieus narrowed his gaze at the Undead but said nothing, raising his shield wall before rushing forward. Whitstan dashed forward and challenged his opponent’s strength with a surge of unholy power poured into a brutal swing; when they clashed their weapons together, the Holy Light jolted through Whitstan’s body, electrifying his bones and scorching his skin. The Undead stumbled back to recover from the agony reverberating through his body, but Alucieus continued his assault, quiet and unflinching in his resolve.

Rethandus came screaming from behind, with both of his runeblades frozen solid to his hands. The smirk across Whitstan’s face vanished as he was backed into the defensive. He ducked from a savage slash from behind, and slammed his elbow into Rethandus’ stomach to give himself some room. Raw unholy energy shot forth from his open palm, stirring several nearby corpses from their eternal rest. They immediately sprang to his defense, tackling the icy distraction so he could focus on the real threat. Alucieus swung his shield wall from above in an attempt to smash his opponent into the ground. Whitstan grit his teeth and parried the shield with his unrestrained power, scorching himself with the feedback while creating an opening. “Now you DIE!” Whitstan reached out to grasp the Justicar by the neck, but Alucieus was ready. He caught him by the wrist and poured the Holy Light into Whitstan’s hand; The Justicar’s boot slammed into Whitstan’s chest, knocking him down into the bloodstained dirt. The eclipse that draped the Bloodsworn Vanguard Halls in an unnatural night slowly began to vanish, bathing the ground in the mid-afternoon sunlight. “Impossible…!” Whitstan huffed, knowing this meant the Triptych was vanquished; without the power of the Old Gods’ twisted visage, the cultists were nearly powerless, cut down by the surviving defenders in rapid succession. His own armor began to wane without her influence, depleting his temporarily augmented power.

“This nightmare is over.” Alucieus huffed through his faceguard, gazing down at him with his piercing teal glare. He dropped his encumbering shield to free himself from the burden, and unsheathed a solid gladius from his back. Whitstan struggled to stand with the Holy Light wreaking havoc on his weakened body, and his ghouls were too preoccupied with keeping Rethandus out of the fight to assist him. “Stay still. I’ll make this quick.”

“You think your precious Light will save everyone?” Whitstan sneered, reaching for his sword. “The dead will wash over this land... and in undeath… all will be mine!” He lunged at Alucieus with a surge of unholy strength, holding his insidious sword close for a thrust intended to impale him dead center in his chest. The Justicar swung his blade down to challenge the Undead, causing a violent explosion of Light and Shadow Magic to erupt between them. Alucieus staggered back in the wake of the blast, his armor dented and seared from Whitstan’s blight; Whitstan on the other hand, lay crumbled in the dirt, with the shards of Alucieus’ shattered blade buried in his chest. He coughed up his own ichor as the Holy Light seeped into his core, tearing him apart from the inside out. His arms fell limp at his side from the paralysis, rendering him helpless before the Justicar. “How?... My runeblade … is unstoppable...”

“Nothing’s unstoppable.” Alucieus huffed, raising his open gauntlet. The Holy Light shimmered and danced along his fingertips until it formed a crackling spear. He held it aloft for several moments before pointing it down at the Undead. “Not even you.” The Justicar’s gaze shot upward from the sound of smoldering flames, and he shielded himself just as a barrage of chaos magic slammed into him. A slender witch riding atop a hulking worgen landed in between Alucieus and Whitstan.

“That’s enough playtime for now.” Doni’terian ran her tongue along her painted lips, glaring hatefully at the Justicar while her beast Nightcloud scooped Whitstan out of the dirt. “Don’t think you’ve won, Thalassian Puppet! Your Vanguard has shattered before us!” A demonic rift tore the air in half, allowing Nightcloud to back away to safety.

“NO!” Rethandus roared, finally free from Whitstan’s ghouls. He charged toward the portal with everything he had, seeing his opportunity to tear him apart for what he’s done. The Death Knight lunged at them with his two frozen runeblades, but the portal evanesced just as he reached it; Rethandus’ wrath hit nothing before he tumbled through the dirt, stopping on his chest a couple yards away. “No…! NO!... Zion…!” Alucieus watched him crawl over to a woman’s corpse, but he decided it was best not to address him.

“C-commander…” One of the defenders coughed, covered head-to-toe in blood with barely enough strength in reserves to continue standing. “What do we do now?”

“The witch was right. We lost this day.” Alucieus pulled his charred faceguard off and let it crash into the dirt beside his feet. “We defeated the Triptych and her zealots, but Whitstan managed to escape us. He will return, and the Bloodsworn Vanguard won’t be able to stop him.” The Justicar glanced over his shoulder to see Zerethel on his knees, using a flimsy stick to push himself back up onto his feet; the trauma of losing his arm and cauterizing it himself would likely take its toll on the rest of his body. “We must rebuild. Better. Stronger. We must be prepared for whatever Whitstan is planning next. We have to be ready for whatever he throws at us. Or all of these brave men who lost their lives today will be for nothing.”

Ijiro limped into view with his broken rifle slung over his shoulder, clutching a combat knife just in case a corpse decided to jump up at him. “I can’t expect you all to continue on after what you’ve seen today.” Alucieus continued, unclipping his soaked shroud from his back. “If you’ve had enough of this nightmare, I will not hold it against you; you are all free to leave, to return to your loved ones and heal. But know that as long as Whitstan walks this earth, those of us that remain will avenge those that paid the ultimate sacrifice.” Alucieus narrowed his gaze again at the sight of several people turning to flee, but he couldn’t blame them; a part of him wanted to take his lover Covaya and his daughter Kaevia far away from this place as well.

Rethandus fell silent once he plucked Zion’s remains out of the pool of blood, briefly walking through the blacksmith to fetch a shovel and a slab of stone. He carried her off to the north, finding a nice quiet hill far away from prying eyes. Once he found the perfect spot, he gently placed her beside him, closing her eyes with his trembling fingers before he began scooping dirt away for a proper grave. The Death Knight worked in silence for hours, constantly glancing over his shoulder at her still corpse to stop and stare at her. When the grave was deep enough he dropped the shovel and plucked her out of the grass again, gently rubbing a blotch of dry blood off of her cold, pale face. He knelt in the hole for what felt like forever, hesitant to cover her body with dirt. A part of him wanted to resurrect her. The thought of taking her to a necromancer flashed through his mind many times, but deep down he knew she was gone. Slowly he crawled out of the open grave a new man, but not for the better. Eventually he began to finish his work, shoveling loose dirt into the grave while he glared off at nothing.

“Rethandus.” The familiar voice compelled the Death Knight to glance over his shoulder, seeing the Councilor standing a few yards away; his arm was gone for good it seemed, and the shock from cauterizing it himself clearly took a heavy toll on his body. Zerethel clutched a makeshift cane, barely strong enough to stand up straight without it. “I’m sorry for what he’s done. Zion saved my life… and for that I am... humbled.”

“I failed her.” Rethandus weakly muttered as he tightened his grip on his shovel. “She deserved better than this. An unmarked grave in the middle of the woods…”

“What will you do now?” Zerethel asked, wearily taking a step forward.

“Train.” The Death Knight answered. “I need to perfect my technique if I want to stand a chance against him again.”

“So you will be joining us, then?”

“Whitstan wants you dead. You are his target.” Rethandus began packing in the last of the dirt. “Where you go I will follow.”

“And… your gift?” The Councilor asked, perking a brow.

“I’ve had enough of your fleshcrafting.” Rethandus pushed the stone slab into the head of the grave before turning to face the Pyromancer. “Hunger and exhaustion will only slow me down. I intend to push this accursed body to its very limit, and I can only do that while I remain undead.”

“Zion was his midwinter sacrifice. His vinterblot that has turned him away from the Living to better suit my needs.” Zerethel thought to himself, staring at the Death Knight in silence. “This hatred will prove useful in reshaping him into my ultimate weapon. The harbinger of Whitstan’s complete annihilation.” A wet wheeze slipped out of the back of his throat, causing him to stumble; but the slight cruel grin on the corner of his mouth remained. “Pain has taught you well, Rethandus, as it has taught me. Together we will send Whitstan to the Void where he belongs.” The Death Knight glanced over his shoulder at Zion’s grave, snapping the shovel in his grasp with a surge of unholy strength.

“Let us begin.” Rethandus hissed, as his pained grimace hardened into an icy scowl that would linger for many years to come.

The Vinterblot

Mentions: @whitstanwilhelm @k-sunrael

The Vinterblot Pt 9

Rethandus stared at his frozen gauntlet, gazing at the fractured light between his fingers from the sun along the horizon. He stood away from the other able-bodied defenders of the Bloodsworn Vanguard, remaining silent as the organization hustled around him. The Death Knight had spent the better half of a year getting used to his new body, a journey once thought impossible without Zion by his side for every step of the way. His armor was forged from titansteel and elementium, fresh off the anvil like his two new runeblades; at last he was prepared to take up arms against Whitstan and the darkness he would bring.

“I wanna fight!” Zeth squeaked at his father, grabbing the Death Knight's attention; the pouting child was standing near the back-end of a long train of wagons that were preparing to evacuate everyone unfit to defend the Bloodsworn Vanguard. His sister stood beside him, with her arms crossed and seemingly just as upset about this whole situation as he was. “I can be a hero too!”

“Aye, I know. You're my son, after all.” Ijiro smiled, running a hand through his son’s inky black hair. “But Syrahn needs a strong hero like yourself to protect the caravan, yeah? A lot of people are counting on you to help escort them to safety.”

“Dad, come with us.” Nairi insisted, no longer capable of standing there quietly. “I don’t want you to stay! It’s too dangerous!”

“I’ve gotta defend the Halls, you know that.” Ijiro smiled, pulling them both in for a hug. “I love you both. I love you both so very much. But this isn’t goodbye, yeah? I’m going to be fine.” The Hunter paused to smooch both of them on their foreheads, while Syrahn appeared from inside the wagon with blood on her hands and a weak smile on her lips. “Stay out of trouble, and protect each other until we reunite again.” He grabbed Zeth by the straps of his overalls and lifted him into the wagon, followed by lifting Nairi by the waist to help her up as well. “How about after all this business we go on a fishing trip. Wouldn’t that be fun, yeah?”

“Hey.” Zion grabbed Rethandus’ attention by gently taking him by the hand. “Are you sure you’re used to your body enough for this?”

“I’m certain.” The Death Knight quickly responded, turning to her. “But… I need you to go evacuate with the others.”

“That’s out of the question.” She huffed, releasing his hand. “We fight our battles together now. Remember?”

“I won’t be able to focus on killing these invaders if I have to worry about your safety.” The Death Knight moved to brush a lock of hair away from her face, but she jerked away from him in anger.

