Talduriel's blog

♪♫  Are you sure you are prepared, son of Quel'thalas?  ♪♫

The death knight nodded, eyes burning dully with smoky blue haze.    A thick streak of dried blood split his face, beginning to crack away around his nose and mouth, but deeply entrenched and roaning his beard.   His nostrils flared and his jaw set.   "I am."

♪♫  You have our blessing, child.   You know what you must do.  ♪♫

((Keke, thanks for the wonderful idea, Ryinn.  I don't know why I never thought to do this before.   Image below the break.))

Why did she attack me?    

Blood oozed slowly out of the gash in his face, slowed by the cold and the slow onset of frostbite, the bitter chill bluing his features even as he lay in the snow teetering upon the brink of madness.  His nose might have fallen off had he been standing, nearly severed across the sellon, and though his lip had begun to heal, he found himself wondering why there was a strange sensation of imbalance there.  He had been fortunate that she had not blinded him, leaving instead a line that split his brow.  Browning, his blood had begun to pool in the socket, though his cold and his confusion were too great to understand it.   At least the snowfall had slowed to reasonable pace in the few hours since she had abandoned him.

Abandoned..

A slurry of spittle and blood erupted from the corners of the human's mouth as his head shot backward, the fluid half frozen before it even touched the ground.  Tal'duriel glanced to his left, using the moment's reprieve to locate his axe, which lay embedded at an odd in the man's shield, now discarded and beginning to disappear into the drift of snow that the furious blizzard seemed to be building up around it.  

((...But since this is probably the best thing I'll produce for the next four or five months, it's worth it.   Right?  RIGHT?!   T_T))

The wind howled louder than it usually did, and eddies of snow whirled about in macabre dance.   Undeterred by the heat of the fire, tendrils of frost crept across his armor, and though he shivered, his uncomfortable vigil continued through this night just as it did every other night.  

((Doodle below the break.  Want a doodle of your own?  Inquire within.

I demand that you start sending screencaps.  I'm out of people to draw.))

((Image after the break, as usual.  I know, you're tired of the drawings already.))

((Doodle to follow the break..))

Echoes stirred.   Darkness pervaded the cave, though that didn't seem to bother the bats skittering about upon its ceiling despite the fetid smell of mold and rot that dominated the place.   The smell alone had almost been enough to deter his entry, but having reconsidered, he had decided that the undead were more likely to occupy a place that smelled like them.   Looking up at the winged creatures, the dim light pouring in slow waves of misty gloom from his eyes, it became obvious that there were no Scourge here, much less a lich, unless the villains had learned to suppress their inherent corrupting influence, which didn't strike Tal'duriel as particularly likely.

There's no sense fighting me.  

The voice echoed in his head; a singularly disturbing uproar in an otherwise serene mind.   Time was passing, and together, their missions were slowly bringing them closer to the Frozen Throne, closer to the one whose will had dominated their lives.   We both know you need me.   He had so little energy left.   Battle took so much out of him; it was becoming a struggle to fight on both fronts.  While the enemy battered his body, a sinister will pressed against his defenses from within.   It was troubling, but what escalated the problem, made it infinitely worse was..  It is not Arthas.  

((..which you weren't, but still, I feel the need to justify my disappearance.  When I got back from a mission on Christmas Eve, my internet line had been cut.  Unfortunately, there's not much I can do about that here, so I've been without for about two weeks now.   Sadly, I don't know what to write because I can't talk to Clars about it, so I can't honestly say I know when I'll be able to write anything new.   For anyone who's been curious, I just thought you should know.  Right now I'm using a friend's line that's miraculously working.

Sorry to anyone who misses my bland little stories.))

"What manner of creature are you that intrudes upon my incarceration, morsel?"

Tal'duriel hesitated to reply to such a question.  The ground beneath him shook violently as the gargantuan aspect closed the distance between them with a mere two steps, batting the death knight away from the entry with a flick of his tail.   Launched headlong into the stone wall of the enclosure, Tal'duriel felt his bones protest upon impact, echoing their complaints as he tumbled down an embankment of fallen boulders to lay humbled upon the ground, body unwilling to respond to his urgent requests to rise.  The behemoth stared down at him, and in the red glow, he could now see the adamantite plates strewn about the aspect's flesh, holding in his destructive power.  "Answer me, mortal, and I promise to grant you a swift death."

