Death Knight

A warm wind blew over the grassy hills of the Hinterlands, carrying with it the sweet scent of flowers and nectar, along with the scents of the bonfires celebrating the Fire Festival. The rustling of the trees and grass drowned out the sounds of far away work and celebrations carried out at Aerie Peak, seat of power for the Wildhammer clan. Among these trees, only two figures could be seen for miles.

It's holding me, morphing me
And forcing me to strive
To be endlessly cold within
And dreaming I'm alive

-Muse, Hysteria

Zatharia licked her ebon lips. How utterly delicious, yet at the same time completely unsatisfying.

Zatharia breathed in deeply. The joy, the pure ecstacy. Trapped for so long, her soul and her body severed from each other, her body discarded in the north by the Scourge when her King and Jailor was killed.

Now, it was time to have her fun.

((Part 1 is here, Part 2 is here, and Part 3 is here. Sorry this took so long to post, Real life has kept me from doing much writing lately. Not that I'm complaining, it's been all good things <3 ))

The swirling gale drove the falling snow into a nigh-impentrable wall of white, erasing any trace of hoof-prints mere seconds after they were behind her. The Vindicator's hair whipped against her cold-numbed face and icicle-covered pauldrons. She smiled, even as the wind threatened to tear the Me'dun Menis - the strips of cloth with the Naruu's Benedictions written on them - clean off her armor. At least she wasn't in danger of being lulled to sleep.

It was the same.

The heavy door was pounded with the obvious beat of a frantic person. The guard unlocked the entrance and opened it enough for the man to speak his message. "Worgen! They have overrun the village, Lord Halister must be warned!" The man was allowed in and a servant desperately tried to dry him and remove the blood splattered across his furs.

The heavy door was struck several times by a large claw before it was opened and the Worgen in light armor entered. Halister turned from his dinner of boar and nodded to the Worgen as an invitation to speak. "Scourge fiends, attacking the dens." Halister rose, knocking over the table of the raw meat. "Then let them come, they will know the claw soon enough."

The Vindicator scowled from under her helmet, past the grating. Cheers erupted as the clashing of metal and flashes of magic became more intense. Finally a deafening roar echoed in her ears as the sounds of the battle subsided.


A plated palm tapped her shoulder. "We're up next, babe. Get your game face on."

Her scowl deepened as she looked back at the armored human and the Sister-Farseer behind her. "Tell me again how you convinced me to do thi-." Her words were cut off as the gates flew open in front of them, the human's hand pushing the Vindicator out into the arena.

"Go, babe. Don't want to linger!"

I come for you.

I bleed, knowing that each drop is in your name.

I will chase you in this choking, binding smoke.  Through the dark, no matter how deep I must push.  

I felt you break away from me...

For the second time.

It was like being thrown into choking, icy waters.  The breath left his lungs; abandoned, and forlorn.  Slowly, the darkness filled the twin pools of crystal that were his eyes.  Nothing but blackness.  Emptiness.  

Darkness - The absence of light; blackness; obscurity; gloom.

Coughing, sputtering, and groping.  His arms searched for his torso.  If only he could find his chest; his heart.  Why couldn't he feel it?  It was within his reach!  Even through shut eyes, one should be able to locate their own chest!  

That was it.

The puppet’s strings were cut; it dropped to the ground, limp and lifeless.  A wave of memories slammed into it.  The body stiffened, a bellowing roar emerging as its muscles clenched and limbs beat on the ground.  The drone—he!  I am he!—lifted himself up off the cold, hard ground.  He looked around, lost.  His master—master?  No, monster!—was silent; the clear, cold voice that had pierced the suffocating torpor no longer there.

He—name!  Where is my name?—turned, looking around at the blackened plains, bubbles of vivid yellow coloring the wasted ground.  There were others, his fellow slaves—They kill my friends, brothers, people!   They must—“Die!” He screamed, lifting the blade in his hand, swinging it viciously at the nearest body.  The limp ghoul twitched, the force of the blows ripping pieces of bone and flesh.

The downpour created a gray haze that denied vision past a few yards. The rotted and dead ground quickly became soaked as the two parties stood across from each other. The banner of the Argent Crusade was held upon a long polearm of some mounted paladin, white armor seeming to light the area around the force of thirty Crusaders. They stood at the entrance of a valley leading to ziggurats that powered the Scourge forces in the Plaguelands.

Crouching over the rocky outcropping, Elriech let his long tattered cloak catch the breeze, pushing hair out of his face, he took another swig from a deep auburn bottle, the vile liquid burning his throat. Coughing once, he shivered under his plate armor, letting the drink seep into his veins like the Forsaken madness seeped into the forest around him. He watched, sitting high upon the mountain, behind the High Command post in Silverpine. It was unlike him to step away from his duties, but the Queen angered him, like the rest of his people, hatred fueled the Knight.

Within the quiet shadows, stood the man, watching a trembling and huddled form as it moaned next to a fire. Thick sandalwood smoke filled the air, the inscent almost stomach curdling, but he was used to it. Unadorned of plate armor and weapons, he stood bare chested in long black slacks, arms crossed, glowing gaze carefully studying. Elriech had visited the Priestess almost every day, but recent events left him troubled and the Knight couldn't bare seeing another of his companions suffer, so he avoided her.

The pair had just left Wailing Caverns, hunting for Raptors. Tied to the saddle of the large Acherus Deathcharger, were two such specimens, black scaled and blank stares. The creatures had a measure of intelligence in them, but it wasn't as if they hadn't killed living beings before. The young hunter on the other hand, had a difficult time sending his pet to distract the beasts. It took all Elriech's effort not to snatch the gun from the man and shoot at them himself.