“You won’t have to worry about my safety.” Zion insisted, narrowing her brow at him. “You trained me to use this blade. I’m more than capable of killing evil.” Rethandus gave her a weak smile before crossing his arms. “I can use this blade just as well as you can now. Or do you think your training isn’t up for the task?”

“I don’t doubt your skill with the blade.” He started, watching her facial expressions intensely. “And I know you can cut these cultists down with ease, especially when I have your back. But these zealots and worgen filth aren’t what I’m worried about.”

“I’m not afraid of him.” Zion sneered indignantly, seemingly prepared to slap him again. “The caravan can get to safety just fine without me. And if you get hurt, who’s going to tend to your wounds? I’m the only one who can heal you.” Her raised voice started attracting the attention of the others, but the Death Knight didn’t pay them any attention. “I’m staying right here. Beside you.”

“The caravan isn’t going to follow the roads. They’re sticking to the cover of the trees, and who else knows this forest better than you do?” Rethandus stepped forward and approached her again, this time placing his hand firmly on her shoulder; she looked away from him, pursing her lips together to not say something she would regret. “Zion, please… I can’t risk losing you.”

“Everyone’s accounted for. We’re leaving!” Syrahn declared, knocking on the side of the wagon with the back of her hand. The caravan started their slow retreat, leaving the Bloodsworn Vanguard one by one. Zion glanced back at them before returning her worried gaze to the Death Knight.

“We’ll be together again soon.” Rethandus assured, letting go of her shoulder. “Once we beat these monsters back and claim Whitstan’s head as a trophy, we’ll be reunited. Maybe some of these cultists will have something valuable on them that will suit as a proper gift.” She stared into his eyes for several moments in silence, biting her lower lip while she wearily took a few steps away. “Zion, I know you want to stay, but I want you on that carav-” She muttered something under her breath while she quickly closed the gap between them, taking the Death Knight by surprise when she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down to her eye level.

Zion pressed her dry lips against his, quickly running her hands through his frozen hair to draw him even closer. Her kiss was surprisingly soft, stunning the Death Knight while returning a nostalgic feeling he thought he had long forgotten. Before he could react she released him, gazing deep into his eyes for a split second before turning her back to the Death Knight. Rethandus stood there stunned, watching the woman sprint away to leap onto the side of the caravan; Zion glanced back at him with hesitance in her eyes, before disappearing out of his sight.

“Ooh, a little something extra to fight for, yeah?” Ijiro laughed, nudging the Death Knight’s elbow. Rethandus shot his glare toward the Hunter, but the grimace on his face was short lived.

“Quiet you.” the Death Knight smirked, adjusting the sheathes tied to his waist while he turned around. “We need to get our heads out of the clouds and focus on this battle. It’s going to be a rough one.”

“True, true.” Ijiro yawned obnoxiously, stretching his arms as unnecessarily loudly as he possibly could. “Are you afraid, then? Of facing Whitstan’s frothing minions?”

“No.” He quickly answered, flexing his fingers in his gauntlets. “You?”

“Pfft. I’ve fought worse than this.” Ijiro rolled his shoulders while they both began walking to regroup with the others. “But uh… if I start screeching like a little girl and sh*t myself, do me a favor and tell my kids that I died like a hero, yeah?”

“Heh… fair enough.” Rethandus’ smirk slowly faded upon seeing Councilor Kash’kaar standing atop the wall on the other side of the Bloodsworn Vanguard Halls; the Pyromancer’s hardened scowl wasn’t a pleasant sight- but it was a welcome one. This would be the first time the Death Knight would see him fight, and it would be something he was looking forward to.

“There’s a good chance none of us will see the sunrise.” Zerethel shouted, already off to a fantastic start. “The Triptych is coming for us, accompanied by Gods know how many of its followers. With them are Whitstan’s worgen elite, hand-picked from the throngs of the ruined Gilneas. And lastly, we have Whitstan himself; once my closest friend, now my greatest enemy. Our greatest enemy.” He paused to wheeze, resisting the urge to clutch at his chest again. “But the Bloodsworn Vanguard doesn’t fear death. We’ve fought Whitstan’s forces before, and prevailed! The Triptych can’t hold a candle to the Cult of the Damned, and when we faced their might in Northrend, we prevailed! You all have experience in killing those that would slaughter our families and raze our homes. We are the first and last defense of Quel’thalas against Whitstan and his so-called Second Scourge. Each and every one of you will prove our might as we bathe in the blood of these wretches and their masters that birthed them! They will slam into us with everything they have, but we have faced much worse, have we not?!” The crowd around Rethandus and Ijiro raised their fists into the air and shouted as one, causing the Death Knight to glance around while his smirk partially returned.

“Look!” one of the defenders shouted, pointing up to the sky. “Look at the sun…!” A giant disc as black as pitch slowly appeared beside the sun, gradually snuffing it out in a solar eclipse; but instead of the once blue sky turning black, it began to shimmer a sanguine red, dropping the land around them in a deep crimson.

“She is here.” Zerethel announced, grinning fiendishly. “They plan to finish this quickly. Prepare yourselves and watch each other's backs. This battle may end in an hour, just as easily as it could last we'll into tomorrow morning.”

“We can kill cultists…” Ijiro started, glancing around. “But what about the Triptych itself? We risk madness if we get too close.”

“That's where I come in.” Areus spoke out, keeping his back against a wall while he took another puff of his pipe; even though his blindfold covered his eyes, he was still able to look in their general direction. Nobody dared question the mysterious magic that granted him some sort of sight, but if he was confident enough to take care of that problem himself, then they had little to worry about. “I'm going to take it down before its chosen vessel even reaches the walls. Try not to think about it.”

“The Commander will be joining the battle soon, but he won't make himself known until after Whitstan reveals himself.” Zerethel explained, preemptively answering what would no doubt be the next of their many questions. “After all, he is their primary target. If he dies, the Bloodsworn Vanguard dies with him.” Areus didn't say another word while he sidestepped away from the defenders, vanishing in the cover of the red eclipse’s suffocating darkness.

“What the f*ck…?” Ijiro murmured, raising an open palm once he began to feel droplets hitting his face; he scrunched his nose up the moment he sniffed his hand. “Holy sh*t… is it raining… blood?!”

“Seems like it.” Rethandus huffed, glancing up into the sky while others began to notice too. “Not a single cloud. This rain is definitely the Triptych’s doing. It must be trying to frighten us.”

“How cute, it’s learned a new trick.” Zerethel waved his hand dismissively, seemingly ignoring the blood rain splattered across his face and staining his robes. “Rethandus, take some men over the wall to meet these invaders in the forest. Thin their numbers before they reach the Halls. Ijiro, take up a defensive position along the wall, and provide support. I will be in charge of defending the courtyard.” The Pyromancer wheezed hoarsely, rubbing blood away from his eyes while he glared down at the defenders; even though they had close to two hundred volunteers, he knew they were still outmatched and outnumbered. “Do not let them breach the Council Tower! Do not let them overwhelm Lord Sun’rael! And do not let Whitstan escape our wrath in one piece! For the Vanguard!”

“FOR THE VANGUARD!” the defenders raised their weapons and shouted in unison, filling the air with their vengeful war cries. Rethandus remained silent, mentally preparing himself for the imminent battle. Forty of the Vanguard’s best men rallied behind the Death Knight while he began to make his way through the gate; but as he passed Zerethel, the Pyromancer reached out and stopped him by firmly grabbing his shoulder.

“Andu’al.” he glowered in a hushed tone. “If you spot him in the forest… do not engage him alone.”

“Understood.” Rethandus nodded, glancing over at him before continuing outside. The rain was at a downpour now, covering the dead grass and melting snow with slick pools of blood. The eclipse remained a constant presence in the back of the Death Knight’s mind, knowing whatever madness the Triptych planned to unleash upon the Bloodsworn Vanguard was quickly approaching. “Men of the Vanguard!” He shouted, unsheathing his glowing runeblades. The distant sound of screaming and the approaching of numerous footsteps filled his body with the thrill of combat.

“Prepare yourselves!”

Mentions: @areussunrael

The Vinterblot Pt 8

He couldn’t tell exactly how many days he had spent confined in the blacksmith. His only source of assessment came from Zion visiting him after every nightshift to take care of him, but he struggled with too many cruel truths to keep count. The ashes of his original body still rested scattered across the floor; the body he grew up with, the scars he earned during his training, even the bite marks from his troublesome youth were all gone. Using some poor soul’s body as a replacement was a difficult concept to grasp, and it was something he struggled with everyday and every night. Zerethel was not the man he was hoping for. He had always viewed him as an elf with mildew morals, always operating in the grey area of right and wrong. But this was a whole new level of its own. Whatever foul magic he used to empower this vessel was hindering the Death Knight’s ability to control it. Rethandus had always been well built decades before being raised into Undeath, but before he was light, agile, and precise; with this new body he felt slower, heavier and significantly stronger, not unlike an abomination.

Zion was always there, arriving to help him for the majority of each day. She would arrive with a cage filled with several woodland critters ravaged by the plague, helping him dull the edge of his maddening curse. Day in, day out, she would also keep tabs on his progress, writing everything he accomplished down for the Councilor. When she would leave for her shift along the wall, she would make sure the Death Knight was comfortable before departing. It was during these hours when he was alone, that he would reach the darkest reaches of his mind.

He was a freak. A monster hastily stitched together for one single purpose: vengeance. Even if he managed to kill Whitstan and claim his prize, he no longer had his own body to work with. Is restoring his life even possible while his head rests on someone else’s corpse? Would his children truly be his own with someone else’s blood in their veins? Being undead was bad enough, walking amongst the living as an icy husk, but manipulating someone else’s body like a puppeteer was too much. He couldn’t continue this twisted existence. Now that he was alone, it was time to end this before it got even worse.

Rethandus was able to clench his foreign hand into a fist, but the connection was unstable. Slowly but surely he was able to raise his fist off the slab, opening it just enough to fit around his neck; with his newfound strength tearing his head off would be a trivial matter, and he wasn’t held back with the fear of death this time. He tightened his grip around his neck, feeling several stitches in his skin pop. Twist and pull. Rethandus repeated those words many times. All I have to do is twist and pull. His arm stiffened, refusing to do as he commanded; almost as if it had a will of its own, its self-preservation proved stronger than Rethandus’ desire for suicide. Frustration plummeted the Death Knight into a frenzied rage, pouring all of his focus into tearing his own head off. He felt another stitch pop out of his flesh, causing his coagulated blood to drip down his collar.

“Rethandus?! Rethandus stop!” Zion rushed through the smith to reach him, wrapping both of her hands around his wrist and thumb. She struggled to pry his grip away from his throat for what felt like forever, battling his massive strength with everything she had; although she was considerably weak, his lack of control over his new body put them on an even playing field. Out of options and fearing she would harm him if this continued, Zion jolted his arm with a surge of Unholy Magic, stunning him long enough to slam his weighty fist back down onto the slab.

