Dubaku the Sleepless sat upon his perch, deep within the black halls of Icecrown Citadel. All around him were more of the walking dead; his comrades, his allies. Geists patrolled the darkest reaches of the hall, their lonely gaze barely falling short of Dubaku's detailed habitation. Dubaku's station was devoid of luxuries, despite its eminence. This was something he had grown accustomed to, and came to prefer. His subordinates grew in number exponentially with the influx of Argent Crusaders and their allies.

Interviewer: Beginning recording, first session.  Knight Adept Kerwin, it's good to meet you.  Just so you're aware, this gem here is a recording device, it's just to make certain we can review this later. 

Satchiel Valas Kerwin: I know Arcana goodies when I see them, Doc.  What precisely is this for, anyway?

Well, there have been reports since you left active service to Silvermoon that you've been acting erratically.  Admitting to not sleeping for days at a time, running off on expeditions to far areas of the Kingdoms or Kalimdor without advanced warning, et cetera.  The Order of Blood Knights is concerned for your wellbeing.

Considering I've already caused them PR trouble with Rivanne, they're just making sure I'm not gonna do it again.  Cute. 

Either way, Knight Adept, I'm here and I want to talk to you if that's all right.  I take it the rumors are true?

Yes.

It loomed out of the early morning mists like some misplaced monolith, some forgotten obelisk of evil. Hovering over a shattered town, fields filled with only death. Nothing stirred, all was silent, as the gryphon's wings beat steadily. The air itself seemed afraid to move near this great citedal of cruelty. Dunè gripped the reins of his gryphon, guiding him in towards the entrance at the bottom of the structure. Others followed him, fellow crusaders, all on a mission. Into this sad statue of desolation.

It started out well, as they struck into this structure's hidden faculties and many surprises. The Lich's horrid and beastly spiders fell easily, though this quick and crushing victory was soon replaced. These poor Argent Crusaders soon found themselves out matched and ill equiped to deal with the black fortress. Naxxramas.

The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of fame; every prison a more illustrious abode.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The battles were fought bravely, with many elven trophies earned to carry home.

That's good, that's my boy...my wonderful boy, my Rothschilde...

The words were an ephemeral murmur in the Rothschilde's mind, feeling his dear Auntie's presence even as the brown-skinned orc gurgled and writhed on his blades, the blood leaving a rime of frost upon the weapons.  Mere moments before, the Rothschilde had killed alongside these silly brown gorilla-people, slaughtering the prettily-colored demons and red spiky gorilla-people all across Hellfire Penninsula.  They needed his help so much it had gotten boring.

"But..." the Mag'har choked, blood spilling from his lips.  "We are...allies, deathknight!"

"You annoy Father."  The Rothschilde smirked.  "And you can't kill things good enough.  You'll be more fun dead."

System Status—functional.  Hello and welcome to your new consciousness.

Warning: Impediment to:

Motor Ability: Composition—Saronite.

Auspex: Composition—Linen.

The skeletal dragon swooped low across the remnants of the avalanche, circling like a bird of prey until its claws were skimming the surface of the ice. Then, snatching something from the ice it soared upwards.

With practiced finesse, the figure swung up from the claws on the dragon’s back. Raising his blade, a purple-blue aura shining from it in the twilight, he called them. The mindless ghouls and the armored skeletons slowly crested the hill and, like ants, began tearing apart the snow, searching for the body.

“Sir?”

I think I'm improving as far as Video goes.

I still have a ways to go, though.

http://files.filefront.com/TheScourgewmv/;11502877;/fileinfo.html

Taneel awoke slowly and opened his eyes to what appeared to be a very dim and fuzzy room. He attempted to move his arm but found that it seemed to be stuck in place. Noting that this was odd, he attempted to move his other arm which, he discovered, was also stuck in place. Then he heard a soft voice from one corner of the room, though it took him a few moments to begins making sense of it.

"Ah, subject A, you have regained consciousness. That may prove most benifitial to my attempts to understand and make use of this most remarkable little device that was taken from you when you were captured. If you would be so kind as to comply with my requests for information your span of captivity here may prove less unpleasant in light of it, should you fail to answer my questions, you shall suffer rather severe consiquences."

The dark warrior strode along the streets of Stratholme, glaring from side to side. She had said she would meet him around here, but he had yet to catch sight of his little sister. Then he heard it, the faintest sound of a footfall behind him. He spun too slowly to prepare for the tackle-like hug. As he crashed to the ground in a heap, the undead soldier looked up into his sister’s glowing yellow eye sockets. It was always painful to see her face, even if she didn’t seem to mind being dead overmuch.

“You called, Bro?” She asked as she helped him to his feet.

Dusk was falling over the shores of the former kingdom of Lordaeron as a small black ship, manned by a crew of restless corpses pulled to against a small dock. A few skeletons busied themselves tying the robes and securing the craft before a short ramp was lowered and a black armored swordsman stepped from the ship. A dark robed man stepped up to him as he stepped from the ramp to the pier and extended his white painted hands, a small file clenched tightly in his grasp.

“New orders sir.”

The air was sickly sweet as Sowelu wept on her mother's breast. She begged, her voice weak and cracked, for her mother to be spared. But like the rest of her family, her heart slowly stopped and Sowelu knew she was gone. She brushed the dark hair away to see her face one last time and screamed...

It wasn't her. Sowelu wasn't a twelve year old girl kneeling over her dead mother on the floor of her own kitchen. She was kneeling over the bound body of a woman in a ruined home far from her own. A woman who had died the same way her mother had.

But Sowelu was the murderer this time.

She sighed and turned up the wick on her lantern. The small room brightened and she took out a well-worn journal and pen.