His eyes had difficulty adjusting to the dimness within the grand vestibule at first, but dark as it was, Tal'duriel could still distinguish the unmistakable anvil symbol upon the walls, and though it was obvious that there had been an effort by the Dragonmaw orcs to cover it up, it was also clear that the orcs of the day had lacked the workmanship and enchanted tools that the dwarves had employed, and had thus failed to erase the markings of the Wildhammer Clan.  There was a palpable taint in the air; he could smell it burning at his nostrils with every breath he took.   The path beneath his feet was peppered with dust beyond his expectation.  In the dim light, much of which was provided by the frigid azure  fluorescence of the very necromantic energy that from deep within him seemed to scoff at the evil stench the high walls of the chamber were exuding, it almost seemed that he hadn't left the great Dragonblight at all, so much like snow was the dull gray coat of powdered stone.  The death knight paused to wonder at the former grandeur of the place in which he now stood -- a place which no mortal had walked for at least a decade.   Yet despite the stillness in the air and the silence which presented itself so strongly as to mute all possible sound for the sake of its own continuance, there was something amiss with the place.  Whatever now dwelled within the halls of Grim Batol was not natural; of that much, Tal'duriel was certain.  "But then," he mused, his voice monstrous, even just above a whisper, "neither am I.."

The speed with which his draconic mount carried him was almost too great for him to bear.  Winds were already frigid and strong in Northrend, but when moving so fast, the chill stung even his narrowed eyes.  Soon enough, the icy land of Northrend had given way to open seas, and Dariostrasz had turned toward the rising sun, peering over the mountains and warming both of them.   They had been flying for hours, and Tal'duriel had a difficult time focusing on the task at hand, mind always wandering back to the temple, and whether or not he should have told Clarices about his plans.   How long would she wait for him, if he were never to come back?   He couldn't bear the thought.   I shall return, he told himself.  

She had been terrified of him..

In the aftermath of his brutal attack on the humans of the Scarlet Onslaught, his mind had recoiled at the rancor and glee with which he'd ripped them apart.   He'd become death again; the evil in his heart set free of its cage when he'd needed it.  It had returned there willingly.  This time, he thought.  He'd saved her from certain death; she was his everything, his reason for continuing to lead this damned existence.  And yet, she'd fought him; yelled and scratched and bitten, and still the only thought that repeated in his head were her words.  My hands will always be stained with blood.   It is.. fate.

"Get away from me, monster!"

As Tal'duriel strode through the door behind the large human who'd escorted him into the enclave, he heard her muffled sobs through the next.   The big one turned to face him, blocking the door, and sneering at him wickedly.  "..I would move if I were you," he warned, clenching his fists.  The massive man threw his head back and laughed, but Tal'duriel had known the wretched humans had never intended to let him see his companion again.  "An' wha' exactly makes y'think I'd letcha in there, li'l elf?"   Tal'duriel felt his skin stretch, and as though of its own accord, his hand shot forward, plated fingers ripping through skin and muscle as they burrowed deep into the foolhardy human's chest cavity.  "I'll feast on your flesh, worm."   The words came from his own mouth, he realized, mind sinking away as the scent of blood rose into his nostrils.  I've lost control.

The sun grew low in the sky.   Lower than he would have liked, anyway.  She'd left an hour ago, at least, and now Tal'duriel was beginning to worry that something might have happened.  But then, he was a worrier, and he knew it, and though he suspected he'd arrive at the Scarlet Onslaught's enclave just as she was leaving, going after her still felt like the right thing to do.  His guts shifted.   They'd been doing that a lot lately.  It wasn't like a bowel movement; it was too high, close to the heart and lungs, burrowing about in his chest cavity.   No matter.  It was a passing thing, he was sure, and all it did was make him worry more.   Spurring his deathcharger in the right direction, Tal'duriel departed, a southerly wind carrying an oddly gentle snow onto his shoulders. 

((Just thought you guys might like to see the product.   Yeah, I know.  Lame.  Just under an hour's doodling, at least half of which was cursing at my shitty non-pressure-sensitive tablet.))

The past few days had been miserable and cold, though his condition had steadily improved.  The bloodworms were doing their job, and though he'd lost a couple of them to predators, he had been able to feel the rest of them holding onto their short lives through nothing but his intense focus.  He had settled into the lotus position over fifty hours ago, and hadn't so much as twitched an eyebrow, trusting his safety to his companion.  Tal'duriel had felt his marrow extending like the icy hands of death itself, retrieving the dislodged portions of his ribcage and cementing them back into place, strong as titansteel.  He'd even had to change his breathing because of the slight changes the worms' voracious appetites were having on his anatomy.  Floating ribs, he reminded himself, serve their purpose.  But no matter; healing had been the most important thing at the time.  He wondered, however, as he let their necromantic energy make him whole, just how much of them was getting into him.  