“Let me end this nightmare!” Rethandus hissed as she strapped his wrist down. “Zion let me go!”

“You’re not going to kill yourself!”

“You don’t know what this hell is like! Spending day after day wearing someone else’s skin!” He struggled to move his other arm to finish the job, but Zion noticed his intent and moved in to strap his other wrist down. “I’m an abomination, stitched together with Gods knows how many parts from other people! I can’t continue like this! If you won’t end my life, then let me do it mys-” His words were slapped out of his mouth. Zion clutched his chin to prevent him from speaking, glaring wildly at him.

“You need to get a hold of yourself.” She stared at him intensely, making sure he didn’t break eye contact. “Look at me. And breathe.” Rethandus continued to tremble, unable to regain his composure; but staring into her eyes helped him calm down, albeit barely. Reluctantly Zion unstrapped one of his wrists, and held his trembling fist between their faces. “Now give me your reasons for wanting to die.”

“Zerethel turned me into an aberration. A freak.” Rethandus weakly spoke, barely containing his anger.

“That’s one.” She firmly spoke, gently she pulling his index finger up.

“I should have died from that plague. My true body is gone and I’m stitched onto… someone else.”

“Two.” His middle finger was straightened out this time, but she did not look away from his eyes.

“I’m undead. A monster that has to slaughter the living just to keep what little sanity I have left.”

“Three.” She pulled his ring finger up, breaking eye contact to notice the silver band; the corpse Zerethel brought to Rethandus was once married.

“I slaughtered my family.” Rethandus grimaced, as his arms began to tremble again with absolute contempt for himself. “My little sister… my mother… our servants. All of them gone by my hand.”

“… that makes four.” Zion met his glare, gently pulling his pinky away from his palm; he couldn’t tell what she was planning to do with all of this, but he didn’t care.

“I will never marry. I will never have a family. I will never have a son. A daughter. Nothing.” the Death Knight stared at her in silence for several moments before continuing. “I will outlive everyone, wasting away for centuries until I’m too decrepit to move or I’m killed. I will die alone, Zion.”

“Okay.” She sounded defeated, straightening his thumb out. “Now listen to me very carefully. It’s true I don’t know what it’s like to be stitched to another person’s body. I don’t know what it’s like to be beheaded, only to not die. It sounds terrifying, and I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But do you know what?”

“What.” Rethandus muttered, narrowing his brow.

“You’re not an aberration. You’re not a freak. You’re still you, no matter who your body used to belong to.” Zion tucked his index finger down, gripping his hand tightly. “You didn’t die from that plague because you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. And you have people surrounding you that want to see you survive and press on.” She tucked his middle finger down, causing the Death Knight to huff indignantly. “Are you listening to me? You being undead is not a good enough reason to kill yourself. You don’t have to have a pulse to do some good.” She firmly pulled the silver band off his ring finger before tucking it down with the other two; she furtively tossed the ring away, but although Rethandus definitely noticed, he was too emotionally exhausted to even care. “You didn’t slaughter your family. The Lich King controlling your body did. He’s responsible for their deaths, not you. You have to forgive yourself, Rethandus; that wasn’t your fault, none of that was your fault.”

“It’s not that simple.” He hissed through clenched teeth. “Their blood still stains my hands. My choice in the matter is irrelevant.”

“I’m not finished!” Zion squeaked, snapping at him. “You’re not incapable of love. You can still get married, even if you can’t help conceive a child. If you want a child so badly, there are plenty of orphans left over from the Scourge Invasion- go adopt one.” She pressed his pinky down until only his thumb was left.

“No one would be crazy enough to hand a Death Knight a child…” Rethandus retorted, before she pressed her hand against his mouth to shut him up.

“Lastly, you will never die alone. I’m undead, just as you. I will always b-be by your side. And if we. Um. Even if we outlast everyone else. We will… we will still have each other.” Zion could no longer look him in the eyes, letting her gaze fall to his chest while she wrapped her arms around his clenched fist and forearm.

“Zion…” Rethandus whispered weakly, no longer trembling.

“You don’t have to fight this battle alone.” Reluctantly she met his gaze once again, causing her eyes to flutter. “You’re not the only one that wanted to die. I’ve struggled with these thoughts ever since I was freed from the Lich King… even when I found work here, I was so depressed and angry. The Councilor approached me one day to take me under his wing, but I refused. I guess I was scared… I don’t know.” The Death Knight remained silent, watching her expressions and listening to her voice intensely. “But then you came along, angrier than I was. You were undead like me, walking right past me on your way to see the Councilor. When you were alone in this very smith, I knew I had to. Um. Introduce myself. Talking to you helped me forget. I guess. Uh. So you helped me fight my battle, okay? You saved me. So now I need to save you.”

“I don’t know what to say…” Rethandus winced, looking away from her piercing gaze. “I had spent all this time thinking about my plight… I just-”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Zion huffed, slowly unstrapping his other hand. “Come on, get up.”

“I… I can’t use my legs yet.” he admitted, causing the woman to throw one of his arms over her shoulder. She dragged him off the slab, almost causing them both to collapse onto the cold dusty floor; yet somehow she managed to lift them both up using only her own meager strength, and before he knew it she was carrying him across the smith. “What are you doing? Where are we going…?”

“Look over here.” she commanded, stopping near an ancient mirror. It was cracked and filthy, but he was still able to make out their reflections. “What do you see?”

“Us…? I don’t know where you’re going with this.” The Death Knight perked a brow, struggling to place his feet against the ground. All he could do was move his toes and ankles around, but he lacked the coordination to actually do anything useful with them for now.

“That’s right. I see us, staring awkwardly at our own reflections.” She looked over to gaze at his face. “The pale elf on my back. What do you think his name is?”

“… Rethandus.” He answered, narrowing his eyes at her again.

“Correct. You’re Rethandus Andu’al, the one and only. There’s only one of you, just like there’s only one of me. You can’t be replaced, not completely. You’re still you Rethandus, no matter what the Councilor does to you. He can tear your body apart and put you back together, but your soul is what makes you who you are. So don’t throw your life away, okay? People care about you, a lot more than you realize. Whenever you come up with another reason to end it all, just try to think of a reason why you shouldn’t.”

Rethandus stared at their reflections in silence, at a loss for words. Despite this body not belonging to him, his face was still familiar; his soul was still the same. Slowly his gaze fell to the size of Zion’s face as his expression softened, gazing at the determination and focus in her scowl. She was ready to fight alongside him for eternity. His outlook on his miserable existence suddenly became a lot more tolerable.

“Zion…” he started, catching her attention. “… thank you.” She turned to look at the Death Knight, but she was suddenly caught off guard by how close his face was to hers.

“Y-you’re welcome.” She coughed, turning away from the mirror. “Let’s um. Let’s set you down. You need to practice walking if you ever want to get out of this prison. Okay?”

“Okay.” Rethandus beamed, eventually pulling his gaze away from her face to stare off into the darkness. “Let’s get to work.”

The Vinterblot Pt 7

Rethandus shambled through the Western Plaguelands, too weak to walk by himself without leaning against every tree he approached. The cut in his chest had begun to fester and blister, almost hissing audibly while agony tore his body in half. Simply getting his legs to move without locking up took all of his focus, as each step felt like it took an eternity to reach. In his feverish daze he managed to recognize the Bloodsworn Vanguard banners poking out of the forest canopy, stirring him to hasten his struggle to reach them.

He never expected to make it to the gates. Whatever disease Whitstan infected him with surpassed anything he witnessed in the Scourge; despite his best efforts to halt or even slow the debilitating disease by freezing his chest solid, without any adequate runes there was little he could do to stop it. The guards along the wall recognized him and opened the gate, but otherwise did nothing to assist him. Rethandus’ plan was to reach the blacksmith and quickly forge another frost rune before he succumbed to this blight that are away at his sanity.

“WHOOOAAA!” a familiar and obnoxious voice called out, causing the Death Knight to clench his teeth while he glanced over to confirm his suspicions; sure enough, it was Zeth’romas, Ijiro’s youngest son. The boy stared wide-eyed at him, in shock and amazed at all of his grievous injuries. “Syrhis! Come look at this!”

“Wicked…!” Another child appeared on his other side. “Look at his chest! It’s all… broken and bubbly…!” He reached out to poke at him, but Rethandus violently slapped his hand away.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Rethandus barked, stumbling forward; his black coagulated blood dripped from every orifice from his head, causing the two boys to shuffle back from him. “You s-stay back! This could be con….c-contagious…!”

“Zeth, Syrhis! Leave him alo-!” Nairi paused mid-sentence once her gaze met the wounded Death Knight. “Oh Gods…! Stay right there I’m getting Syrahn!” Rethandus choked on his words, as his lungs were filled with cysts. The older girl grabbed Syrhis and her brother Zeth’s ears and pulled them away, but the Death Knight couldn’t afford dealing with the Priestess; no doubt she would try to use the bane of his existence to try and heal him, the Holy Light.

He collapsed to his hands and knees the moment they disappeared around the corner, no longer capable of walking in his worsening condition. He could barely think through the agony overflowing through his body, hopelessly dragging his now useless legs behind him. Rethandus clutched his blistering chest with one hand, while using the last ounces of his strength to pull him forward; the plague coursing through his veins robbed him of his sight, and his sense of direction vanished with it. He shuddered while blood poured out of his clenched teeth, too weak to even move anymore. Paralysis was around the corner, and death would surely follow. Rethandus lay face down in the muddy snow, focusing only on his suffering and wishing for the sweet release of death.

“There he is!” He could barely hear the muffled voice as his hearing began to wane, but he recognized Syrahn’s voice all the same. “Carry him into the blacksmith- and don’t you dare touch his chest! That plague is highly unstable!”

“He is heavier than he looks.” A gruff voice huffed near his head, as two giant hands clamped around his arms to pull him off the ground. At this point Rethandus was completely paralyzed, unable to move, speak, or think. His pain began to reluctantly fade, numbing him of anything and everything. “I am setting him here. We must act quickly or we will lose him.”

Agony was reignited in his body like hungering flame. His senses dragged him out of the dark, forcing the Death Knight to cry out in pain. “Hold him down!” Syrahn commanded, hovering her hands over his chest. The Holy Light flared from her fingertips and lashed out at his skin, coursing through his body like a jolt of lightning. Despite the burning pain, his sight returned to one of his glazed eyes, allowing him to see the crowd of people surrounding him. Most of them were barely familiar, but he had little time to identify everyone before the terrible pain continued.

“He is stronger than he looks too.” A Tauren furrowed his brow while he pinned the Death Knight’s arms down against the metal slab. “Is there any way we can numb this pain? He is suffering.”

“Death Knights can’t be sedated. Focus on cleansing him Ehalu.” The Priestess huffed. Rethandus couldn’t help but thrash against the Druid’s constraints now that he regained control of his arms.