I spent half my life fighting to keep myself uncorrupted by the voices...

She's here, right on time. Two others are with her and a spare horse for me; her master is too far to walk to.

“I thought you were leaving your horse at the chapel,” Deathspeaker Selendre says, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You were afraid Kel'Thuzad would be inhospitable to his guest and allow it to be eaten.”

Smoke hung like a dead man’s shroud upon the battlefield.

Scourge bodies lay alongside their foes’.

She moved with her troops, searching for survivors.

The Scourge surge. Flesh fails. Lines break. Hearts quaver.

Brilliant Light, golden-white.

She comes.

Draenei. Elf. Orc. Troll. Gnome. Dwarf. Tauren. Human.

All die. All rise.

{{ Repost }}

The seventh day of the tenth month of the twenty-seventh year

I was surrounded by a cold mist. I could feel the magic in it dancing across my skin and the scent... it was just like that night...

{{ Repost }}

They say at death your life flashes before your eyes. It's only a partial truth.

Most people that die in battle never know what happened. It either happens too suddenly or you're too busy to notice it as it creeps up on you. One second you're a friend, a comrade, a sibling, a lover, a parent, a child; the next, your life seeps into the mud and you're no more than an obstruction.

It's the slow death that gives time for introspection...

Return to Andorhal. An escort waits at the pass to protect you.

Carolyn was scowling as she spurred Hope through Plaguemist Ravine. There were only two reasons she could think of for such a summons and one carried a very bad result. Her heart lightened considerably when she found her escort; a half-dozen Scourge soldiers but no Death Knight in command. Perhaps she worried too much.

In the ruined town hall she faced one of her commanders. It was impossible to tell which for his features were hidden by his helm. He didn't salute or welcome or greet her; such things were wasted within the Scourge. Instead, he got right down to business.

Seize her.

{{ Repost }}

{{ WARNING: Mature content in the third section and somewhat long }}

Despite the fact it was three days ago and her torture hadn't been physical, she still felt a burning in her back when she stretched. But that had been the least of it; the Lich King did not smile upon disruptions to his plans, even if unknowing.

And by pure luck, there was Cicey. She still wore the mask of a queen to protect the child buried inside. Her rage freed her from the power of the shackles; Carolyn was tasked with returning her to slavery.

Carolyn was in a precarious position. She needed favor and trust to continue her attempts to recover Sowelu. The debacle with Cicey had cost her dearly and the pressure for her to abort her plans and salvage what she could was increasing. She had to succeed in this.

And as she painfully picked herself off the ground from the raw power of Cicey's attack, she realized she was going to need help.

{{ Repost }}

"Sowelu!" The girl's voice cut through the depressive gloom Carolyn wore like a shroud. She looked up at her and inwardly gave a small groan; this is something she hadn't looked forward to.

"Cicey..."

{{ Repost }}

"Tell me why you did it."

A burning stripe of pain flared across her back forcing tears from her eyes. "If her body died, she'd be just another meat-bag and all would be lost. I did it to save your plans!"

The flame licked her again and made her jerk against her chains. "You lie; you seek to escape your service to the Lich King."

"No! I swear I don’t! I am nothing but his servant!"

Fate is worse than unkind; it's uncaring...

Sowelu would have screamed if she could breathe. Avice's -Mithara's- magic tore into her soul and flayed her on a level beyond the physical. But what was worse was the despair of failing when she was so close to succeeding. A week, maybe two, and she'd have her power back. She'd have locked away the Plague again. She would be able to survive this attack. And Delphiee... they were going to wed... and now she was lost because of Sowelu and because of timing. That was her last regret as this world faded and her body fell to the floor.

{{ Repost }}

The tenth day of the eighth month of the year 27

There was cold… cold stone beneath her, cold ice in her hand, cold air around her raising goose pimples everywhere.

There was warmth… every breath was warm and wet, her blood hot in her veins.

It was loud… voices raised in alarm and confusion, her heartbeat ringing in her ears; only the comforting babble she was accustomed to had faded.

And perhaps the worst of all was feeling. Her flesh crawled and her nerves burned as every movement dragged cloth across hypersensitive skin. It was all too much and she had to fight to keep from being overwhelmed.

{{ repost }}

The tenth day of the eighth month of the year 27

It was cool in the catacombs as Dragoons and allies gathered around the block of ice that entombed Sowelu’s body. Their hushed conversation stopped and the room seemed to become even colder as Merrii led Anyalena to the niche it rested in. Anyalena’s questions were direct and sharp, her emotions buried deeply as she let the unfeeling computations determine the course to follow.

The tenth day of the first month of the year 29

Sowelu stared at the fire, rolling the chess piece in her hand. It was a pivotal moment in this particular shadow war, one that could be the turning point for either side. She’d have to commit everything to this, but even if she succeeded she could lose everything to those she was protecting. Just having the file Alex took could have her stripped of her commission.

But this was the Cult of the Damned. No price was too great.

The house is my temple. My mother and father are my Gods. They always have been, they always will be. I have forsaken them on the account of my own feelings which I've recently discovered are moot and I found myself wondering if I did make a mistake in coming here. My heart doesn't ache for longing, it cries out for clarity and retribution. I have spent endless time meditating, focusing, and discipling myself in hopes of becoming somewhat of a better man. I would leave the unearthly shadows for what I discovered would be more fitting for my cause. I would punish those that would attempt to poison my home with their filth. No blackened heart goes unnoticed. Everyone is accounted for. Everyone.

The Voidwalker yelled, his inky mass careening down the hallway, bumping small tales proudly displaying portraits, statues, and knick knacks from all over Azeroth and beyond.