((This is something I've been playing with since downloading GIMP (Thanks, Ineesa!).  Thought you all would like to see how it's coming.))

Tal'duriel sat up slowly, his chest aching as rib fragments ground against one another.  How had he gotten on his back?  Looking around for his axe, he spied Clarices pacing a broad circle around their makeshift camp in a rut that he suspected had been dug from her repeated footsteps.    "C--!"   He grunted.  It hurt to talk.  That wasn't good.  Did he have a collapsed lung in addition to the broken ribs?

His eyes pushed open, straining against a thick haze that urged his eyelids downward.   Tal'duriel found himself standing on a barren landscape, grass wilted and trees half-hewn with rot and degradation.   Before him stood one of his own people, a male, eyes aglow with blue fire.  His hair was a ghostly white, gathered on the left side of his head into a binding that directed it down near the center of his chest, though whisps of it had escaped and framed his firmly set jaw and high cheekbones on his right.  His skin was as phantasmal as was the hair, though it seemed tinged with an unnatural pallor, blood gone blue beneath from a cold that had long ago gone absent, and he stood naked before the world, arms outstretched.  His mouth was moving, but Tal'duriel heard no words.  He felt for his ears, but found none.   He clenched his fists, but felt no pressure.   Tal'duriel looked down at his hands, and saw nothingness.

The fire danced weakly in the stifling air of the Dragonblight as though it were a living creature trapped in a too-small enclosure, struggling against insurmountable walls for the freedom it knew lay just beyond.  The air was thick in his lungs, and he strained to breathe sometimes, though he imagined it was worse for her.   Clarices lay asleep not far from him, near the fire he was diligently tending.  Tal'duriel had come to terms with his inability to sleep, and after a while, the fatigue had stopped bothering him.  Strictly speaking, his body didn't really require it anyway, being dead (or mostly dead, he surmised).   She was ill, and though it seemed to have raised her spirits for whatever reason, he worried about her.  Then again, he always worried about her; maybe he was just being paranoid.

((These images are pretty big, even shrunk down, and I apologize for the darkness and poor capture quality.  My scanner and copy of photoshop are at home, so while I'm in Iraq, I'm limited to a digital camera (albeit a pretty good one) and what little I can do with MSPaint and Windows Imaging.  So please bear that in mind before passing judgment.))

His blades parried the assassin's strikes, flashing in the dim light and lashing out in wicked vengeance only to themselves be cast aside by the daggers dancing about by unseen hands.  Knowing the attack had been coming had saved his life for the time being, but this battle was not an easy one.  Vision was mostly blinded by the bright sparks of mithril striking mithril, and despite his training, he knew he was losing.  "Get in here, someone!  Assist your master!"   The assassin's wicked grin caught the light of blades crashing together, and her lips parted, speaking in an unfamiliar voice, "To whom are you calling, Lord Whitestrider?"  

"Do you remember his voice?"   The question had come out of nowhere.  A fire blazed in the cooking pit, and he roasted strips of shoveltusk meat on sticks, the grease falling away and cracking for a moment in the fire before the dirt and ash consumed it.  He wanted to avoid thinking about the question, and the line of conversation as a whole, but she looked at him with those eyes, so full of sadness and fear.

There is hope.   There is always hope.

An eager wind swept his gathered hair upward, loosening a few strands which clung to each other to spite the cold, fluttering over the bridge of his nose as Tal'duriel surveyed the Gjalerbron complex beneath him.   Many taunka now ran free who had been condemned, and so too did many dwarves and humans.  A screech resounded from the cavernous legs of the the mountain to his left, and his gaze lifted to the gargoyle creature descending rapidly toward him.   Grinning, Tal'duriel reached into the nether, his grip tightening on the wiry creature until its feeble wings snapped and crumbled away, stone dust cascading downward, dancing to the creature's unholy cries of pain.  Drawing back his axe above his head with grim resolve, Tal'duriel brought its weighty edge down with righteous fury, obliterating the stony fiend before it had even had time to curse him in its bizarre tongue. 

"I'll tear you limb from limb!"  Vrykul battle cries were always singularly simpleminded.  

His father was dead, and his mother lay dying, consumed with grief over the loss of her mate and her daughter.  Left to pick up the pieces and continue the House's business with the other lesser nobles of Silvermoon, Tal'duriel had been thrust into a position that he had readily admitted to himself that he wasn't prepared to assume.   The other nobles knew this, and he had already personally thwarted two attempts on his life.  Why were they interested in removing House Whitestrider?