“Rethandus-!” Zion soothed, forcing him to look up into her eyes by holding his head steady. “Just look at me, okay? Do your best to ignore the pain!” The Holy Light devoured the festering plague that desecrated his already hollow corpse, but it did not leave him unharmed; his internal organs were seared black, exposed to the open air. The few ribs still intact were scorched from the Light as well, but the blisters and sores were eradicated. Rethandus opened his mouth as wide as he could to scream, but with what little remained of his lungs, not a single sound escaped his throat. “Stay with me. Don't you look away from me. Don't you dare close your eyes.” Zion continued to speak to him, doing her best to distract him from the pain; but the Holy Light purged his body of Whitstan’s virulent disease by setting him aflame, and it demanded a heavy toll on his accursed husk.

“There… I got all of it.” Syrahn took a step back, covering her mouth while she stared at his charred remains. “I… I'm so sorry…!”

“There is barely any of him left…” Ehalu finally released his arms, letting him freely tremble and twitch on the stone slab. Most of his internal organs were destroyed by the Holy Light and its vengeful pursuit of the disease. His spine was visible and laid bare for all to witness. “He will never walk again. Earth Mother have mercy on you.” The Druid bowed his head in remorse, knowing there was nothing he could do to repair such brutal damage. Moving him could risk his spine snapping, leaving his lower half to stick to the slab. Out of options, Ehalu waved his hand over the Death Knight's body, gesturing for his soul to find peace once death reclaimed him.

“He can't be healed with the Light’s blessing, or the earth’s bounty.” Zion broke her stare with him to smile weakly at the others. “But Shadow Magic may yet spare him. I will see to his recovery… thank you both for cleansing him.”

“We should inform the Commander of this.” Syrahn shot Ehalu a weary glance. “If you need anything, we'll be here to help.” Rethandus continued to stare blankly up at Zion as the Priestess and Druid headed for the door. The burning heat that gnawed at his remains was unbearable, but there was little he could do about it.

“Rethandus…” she spoke softly, stroking a stiff locke of hair away from his distorted face. “I don't know if you'll last much longer like this… but I'm going to do my very best to make your passing as clean as I can.” The woman began to tremble, releasing his head to inspect his wounds a little closer; the hopeless grimace that spread across her face wasn't inspiring him with much hope. “I'm so sorry I can't help you…!”

Zion picked up a small dagger from a nearby table. She approached the Death Knight reluctantly, clutching the dull blade tightly in her grasp. “I…” she paused, touching his face again. “I have to end your suffering… o-okay…? I'm not going to… to let you slowly fade away…”

Rethandus was ready. The agony he endured for so many hours had permanently scarred his psyche. The grievous wounds both from Whitstan’s devouring plague and Syrahn’s attempt to cleanse it were too severe to recover from. He lower half lay still and useless, nearly burned off from the Holy Light; his upper half was in a state of relentless torment, twitching uncontrollably from the pain. The Death Knight nodded at her, prepared to face judgment for his sins. He was ready to see his family in the afterlife, and spend an eternity in the Void where he belonged. Zion held the blade against his chin, prepared to ram it into his brain for a quick and near painless death. “Be at peace, my closest-"

The door of the blacksmith slammed open, startling Zion and nearly making her stab Rethandus through the throat. “What exactly do you think you're doing?” Zerethel hissed through clenched teeth, as two unfamiliar faces followed closely behind.

“C-councilor!” Zion squeaked, stiffening into attention. “I was…! He is…! Rethandus is in terrible pain…!”

“Pain is an excellent teacher.” the Pyromancer waved his hand dismissively at the two accompanying him, causing them to gently place the heavy bag they were hauling onto an adjacent slab. “He has surely learned a valuable lesson today.”

“Sir, please! He's not going to last much longer! Let me… e-end his suffering!”

“And flush all of my hard work down the drain?” Zerethel let out a coarse wheeze while he clutched at his chest. “No, he will survive this.” The Pyromancer snapped his fingers, causing one of the strangers to start opening the bag, while the other secured the only entrance. “You must be this Zion girl I’ve heard so much about. Tell me; can you keep a secret?”

“What? I-I…” She stuttered, glancing down at Rethandus before returning her gaze to the Councilor.

“Let me rephrase… will you do anything to save Rethandus?” The Death Knight stared at Zerethel with dread, fearing he would do something terrible to her, and he would be powerless to stop him.

“Yes.” She quickly answered, with both fear and determination sparking in her eyes. A cruel laugh slipped through the Pyromancer’s dry lips, before he clapped his hands together.

“Excellent.” Zerethel gestured toward the now open bag, revealing an undead elven corpse covered in runes and surging with unholy power. His eyes were devoid of the eerie blue glow of unlife, signifying he was truly just an empty husk now; but he was far more muscular than he should be. Gazing upon it made Zion understandably uneasy. “How adept are you with necromancy?”

“I-I can raise corpses and bind them to my will… but that’s all I know.” The woman remained at Rethandus’ side, while the Councilor and his two henchmen prepared the body.

“Rethandus will fade at any moment. Thanks to Syrahn and her accursed magic, his body is beyond repair.” Zerethel turned to glare down at the Death Knight, grabbing his attention. “We must transplant his head onto this body.”

“What?! But that’s-!” Zion stuttered, briefly covering her mouth.

“We don’t have time for this. Get ready or get out of my way.” His two henchmen pulled the slab Rethandus was seared onto toward the body, unintentionally inflicting more agony on him. Zerethel pulled a large cleaver from one of his goon’s pockets, causing Rethandus’ eyes to widen. “His soul will no doubt leave his body on its way to the Twisting Nether once I decapitate him. We’re counting on you to prevent his soul from leaving. Do you understand, Zion?”

“I understand.” The woman declared, shooting Rethandus a worried glance. The Death Knight did his best to protest, but he couldn’t conjure a single sound from his damaged throat and eradicated lungs. Zerethel held the cleaver tightly, heating it with his fingers until the blade was glowing a bright white. With one quick strike he lopped off the head of the soulless corpse, tugging it away to toss dismissively onto the floor.

“Be still, Rethandus. If I don’t get this right, you will die.” He held Rethandus’ chin, preventing him from opening his mouth. “Are you ready?” Zion gave the Death Knight one last worried glance before nodding, as the two henchmen remained steadfast near the headless corpse. Rethandus tightly closed his eyes to brace himself, refusing to open his eyes until it was finished, or until he was dead.

Searing heat struck him in the throat, beneath his Adam’s Apple but before his collar; he felt unimaginable pain for a brief instant, hearing his arms flail violently before falling limp against the stone slab. The familiar chill of Unholy Magic caressed his face while his hair was pulled, lifting him up into the air. He wanted to open his eyes, but his fear of what he would see kept his curiosity in check. He couldn’t afford to panic at what he could be seeing. His desire to return to the living remained, and he couldn’t risk flubbing this twisted operation if he could help it. He felt the meat slap against the bottom of his neck; it was cold and wet, almost soggy against his dry and charred skin. Magic washed over his face like he was face up underwater, and as he felt Zerethel release his chin, he couldn’t help but open his eyes.

He looked up to see Zerethel staring down at him in silence. He tried to look around, but his neck didn’t obey his command. The unholy magic radiating from his skin coursed through the body like a jolt of lightning. He felt his hands and feet connecting, and despite not being able to move them, a surge of hope and excitement sparked in the back of his head. “It is done.” The Pyromancer slowly released Rethandus’ head and took a few steps back. “Rethandus… can you hear us? Can you speak?”

“Hhhuuugh…” His own vocal cords survived the ordeal, but the muscles bound to them felt unfamiliar.

“You will have to learn how to use your body all over again. But at least this was a complete success.” Zerethel turned toward the woman who rushed to Rethandus’ side, seemingly trembling with worry. “Well done, Zion. You’ve proven most useful.”

“Thank you, Councilor! Thank you thank you!” Zion huffed, almost dancing with excitement. “I thought he was going to leave me- ahh… this world, forever!”

“Not yet.” He clutched his chest as another wheeze rocked his body.

“Whaaat… h-haavvee…?” Rethandus struggled to form the simplest of words, staring wildly at the Pyromancer before using every ounce of his strength to move his head around. The two henchmen were on the floor, lifeless and drained of substance. The Death Knight glanced over at the other slab to see his old body and his previous wounds; seeing his headless corpse laying there with a gaping hole that started in the center of his chest and ended with his charred pelvis filled him with dread.

“I’ve saved your life.” Zerethel answered, turning his back on Rethandus. “What did you think all of those artifacts I had you fetch were for? You needed a stronger, better body. One that could outclass Whitstan in agility, raw strength and endurance. I was planning on simply transferring your soul- it would have been much safer… but this tragedy turned out in our favor.”

Anger boiled in his new chest, filling Rethandus with a maddening hatred. He struggled to clench his fist and lift it off the slab to strike Zerethel in the back, but all he could do was cause his thumb to twitch. The Councilor extended his hand toward his corpse, his corpse, setting it aflame. Rethandus watched his body burn, as helpless as ever before. He tried to reach out to put the fires out with some frost magic, but his hand remained still, and the runes along his palm did not respond to his command.

“This goes without saying, but…” Zerethel turned to the woman, grabbing Rethandus’ attention. “You mustn’t tell anyone of this. It would be easier to just set you aflame like that corpse and do away with the last remaining witness… but I need Rethandus to comply with my demands once he’s fully recovered. Consider yourself fortunate, Zion, but do not mistake my mercy for weakness. There isn’t a hole big enough for you to crawl and hide in should you betray my trust.”

“I understand.” She quickly retorted, bowing before him. “My lips will be sealed. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Then I will be on my way then.” Zerethel turned to look down at Rethandus one last time before taking his leave. “You were a fool to think you could best Whitstan by yourself. You would be an even bigger fool to think you could finish him now. Do not risk your existence doing something reckless like that again, Rethandus. I have spent far too many hours and far too much resources to have you throw your life away.”

The Vinterblot Pt 6

“She was a whor*, and a fancy tailor! He was a drunk, and a damn brave sailor!” Ijiro sang just loud enough for Rethandus to hear as they both walked through Silverpine Forest. “But when she revealed her pretty flowerrrr! His co*ck merely shriveled and cowered!”

“That’s the crudest song I’ve ever heard.” The Death Knight grimaced at the Hunter, doing his best to keep his attention on his surroundings.

“You can hear far worse in taverns around Booty Bay and Gadgetzan.” Ijiro kept his left hand on his rifle, just in case they ran into trouble; his other hand, however, was babysitting a bottle of brandy. “Say, you ever been to any of those places?”

“Never have. Never will.” Rethandus’ grimace remained steadfast as the rugged elf three his head back and laughed; nothing he said was funny in the slightest, but perhaps this tracker was drunk enough to laugh at anything. Letting him bring that bottle along with them was a mistake. “In fact I never left Quel’thalas until Northrend.”