“You did fine, Dezrek.” clawed fingers deftly tied securing knots, keeping the carcasses still. “A true aim, though your wolf could do better.”

The RP-GG hit the wall, knocking the bricks over in a large explosion. Kloreen, of course, clapped so excitedly that she was wiggling about on Lathaire's shoulder. "Such great quality! Only the best from my stock, of course." The Orc set the stick that once held the rocket down and examined the hole in the wall before nodding. "We'll take them, enough for our offensive on Wintergrasp."

"Sooo." The Goblin tapped her fingers against the Tauren's horn as she did some quick math. "I'll sell you two hundred for two gold each, how does that sound?" The Orc turned, he wore the armor of a Horde officer and from the amount of money he had at his disposal, a higher ranking one too. "Yes, that will aid our attack."

"When is your offensive?"

"In a day's time."

"I can get you some nice catapults by then, about ten. It'll give you a huge advantage!"

"...Fine, how much?"

Limited Time Offer! 

Ever worry you were being targetted by some mad bomber? 

Are you afraid your life is on the line and nobody can be trusted? 

The "heroes" of Azeroth smashed through the thick wooden doorway in the Vyrkul keep. A Troll in chain mail was just finishing off a guard with his large staff as the armored Orc, Sin'dorei in battle robes, leather-clad Forsaken, and a Tauren in armor that resembled the Earthmother's gifts, glared at the four Vyrkul fodder, Prince Keleseth and Lathaire. Immediately the Vyrkul attempted to slay the so-called "heroes", of course they failed. The group of "heroes" took no second thought as they charged forward, aiming to slay the Prince. Lathaire stepped between the charging Orc and the Prince. The Orc gave a gasp of shock as Lathaire quickly avoided the heavy hammer, grabbing the handle with the warrior's hand. There was a shout of pain as the Orc's hand was crushed under the Death Knight's grip. In despairation the green-skinned "hero" swung his shield, bouncing it off the thick saronite plate.

My strength trickles back.  The process is so painfully slow, but now that my thirst has been slaked... it is not so hard.

He couldn't believe he came back here.  The seemingly endless fires, the waves of ghouls, zombies and skeletons, the shattered buildings and spirits of the damned.  Stratholme.  It had ended his life once, and now he came back to give it a second chance. 

     Alyonsus thought me mad, but now he appears like he has seen a ghost. He is not far off, of course. He tells me a woman matching my description approached him in Dalaran, firmly scolding him about his layabout ways, vanishing without a word on her and not performing his sworn duties to her and the Dawn. In their discussion she referred to herself by my name, and on gentle questioning answered precisely as I had. She had no memory of events past that day in Stratholme years past. She existed as an echo of me, perfectly uncorrupted by the influence of Dreadlords.

You note the extreme length of time between posts in the journal when the first had a good amount of frequency. The writing style seems more hurried and angry as well, with several rips in the pages from too much pressure of the quill.

     I have not written in some time. My care for my humanity shortens with every day. It was unnoticeable at first; perhaps I would not brush my hair our, or a dig on my armor went unnoticed. Now, however, I have taken perhaps a dozen meals in the last month. My complexion has become sallow, my eyes bloodshot and fatigued around their unnatural glow. My armor lies nearly ruined in the corner from scorches and dents. I am not sure if I bothered to set my shoulder properly.

The book continues, more of the inner pages undisturbed from the damage the first had begun. The handwriting in this particular entry seems hurried and strained, as if the author were heavily fatigued.

The next pages are meticulously written, less of a quick jotting of feelings and more of an account, something important the author wished to convey, to make sure anyone who might read the journal would need to know. You can sense a bit of the need in her handwriting – though it is careful and much better than the other pieces she’s written, the pen is heavy on the page and blots in just a few places.

      I have known my soul was lost, for quite awhile now.

The page preceding this one is torn away from the book, though its story continues on to the next few pages. The author must have thought it quite important, to have poured so many pages of the diary into it. 

     ...I could feel guilty for all those I have slain, the children, mothers, old men I have seen dead before my blade or corrupted into unlife by plague. I wish that I could claim to feel anything – if I could only feel sadness for a thousand years it would be better than the emptiness that swells within me, now. I feel hollow, deprived of joy and sadness, grief and malice, passion or lethargy.

The first few pages of the book had seen a moderate amount of damage, mostly from blood and water, rendering the entries washed out and unreadable. Examining further, the first intact entry takes place sometime around December seventeeth, marked ten years after the end of the Third War. 

Tyi'jin slammed his fist on the table, shaking the assorted bones and carved tiki heads. "What'chu mean dat da eurtquakes not be da eut spirit, brudda?" The large troll wore his armor with the heavy sword hanging from leather straps on his back. His helmet sat on the table as he looked at his brother with a mix of anger, confusion, and fear. Sem'jul shook his head and shrugged, settong a tiki head back up. "It not be da eurt spirit dat be causin' dis an' dat be makin' all da spirits angreh'..." The smaller much more relaxed troll wore his worn linen robes with his assorted bone accesories. "I be gettin' littal from dem, dey be too busy amongst demselves in dere anga, ta be talkin ta da shamons, maybeh T'rall be able ta, but not me, brudda, not me."

"Den how do we be calmin' dem Sem'jul? Dere must be sometin' dat we be doin' ta 'elp."