“You spent your entire life in Quel’thalas, eh?” The Hunter glanced over his shoulder to shoot him an inquisitive glance. “You’re either the poorest elf in history, or one of those rich nobles.”

“The latter. House Andu, to be exact…” Rethandus did his best to hide his disdain for speaking that name, as shame washed through his body while they walked; he fell silent for a moment, fearing he would never get used to this despair every time he mentioned his family’s desecrated House. “What house do you hail from?”

“None.” Ijiro started before yawning obnoxiously into his hand again. “I’m lowborn trash, yeah? The absolute bottom of the-” his train of thought abruptly halted the moment his gaze snapped to the clearing ahead of them. “Get down.” the Hunter huffed, raising a fist while he knelt toward the ground. Rethandus silently obeyed, seemingly caught off guard from the sudden surge of tension in the air. “Do you smell that?” Ijiro asked, causing the Death Knight to quickly shake his head; he lost his sense of smell the moment of his first death, and it was unlikely he would ever recover it again.

“What is that…?” Rethandus strained his eyes to see what the Hunter was fiddling with in the nearby grass.

“It’s sh*t.” Ijiro poked around in the blackened mess, causing the Death Knight to grimace. “You see that hair? We’ve got worgen around these parts- figures, we’re so close to Gilneas.”

“So? We can handle a few shapeshifters, right?” Rethandus wasn’t impressed, clutching his dual runeblades tightly.

“We’re not here to engage the enemy.” Ijiro furrowed his brow as he continued to inspect his discovery. “Crushed bones… looks like they’ve been swallowed whole… which means these worgen have gone feral. That complicates things.” He glanced over his shoulder and gestured the Death Knight to follow, slowly rising to his feet to sneak through the nearby bushes. Even though Rethandus wasn’t a tracker of any sort, he could tell the droppings were ominously fresh.

“Do you think they’ve caught our scent?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder to ensure they weren’t about to get ambushed.

“Yeah, I do.” Ijiro huffed, kneeling alongside the steep hillside; he held his rifle up to his shoulder, peering through the scope. “There’s a mansion hidden on the other side of that treeline. Worgen are crawling all over it too. And- oh sh*t…!”

“What?! What is it?!”

“I think I see our villain. Whitstan is his name, right?”

“Impossible… are you absolutely sure?!” Rethandus narrowed his gaze in an attempt to see what he was looking at, but his vision was blocked by the trees.

“Zerethel described him as a pale motherf*cker with inky black hair, right? Well there’s an Elven Death Knight that perfectly fits that description.” Ijiro twisted the scope off his rifle and handed it to Rethandus. “See for yourself. Out near the coast, north-northwest. Just before the cliffs.” The Death Knight followed his instructions to the letter, almost causing his dead heart to beat once he focused on his target.

“That has to be him.” He hissed through his frozen teeth, watching the elf intensely. Whitstan was no more than half a mile away with his back to them, messing with something he couldn’t see. He was clad in an exotic armor that was certainly unusual, but otherwise he looked like your average Death Knight. To make matters even better, he was seemingly alone and unarmed. “Do you think you can take him out from here?” Rethandus asked, with excitement dripping from his voice.

“Nah, this isn’t a sniper rifle. There’s too many objects in between us and him for a reliable shot.” Ijiro slipped the scope back into one of his many pouches. “Plus my rifle is loud enough to alert half of Silverpine once we fired, so even if we did manage to take him out from such a distance, we wouldn’t get very far before those savage worgen overwhelmed us. We’re here on a scouting mission, and I’d say this mission was a success. We confirmed Whitstan’s presence in these woods, we now know where his base of operations is, and once we’re prepared, we can really hit him where it hurts. Let’s get out of here before we’re spotted.”

“Go on ahead without me.” Rethandus huffed, doing his best to ignore the Hunter’s skeptical glare. “I’m going to see if I can find a clear path down there… I don’t think we’ve got a good lay of the land yet.”

“It’s too dangerous to stay around here.” Ijiro insisted. “Sticking around will only increase our odds of getting caught. And if this Whitstan is dangerous enough to put fear in Zerethel of all people, then we needed to leave an hour ago.”

“I can take care of a few worgen. And if I get into too much trouble, I can always escape via Death Gate.” Rethandus wasn't about to let this opportunity slip from his fingertips, especially when he could end this conflict and receive his prize before the inevitable battle even began. “I can't ask a father of two to stay with me, so get back to the Vanguard. I'll be a few hours behind you tops.”

“You seem like a good lad...” Ijiro sighed, looking him over one last time. “Don't do anything stupid, yeah? You dying out here won't do anyone any good. And Gods help you if you manage to get captured.”

“I'll be extra careful.” Rethandus assured, before the Hunter began sneaking away through the bushes. Excitement coursed through the Death Knight's dry veins the moment he began to move down the hill. He couldn't simply walk away from this golden opportunity to return to the Bloodsworn Vanguard with the head of their greatest enemy; he needed this, now more than ever.

Whitstan stared off into the sea, listening to the soft crashing of the waves against the jagged rocks. Every now and then he would dip his brush into the paint and gently stroke it across his canvas, taking his time while being meticulous and methodical with every movement. Midday was the ideal time for practice, left alone to let his thoughts wander along the shimmering blue horizon. One hundred strokes in and the painting was complete, almost as clear as gazing at the ocean with his own eyes.

“It's impolite to approach someone from behind.” Whitstan chuckled the moment he heard footsteps; he turned around to look the stranger in the eyes with his piercing blue stare. “What is your name, fellow Undead?”

“Rethandus Andu’al.” the Death Knight answered.

“Of the fallen House Andu? My condolences.” Whitstan’s gaze furtively shifted to the hissing blades in his hands. “If you're here to kill me, you should have attacked when my back was turned.”

“I try not to strike my enemies while they least expect it, if I can help it.” Rethandus decided to buy as much time as he could to settle his nerves; but he couldn't afford to stand there all day. “Less cowardly that way.”

“Heh… your sense of honor is dated.” Whitstan smirked while he crossed his arms. “There are only winners and losers. Conquerors and the vanquished. To think otherwise only holds you back.” he spoke, almost as if informing him.

“Do you not have a weapon to defend yourself with?” Rethandus asked, keeping close attention to every move he made, no matter how subtle.

“I tend not to carry my blade around when I'm painting.” he answered, shrugging lightly. “Does that mean you won't attack me?” he asked even though he seemed disinterested in the answer either way.

“I've come for your head and I'm not leaving without it.” the Death Knight took a few steps forward. “If you surrender I'll make this quick.” Whitstan threw his head back and laughed harder than Rethandus was prepared for, turning his back to pack up his art piece.

“Confidence is a rare trait these days,” he sighed, “but I'm not ready to die just yet. I won't be dying for a very long time… and if you join me, you won't be dying anytime soon either.” Rethandus had had enough; Whitstan had his chance to make this a clean death, but he wasted his time with hollow words and long winded sentences. Now it was time to claim his prize.

With razor ice clinging to his blades, Rethandus charged forward. He swung both blades from his left in an attempt to cleanly slice his opponent's head from his shoulders; but Whitstan was startlingly faster than he thought. Whitstan ducked a split second before the blades cut into him, even before he could harm a single black hair on his head. In a single motion he turned around and sent his clenched fist upward into Rethandus’ stomach, nearly lifting him off the ground. Before he could react Whitstan grabbed him by the wrist and threw him over his shoulder, slamming him into the sand beside him.

“I'm not your enemy.” Whitstan huffed, raising his boot up to crush Rethandus’ skull in like a spoiled squash; the Death Knight rolled out of the way and sprang to his feet, quickly feeling the dent in his chestplate before returning his gaze to his target. “I want to unite Azeroth under one banner. Only Undeath can wash aside our petty differences. Only through the chill of the grave can we stand together as one.”

“Silence, Scourge sympathizer!” Rethandus barked, causing Whitstan to smile again. Infuriated the Death Knight charged once more, a lot more careful this time. Despite his best efforts Whitstan was always at least one step ahead, parrying his vicious strikes with nothing but his wrists and elbows. His armor wasn't even scratched, leading him to believe it was made with more than just titansteel. He didn't have time to think about it for long, as dark energy closed around his neck and lifted him up into the air.

“My task is simple. I will finish what Arthas started, and raise all of Azeroth into Undeath. We will be a single army without need of neither rest nor food, a relentless machine that will grind both the Burning Legion and the slumbering Old Gods into dust.” Whitstan held him aloft for several moments, seemingly amused at his struggling to escape his crushing grip. “It's a blessing to those that hear my message and a warning to those who do not. Join me, Rethandus. Join me and help me bring peace to this exhausted world.”

Ice formed on the edge of Rethandus’ boot, allowing him to kick shards of splintering shards at Whitstan’s face. Covering his face released the Death Knight, allowing him to land harmlessly in the sand. He rushed forward again, lunging forward with all of his might to impale his opponent dead center in the chest.

Whitstan caught him by the wrist, instantly shattering it with a surge of his unholy strength; his knee shattered a few of his ribs and knocked the other blade out of his grasp, leaving him defenseless. A vicious backhand nearly snapped his neck in half, as Whitstan was no longer content with restraining himself.

“You…” he hissed through his clenched teeth, cautiously touching the gash on his face to discover that blade of ice completely cut through his cheek and scratched his teeth. “... will regret that.” An overwhelming unholy force slammed into Rethandus’ back, seeping into his spine and causing absolute havoc in his body; it felt like the dead marrow in his bones was exploding. “Last chance! Submit or die!”

“Neeuugh…” Rethandus could barely speak, as agony erupted in every inch of his body. He couldn’t think either, blinded and deafened by his relentless suffering; but he couldn’t collapse and submit. Thoughts of Zion smiling awkwardly at him flashed into his mind, allowing him to separate the chaos in order to begin thinking of a plan. His teeth felt like they were about to pop out of his gums, while raw unholy magic electrified and burned away at his once-numbed nervous system. “Never…!” he hissed, eyeing one of his runeblades resting idle behind Whitstan. “My… will… is my… OWN!”

With a cyclone of frost magic he overloaded his runes, shattering the stranglehold Whitstan had over his body and setting him free. A chain of ice whipped out from his hand, yanking his runeblade back into his grasp while he lunged forward with everything he had left. The blade was buried into Whitstan’s side, and he used his last surge of strength to drive it as deep as he could.

Whitstan grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back onto his knees. His unholy strength pulled him away from the wedged blade, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t reach it anymore; with his runes broken, he had nothing but his own inferior strength to rely on. The elf said nothing while he poured his power into his hand, causing Rethandus’ shoulderplate to dent against his fingertips. The Death Knight clutched at Whitstan’s wrist in a desperate attempt to stop him, but there was little he could do now.

“AAAUUGH!” He cried out from the wet snap of Whitstan’s grip, shattering both his shoulder blade and collarbone. He eventually released him, letting him collapse to both of his knees while he clutched at his now useless arm. Rethandus weakly tried to lift himself back onto his feet, but as soon as he managed to plant a boot firmly into the sand, Whitstan responded with a brutal underhanded slap that splintered a handful of teeth and sent him airborne into the tide.

“Your will is still not your own.” Whitstan angrily huffed, casually ripping the blade out of his side. “All you’ve done is trade one master for another.” Rethandus could barely move, but he managed to roll himself onto his stomach and push himself back onto his knees. The sound of laughter caused the Death Knight to weakly glance up, only to see a horde of worgen and undead staring down at him; even without Whitstan standing there, even without his grievous injuries, there were far too many to take down himself. One worgen stood out among the rest as the largest beast Rethandus had ever seen, a hulking wolfman too large for it to be a natural occurrence; it looked like a vrykul had shapeshifted.

“Finish him for us.” An elven witch appeared beside the monstrous beast, sneering as a glob of molten felflame hovered in her malevolent grasp. “Show him what power truly looks like.” Whitstan raised his hand high into the air, summoning a black bolt of lightning that struck his open palm. In an instant a sickly runesword appeared in his grasp, filling Rethandus with dread.

“I’m not a defenseless farmhand you lowly knights were so fond of slaughtering…” Unadulterated unholy magic seethed across his runesword and armor, crackling the very air around him. “Let me show you what an actual champion is capable of.”

“This is it…” Rethandus thought to himself, barely strong enough to stand. Both of his weapons were too far away to reach, not that it would do him any good. With a hulking worgen and an insidious fel witch behind him, all backed by a small army eager to protect their master, his chances of returning to the Vanguard with his head - let alone at all - were virtually nonexistent. Whitstan rushed forward with the edge of his blade slicing through the sand, causing the wounded Death Knight to stagger backward.

He had one last trick up his sleeve, one last gambit to survive. The rune on his shattered arm whimpered, exhausted but still intact, allowing him to use it one final time to save himself. He summoned a Death Gate in an instant behind him, just as Whitstan swung upward to split him in half. The blade cut through Rethandus’ armor like paper, slicing deep into his chest and sundered shoulder before he fell backward into his portal.

“We should follow!” the hulking beast hissed through stained teeth, stepping to Whitstan’s side. “I want to hear the sound of his bones break between my fangs!”

“No.” Whitstan sighed, driving the runesword deep into the sand. “My parting gift will take care of him soon enough. Nightcloud- see to our defenses. The Bloodsworn Vanguard will know of our location soon, and we need to be ready for their attack.” Begrudgingly the beast obeyed, dashing off into the trees with the rest of his mercenary brothers.

“So what do we do now, High King Wilhelm?” The witch whispered in his ear, turning the glob of molten felflame into a solid crystal ball. “Shall we take the first step on your long path of conquest?”

“The Vanguard is the first challenge to my claim of this world, Doni’terian. The first of many.” Whitstan plucked one of Rethandus’ depleted runeblades out of the sand to inspect it. “If I can’t break them… if I can’t make even the weakest of them bend the knee, how am I to rule all of Azeroth?”

“You will find a way.” The Witch sighed, sneering while she circled him. “I have foreseen it. You resting atop a mountain of skulls plucked from each and every one of your enemies… sitting on a throne made of those too short-sighted to join you.”

“I hardly trust your visions.” He quickly spoke, bending the blade in his grasp until it snapped in half. “My destiny is my merit. I must crush any opposition in my way, from this point on until none of my foes remain.” Doni’terian reached out with her four-inch fingernails to caress his chin, drawing his attention.

“When are you going to give me the gift, hmm?” She suggestively cooed. “I want to revel in your immortality as well.”

“You’re more useful to me alive than undead.” Whitstan answered, staring impassively into her eyes; he was seemingly unaffected by her seduction. “Even the Lich King knew the Living could play their part. If I’m to pick up his pieces, I must do the same. You will have a harder time infiltrating the Vanguard if you’re undead.”

“Oh? Is that a plan I see hatching in your eyes?” The Witch licked her lips in anticipation.

“Cut the head off the snake, and the body dies with it.” Whitstan turned his back on her to gaze off into the sea. “If I’m to break the Bloodsworn Vanguard, I’ll need to shatter their chain of command. Summon our little friends from the cult. Fill their heads with delusions of their twisted God ruling Azeroth once again. We’ll need to weave them into the ranks of our enemies.” He glanced over his shoulder to stare intensely at Doni’terian. “Sow the seeds of fear. That accursed apparition will handle the rest.”

Snap Your Fingers, Snap Your Neck

Istrys stepped through the Death Gate first, listening to the strangely satisfying crunch of draenei bones beneath her boots. Despite Hellfire Peninsula’s morbid and bleak appearance, this desolate land was surprisingly peaceful now that the Legion’s burning crusade on this ravaged world had long ended. “Come along, Andy.” The Necromancer cooed as she turned to face the lingering portal. “I have much to teach you.”

“Why drag me all the way out here?” Rethandus’ scowl and icy glare was a welcoming sight; it had been several whole hours since she earned that familiar look. “What purpose does visiting this wasteland serve? You should be inscribing my armor with better runes, not taking me on a field trip.”

“You really don’t know anything about runes, do you?” Istrys shrugged half-heartedly at him. “I need to make them just right, but I need to know where you stand in order to make this work. Understand?”

“And how do we do that? Absorb some nether energy or…?” The Harbinger glanced around, remaining alert for any rogue felboars that could still be lurking just over the dusty red hills. Istrys’ cruel laugh yanked both his attention and glare back to the amused woman.

“Your ignorance is adorable! Hahaha!” The Necromancer withdrew her sickly runesword to drive into the dusty earth between her treads. “Say, before we begin, I need to ask you something. What drives you to want Whitstan’s head so badly? Your skewed sense of honor?”

“Vengeance.” Rethandus narrowed his eyes at her while he spoke; it was an odd question straight out of left field, but one he was already prepared to answer. “He took what little I had away from me. Zion was a good woman. Pure and innocent, despite being undead like us. He murdered her in cold blood. He must answer for what he’s done. Whitstan will suffer what I have suffered a hundred fold.”

“So that’s it?” she asked, perking a brow. “You’re hellbent on killing him because he got to your girlfri-”

“I’m not finished.” Rethandus huffed, interrupting her. “He’s a traitor to the Horde by siding with Worgen filth. He’s a traitor to Azeroth for allying with a Witch who mingled with demons. He’s a traitor to the Knights of the Ebon Blade for trying to recreate a second Scourge. Whitstan has killed hundreds of people and he will kill thousands more if he’s not stopped. Since I’m the only one capable of taking him, it’s my responsibility to see that justice is served.”

“If Mograine executed every Knight that broke the rules, he would be alone on the Acherus.” She licked her lips while she grinned wickedly at him. “Your sense of justice is somewhat… hypocritical. But that vengeance will do for now.”

“What are you blabbering about now?” Irritation dripped from his words at this point, for he was quickly running out of patience; he had training to do and runes to forge, he didn’t have time to play psychology with her.

“I want you to fight me, Rethandus.” Istrys gestured him over with her free hand. “No, I need you to try and kill me. Focus on that hatred for our colleague and hit me with everything you have, you hear me? I want to taste that vengeance for myself.”

“This must be some sort of joke.” Rethandus crossed his arms in defiance. “You know damn well that I only duel to the death. I need you to make my runes before your second death, not after.”

“Ugh, more doubt and excuses. Let me say this as slowly as I can so your frosty little brain can process this. If the runes I make for you prove to be too weak, Whitstan will slaughter you; but if they’re too strong for you to control, you’ll only freeze yourself in a block of ice… which will leave you at Whitstan’s mercy. Or lack thereof.” Istrys paused to roll her shoulder blades one by one. “Do you understand now, Rethandus? I need to experience your skills firsthand if you want me to make adequate runes for you.”

“When I fight, I lose myself.” Rethandus’ gaze fell to the ground. “It’s easy telling who’s friend or foe now that our enemies are giant, fel-infused demons. But I can’t guarantee you’ll get an accurate reading of my abilities if I restrain myself. And if I don’t… I risk cutting you down. I can’t kill another member of the Oathguard. Even if it’s you, Commander Sun’rael would likely imprison me… erm… no offense.”

“I thought you’d say something like that.” Istrys sighed, tapping her chin while she studied him. “If I want to get this stupid lug to give me his all, I’ll have to piss him off. Like… really piss him off.” A cruel smirk spread from ear to ear, slowly catching Rethandus’ attention again.

“What…?” He huffed, while his scowl turned into a grimace. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“This Zion chick you fawn over so much, how did Whitstan kill her?” Istrys licked her lips again, though it was more out of habit than anything; her tongue was far too dry to wet her lips anyway. “Did he stab her through the chest? Did he use his unholy strength to collapse her chest cavity?”

“He ripped her f*cking head off.” Rethandus hissed, far slower than he normally spoke.

“I’m going to let you in on a secret, Andy, so listen closely.” Istrys leaned forward while she stared deep into his eyes. “I’m going to resurrect your girlfriend, head included or not. Not only that, I’ll drag her soul out of whatever abyss she’s screaming in to return to our realm. She’s going to be my bitch, you hear me Rethandus? And I will take great pleasure in making my new puppet dance for Whitstan’s amu-”

Rethandus closed the gap between them faster than she anticipated, partially caught off guard from her taunting. Pure unadulterated fury burned in his wild eyes, nearly distracting her from noticing both his runeblades were already unsheathed. Skeletal hands popped out of the bone sand to snare him, halting his advance and forcing the Harbinger to slash at his boots to free himself. The Necromancer turned and fled, reanimating a small militia to defend herself; but Rethandus proved to be faster than she thought.

Istrys turned around to stop a fatal thrust into her heart, feeling the full brunt of his unholy strength reverberate through her sword and arms. Ice shattered into the wind when he brought his left blade down in an overhead attempt to bury it into her skull. Her sickly runesword threatened to bend in half from his assault, and she lacked the experience to stay within his range for much longer. Her flimsy ghouls closed in from behind, slamming into his back to gnaw on his arms and shoulders. Rethandus whipped around with a scythe of ice, slashing through their bodies like a blade through wheat. He returned his focus on Istrys just in time to see her sink into the writhing bones that lay scattered around them.

“Istrys!” He bellowed while he lunged at her, burying his freezing blades deep into the ground in hopes of reaching her. Images of Zion’s headless corpse frolicking about for Whitstan’s entertainment filled his heart with hate, compelling him to up the dosage of his frost runes to freeze the whole area around him; he couldn’t let Istrys escape his grasp, or his worst nightmare would come true.

The Necromancer popped her head out of the dust like a daisy a few yards away, quietly summoning more skeletons to test him. Rethandus immediately rolled out of the way of an incoming ghoul, slashing it in half on his way back to his feet. He drove his shoulder into another, letting it smash into pieces upon his armor. It didn’t take long for him to spot his prime target once she rose out of the ground.

Raw unholy magic seethe and crackled between her fingers and danced along her palms. As Rethandus dispatched the last minion and charged straight for her, a wave of bones rose up from the ground and surged forward. The Harbinger slammed the wave with a howling blast of frost and covered his face before crashing through. “I need to get creative if I’m to stop him.” Istrys thought to herself while she bombarded him with death coils; one by one he swatted them away from his body, knowing his anti-magic shell was too pitiful to withstand raw unholy magic flung from an expert necromancer. At her command hundreds of bone pieces shot out of the ground to snap into place along her body, nearly encasing herself in a second suit of armor. Rethandus thought she was vulnerable now that she was without her ghouls- Rethandus was mistaken.

The Necromancer raised her left arm and caught his blade near her elbow, letting her skeletal plating absorb the blow. Her right hook smashed against his chest before he could connect with his other blade, shattering the bone protecting her gauntlet as well as upheaving the rime on his chestplate. The force of the blow slowed his assault, allowing her to catch his other hand by the wrist before he had a chance to chop her head off.

“Is that all you got, Andy?” Istrys taunted from behind her skull helmet, grinning fiendishly while she matched his crushing strength with her unholy empowerment. Rethandus was quickly running out of options now that his runes were nearly exhausted. He opened his mouth wide and coughed forth a torrent of raw frost magic not unlike the breath of a frostwyrm, blasting her face in a desperate attempt to freeze her head solid; but her anti-magic shell was far stronger than he had hoped, allowing her to lean back far enough to send her forehead onto a collision course with his face. Her leg swept his feet out from underneath before he had a chance to recover, and in the brief second he was falling, Istrys slammed her elbow down hard into his side to send him plummeting into the ground. An evil chuckle slipped through her clenched teeth while she surged her left leg with power, revving up a devastating kick that nearly shattered his chestplate.

Rethandus was sent skipping across the wastes like a flat stone across a still pond, until his momentum eventually gave out. The Harbinger was slow to rise to his feet, feeling his sundered ribs rub against each other. Black ichor oozed from the corners of his mouth and forehead, but his scowl remained persistent. If Whitstan was capable of such feats, without Istrys’ runes the next duel would be a brutally short one. Rethandus grabbed his hanging right arm and popped it back into his shoulder, forcing a pained grunt through his stained teeth. Istrys appeared on the horizon, holding the runeblade that was once buried into her arm, as the skeletal armor that turned her into a juggernaut turned to dust and vanished into the wind.

“You had enough?” she called, causing his blood to boil. “This battle is done. You can barely stand, meanwhile I barely have a single scratch on me.” The ground near a destroyed siege tank began to shift and stir, drawing Rethandus’ attention to witness several fel orc corpses claw their way out of the ground; despite dying nearly a decade ago, the dry climate of this broken world kept them surprisingly preserved. “Yield, Andy. Surrender and maybe I’ll reconsider desecrating your girlfriend’s corpse.”

“I’ll show you desecration.” Rethandus hissed beneath his breath, freezing both his wounded chest cavity and his clenched fist solid. He knew his runes were spent, so he had to make this last assault count. The Necromancer licked her lips and grinned the moment he charged her position again, stirring her orcish ghouls to shamble into his path to stop him.

He split the chest of the first ghoul down the middle with a brutal overhead swing; he toppled it over with his shoulder, allowing him to reach the next one without the risk of being overwhelmed. His blade came up, tearing through the arm of his target with relative ease. Rethandus’ frozen mallet of a fist soon followed, crushing its chin and sending jagged teeth into its moldy brains. Three ghouls remained, standing side by side a few feet before their mistress.

The runes along the hilt of his blade shattered, erupting in a violent and untamed storm of frost; the ghouls were flash frozen before they had a chance to attack, swallowed in a cloud of splintering ice and freezing fog. Istrys remained stationary with her arms crossed, waiting to see what he would do next. He leapt out of the cloud as she predicted, lunging at her with his fist now frozen into a crude spike. The Necromancer flicked her fingers at him, electrifying his body with devious shadow magic on his descent toward her. Missing his mark and disoriented from the strange attack, he fell helpless into the ground the moment she casually side-stepped. Rethandus sprang to his feet and whipped around to bury his makeshift icicle into her chest, but she was ready.

“Your will is not your own.” Istrys whispered, in quite possibly the worst Lich King impression he had ever heard. Rethandus felt his muscles lock up against his will, paralyzing him. The Necromancer kept her extended hand steady while she walked forward; he struggled to break free of this control, but he was making little progress. “A valiant effort. Your will is certainly powerful. But my power is… more powerfuller…? You know what I mean.” She taunted, forcing him to drop his runeblade. “Kneel.”

Suddenly his body felt like it weighed a ton, forcing him to collapse to one knee while he placed both of his fists against the ground. “Good boy.” Rethandus couldn’t see her, but he felt her place a boot on his shoulder. “You did pretty good, Andy. Your awareness and reflexes are on point, and your swordplay was definitely exciting.” With a snap of her fingers his muscles unlocked as the nefarious magic binding him to her will released him; she pushed him onto his back with her boot, deciding to straddle him and pin his arms down with her legs. “But… can I give you some advice?”

“Uuggh…” Rethandus groaned out, still fairly disoriented from losing control of his body; he could barely move his body, regardless of the Necromancer sitting on him.

“You’re painfully predictable. I knew what you were going to do and when you were going to do it. You always attack head on and you throw everything you have into each strike. On top of that, you wasted too much time taking out my ghouls instead of disabling them, giving me plenty of time to simply create more. And most importantly, your rune management is easily the worst I’ve ever seen.” Istrys gestured to the smoldering runeblade a few feet away, which still seethed with wild frost magic. “You’re not supposed to stress them to the point of shattering, Andy-boy.” Rethandus remained silent, staring up at the Necromancer with fury still burning in his eyes. “…what? I’m not going to touch your precious Zion. I obviously said that just to piss you off.” She rolled her eyes at him, but her smirk remained. “Honestly you’re the most gullible Death Knight I’ve ever met. But if it makes you feel any better, Whitstan is a close second.”

“It doesn’t.” Rethandus huffed, finally able to speak; but the strain in his voice from that lingering possession robbed him of his assertiveness, almost making it sound like he was about to cry. “So… I just need… to work on my rune… management…?”

“That, and your temper.” Istrys leaned forward to press her chest against his, choosing to run a hand through his icy silver hair. “You’re too easily angered, Andy. All Whitstan needs to do is mention her name and you’d fly off into a tantrum. And you, my adorable little snowman, make far too many mistakes when enraged.”

Rethandus wanted to protest, but he couldn’t deny his anger issues; this wasn’t the first time he let his pent-up rage violently explode, and if he didn’t get that under control, the next time may be his last. “I can’t make any promises.” The Harbinger reluctantly spoke, finally able to move his toes. “Also… we shouldn’t be openly speaking about any of this… that witch has likely seen enough already.”

“If you’re paranoid about her spying,” Istrys started, “then we’ll go somewhere her eyes can’t follow.” Rethandus was able to lift the woman off his body now that his unholy strength returned, but she certainly didn’t make it easy for him. Eventually she slid off his waist to stand up straight, pausing to stretch nonchalantly before reaching down with an extended hand.

“Let’s get a move on Rethandus. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us and we’re running out of time.”

Mentions: @whitstanwilhelm @lilthessa @k-sunrael

The Vinterblot Pt 5

“Uuughh…” Kestro slowly groaned while he slowly came to, with a headache that threatened to split his skull in half; his vision was black and fuzzy, and he could barely hear the voices around him. Kestro couldn’t recall what happened, but all he remembered was reaching down for a shovel in his barn. Perhaps something heavy fell off the top floor and smashed him in the back of the head? His confusion remained consistent while his senses returned, but that confusion quickly shifted into fear.

His arms and feet were bound to a wooden chair. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt something wet on the back of his head. Kestro’s heart began to pound against his chest while he struggled to break free, and in his panic he didn’t even realize he was not alone.

“Glad to see you’re finally awake.” Zerethel grinned fiendishly at the captured High Elf. “I was beginning to think my associate here hit you a little too hard. Good thing you’re sturdier than you look, old man.”

“Wha… what…?” Kestro coughed, but his ribs felt like they were on fire. “What happened..? Who are… you…?! What do you want from me?!”

“You’re my prisoner, Kestro,” The Pyromancer paused, clutching his chest while he let out a coarse series of wheezes. “My name is not important. What is important however, is that you answer my questions truthfully. That’s what I want from you. Failure to comply will… well…” he glanced up over Kestro’s shoulder, compelling the High Elf to follow his viridian gaze; he shuddered at the sight of Rethandus looming over him with his arms crossed, clearly not over the horror that was the Scourge. “Don’t sh*t yourself into an early grave. He won’t hurt you if you do as you’re told.”

“Please! Please I’ll do whatever you want! Just don’t let that monster kill me!” The High Elf begged, causing Zerethel to lean back in his seat and sigh in relief.

“Excellent. Now we’re in business.” The Pyromancer snapped his fingers, and before Kestro could say anything the Death Knight grabbed his chair and lifted him off the ground; he cried out in fear before Rethandus pushed him closer to the nearby table. “You are Kestro Summerset, correct? The same Summerset that used to own land in Silverpine Forest before the Scourge ravaged Quel’thalas and Lordaeron?”

“Y-yes.” Kestro responded. “I owned a few hundred acres in Silverpine, Eversong and Tirisfal before Arthas betrayed his father… I was a-able to sell most of it before the Forsaken squatted on my land and stole it from me…”

“Quite the achievement. But let’s focus on your Silverpine properties. Do you remember the names of whom you sold that land?” Zerethel studied the aging elf intensely.

“No…” Kestro reluctantly answered, struggling to recall the details with this crippling headache. “Several families, I think… but I c-can’t remember their names…”

“A young human couple bought Silverpine estate from you around two centuries ago.” the Pyromancer quickly spoke with impatience dripping from his voice. “Their surname was Wilhelm… does that ring any bells?”

“B-barely… it’s been over two centuries since I sold them that land…” Kestro admitted, still trembling in his chair. “I believe it was around the same that… hey… wait a minute…”

“You recall something?” Zerethel perked a brow, shortly before his dry wheezing returned.

“I recognize that cough… you’re Zerethel! Zerethel Kash’kaar!” Kestro’s eyes lit up while he sighed in relief. A disconcerting grin spread across the Pyromancer’s face while Rethandus pinched the bridge of his nose, for both of them knew what had to be done. “I’m a good friend of your father! H-ha… I haven’t heard from your house since the Scourge Invasion… how h-has your father been?”

“I think I remember you.” The Pyromancer started, shooting a furtive glance up at Rethandus. “You were always attending father’s business meetings. You had a long black beard then, didn’t you?”

“Yes I sure did! When my son was younger he would yank on it so often I decided to cut it!” Kestro and Zerethel laughed together, causing Rethandus to scowl uncomfortably. The Pyromancer wiped a few tears from his eyes before his coarse wheeze returned.

“I’m so sorry, Kestro. This must be a huge misunderstanding.” Zerethel raised his arms up in a disarming gesture, lightly shrugging while he continued to chuckle. “Father would not be pleased to hear I’m inconveniencing one of his closest- and wisest friends.” The old elf sighed in relief, smiling warmly at him. “Rethandus, be a good lad and remind me why I’m here.”

The Death Knight furrowed his brow while he took a step to the side, swinging the back of his frozen gauntlet into the side of Kestro’s jaw; his neck almost snapped from the force of the restrained slap, nearly knocking the chair over onto its side.

“Oh, that’s right. Thank you Rethandus.” Zerethel hissed, his smile and optimism gone. “I was having a such a good nostalgic trip that I forgot I was in the middle of an interrogation. Now, Kestro, you’re going to tell me what I need to know. You’re going to give up the location of Wilhelm’s estate. Or this day will be the longest- and last day of your miserable life.”

“I s-swear…” Kestro coughed, still reeling from being backhanded; blood poured out of his obliterated nose, and his right eye was now bloodshot. Even restrained, Rethandus was underestimating his own strength and overestimating the aging elf’s fortitude. “I don't… r-rem… rememb-ber…”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” The sarcastic amusem*nt in Zerethel’s voice had long disappeared. “You know what this means, don’t you? Surely you can guess what happens next.”

“Are you g-going to kill me…?” Kestro began to tremble again, too injured to sit up straight.

“No.” he quickly answered. “I’m not going to kill you. He is going to kill you.” Kestro sheepishly looked in Rethandus’ direction, as the Death Knight menacingly cracked his knuckles. “He’s going to freeze your hands to this table, and before your nerve endings die, he is going to peel your dying flesh from your bones. But I won’t be merely watching, Kestro. I’m going to sear your feet to the floor, and let your boiling blood slow-roast your legs from the inside out. He and I are going to have ourselves a little contest; whoever reaches your heart first, wins.” Kestro began whimpering, closing his eyes while he did his best to ignore the Pyromancer’s taunting. “… But to ensure you fully realize just how much agony you will be suffering, we’re going to be doing our practice run on your grandson.”

Before Kestro could open his mouth Zerethel walked over to the nearby closet, dragging in a young High Elf gagged and bound to a chair. “This is Dolan, right? The son of the brat that yanked your beard until you were sore? Too bad his father is already dead… but the sins of the father bleed off on the son. Such disrespect should not go unpunished.”

“Gods no! Please Zerethel let him go! Oh Gods please show him mercy!” Kestro pleaded while Rethandus united one of his hands to forcefully place against the table.

“That cute couple adopted a high elf child, Kestro. That child is a man now. This man is a threat to my family and he’s already killed my brother Rulo.” Zerethel hissed through clenched teeth, raising his voice. “He must answer with his life, and I have been tasked to find and kill him by any means necessary. Do you understand now, old man? Or are you prepared to watch your grandson die a slow and agonizing death?”

“I already told you I can’t remember! If you’re going to punish anyone, punish me!” He thrashed in his chair, desperate to break free to save the youngest in his family. “Zerethel please! I don’t remember! I swear it!”

“You better start thinking, then.” A burst of fire sprouted from the palm of his hand, causing the young boy to flinch. “I need answers, and I needed them weeks ago.” Rethandus stared silently at Dolan, hesitant to start freezing the flesh on his hand; the boy looked no older than sixteen, something he was uncomfortable with. Zerethel pulled the gag out of the boy’s mouth while he scowled malevolently at Kestro. “Perhaps if you hear his screams you’ll start talking.” The Pyromancer leaned down next to the boy and lit his shoes on fire. Immediately Dolan started screaming, as the intense heat began to nibble on his toes.

“PLEASE! STOP!” The old elf screamed. “I’LL TELL YOU WHERE IT IS I BEG OF YOU!”

“I will not ask you again! Give me what I seek and your boy may live!” Zerethel began channeling his fire into the boy’s feet, almost deafening himself with the boy’s frantic screeching. Rethandus tightened his grip on the boy’s wrist, and activated the frost rune to begin freezing his hand against the table. “Is this what you wanted, Kestro?! Do you hate this boy?! After I’m done turning him into a burnt husk, your wife and two little granddaughters will be next!”

“NORTH OF THE SEPULCHER! A CASTLE HIDDEN ALONG THE COAST! JUST BEYOND THE DEAD FIELD!” Kestro stammered with eyes widened at the horrors before him, mortified at the smell of burning flesh that filled his broken nose. In an instant Zerethel snuffed out the flames that devoured the boy’s shoes and traveled up his pants, but by this time his feet were severely damaged; if he didn’t get medical treatment soon, he would never walk again.

“If you are lying to me…” The Pyromancer paused, wheezing dryly. “I will slaughter this boy and raise him into Undeath to return the favor on the rest of your family.”

“I swear it’s true! It has to be there!” Kestro was in tears, and the sudden stench that wafted through the room made it clear one of the prisoners had soiled himself. “You have to believe me Zerethel! I swear it on my life that it’s true!”

“An old castle on the coast, you said? Are you sure you’re not thinking of Shadowfang Keep?” Zerethel narrowed his gaze at him, while the boy continued crying.

“N-no! It’s far north of the Sepulcher like I said!” Kestro coughed out. “It has to be a few miles south of Deathknell! Please Zerethel, you have to believe me!”

“I believe you.” The Pyromancer calmly stated, standing up straight again. He placed a hand on Dolan’s head, affectionately running his fingers through his smoky black hair. “Shhh, there there, young man. The nightmare is over.” Zerethel shot his cold gaze at Rethandus before returning to Kestro. “Tell your grandson everything is going to be okay, Kestro. He needs to hear his grandpapa’s soothing words.”

“D-Dolan, look at me…” Kestro started, with teeth stained with his own blood. The young boy was in too much pain to focus on anything, with both of his feet seared and one hand still frozen onto the table, all he could think about was the maddening pain. Eventually he was able to hear his grandfather, slowly opening his bloodshot eyes to gaze fearfully at him. “That’s a g-good boy… we’re going to survive this, you hear m-me? This is an honorable man… h-he’ll uphold his promise… I swear it…”

“You didn’t say the words, Kestro.” Zerethel hissed, with violent anger dripping from his voice. He continued to pat the boy on the side of his face, attempting to calm him down. “Tell him everything is going to be okay.”

“E-everything is going to-” Before he could finish his sentence Zerethel’s open palm slapped against Dolan’s chest, causing his veins to glow a bright orange while he let out a blood-curdling screech; fire erupted from his mouth as smoke shot from his ears and nose, before his eyes erupted in a burst of flame. “DOLAN NOOOOO!”

“Zerethel-?!” Rethandus huffed, catching a malevolent glare from the Pyromancer; with a flick of his wrist a ball of flame shot forth to engulf Kestro, filling the room with smoke and screaming. He remained silent, stepping around the charred corpse of the boy while he made his exit. Rethandus turned to the door, glancing over his shoulder at the old elf that violently thrashed about in the metal chair, helpless to stop the flames that devoured his flesh. The Death Knight stepped back into the room and quickly snapped his neck. “You’ve suffered enough today.” He thought to himself, doing the same to the boy to ensure he wasn’t suffering anymore as well.

Zerethel was already pacing back and forth outside, feeling the crisp air of the Hillsbrad Foothills while he stared off in the direction of Silverpine Forest. “Rethandus, I didn’t order you to execute them.”

“You told him you would set them free if he talked.” The Death Knight responded, scowling at the Pyromancer. “You gave them your word.”

“He recognized me. I can’t afford allowing a trail to lead back to the Bloodsworn Vanguard. To my family.” Zerethel casually placed a hand on his own collar and cracked his neck. “What difference does it make? They are the enemy. Kestro colluded with Whitstan’s parents, probably the elf himself. He knew giving up that information would mean Whitstan would come looking for him, so he was a doomed man from the very beginning.”

“And the boy?” Rethandus spoke through clenched teeth, stirring the Pyromancer to glare at him.

“That boy would seek revenge. While that little brat posed little threat, a few gold coins is all it would take for a hitman to come after us.” he waved his hand dismissively at the Death Knight.

“He was an innocent child.” Rethandus started, causing Zerethel to turn and face him directly. “You shouldn’t have killed him.”

“Have you grown soft already, Rethandus? Have you already lost your taste for violence?” the Pyromancer stared hatefully into his eyes. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure Whitstan doesn’t destroy us. Whatever I do, no matter how cruel, is for the greater good. I will leave a trail of smoldering bodies behind me if that’s what victory demands. Can you say the same? Or have you reconsidered working for me?” Zerethel wheezed again, clutching his chest with the boy’s burnt flesh still clinging to his fingers. “You want to stay undead, is that it?”

“No.” Rethandus reluctantly answered. “I will do whatever it takes to get my prize as well… but killing children… it’s wrong.” A cruel grin slowly spread across Zerethel’s face while he furrowed his brow.

“That undead woman in the Vanguard…” he started, causing Rethandus to stiffen. “She’s been filling your heart with love, has she?”

“Zion has nothing to do wi-”

“I’m only going to tell you this one last time. You will obey my command without question. You will not hesitate to slaughter my enemies- or leave them to die by my hand. You will be the killing machine I need to get this done. Or I will find someone else to replace you.” Zerethel slowly approached Rethandus to get into his face. “Unless you want to end up wandering Azeroth as an undead husk for eternity, or end up a smoldering heap of blackened bones, you will do my bidding. Am I perfectly clear, Rethandus Andu’al?” The Death Knight clenched his fist as anger boiled in his frozen heart; his body screamed to crush the Pyromancer’s head between his hands like smashing a fruit, but he knew he would lose his chance to regain his mortality.

“Yes sir.” he spoke, relaxing his clenched fist.

“Good.” Zerethel turned his back to the Death Knight. “We’ll need to take precautions if we’re to kill Whitstan in his own home. When we return to the Vanguard you will seek out the resident tracker to help scout the estate. He goes by the name of Ijiro Del’daro.” He took a few steps forward to give himself enough room to start his portal incantation. “You are not a soldier of the Bloodsworn Vanguard. You are my assistant. My tool to use as I please. Once Whitstan is dead you will have your prize… but if this Zion girl becomes a consistent distraction…” Zerethel glanced over his shoulder at him. “… that wound will be cauterized. Do you understand me?”

“I…” Rethandus paused, letting his gaze drop to the grass around his feet. “I understand.”

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