Summer in Southern California can be a brutal beast to endure - especially for those wearing permanently attached fur coats. And in the sweltering heat, even the most luxurious, silky of long-haired fur coats can become an almost unbearable burden.
Some can take solace in the coolness of temperature-controlled environments, but not all are so fortunate. And so must these poor souls endure the indignity of such things as baths, noisy fans, and even the occasional trimming.
Occasionally, more drastic measures are called for. These measures are rarely met with approval by those of the four-furred-feet nature, despite the obvious relief brought about by employing them, in the light of the overbearing sun.
And thus it is that with displeasure does our feline overlord Taro pace the borders of his realm. Bereft of his proud mantle and lordly mein, the mark of his pride in utter tatters, he goes about clad in only the barest vestiges of his former glory. His discontented ire is made known in a clear and loud manner, as he demands such signs of tribute as extra feedings and water hand-delivered in a clear, crystal decanter.
Still, all indications seem to confirm the lion cut has made him feel much cooler. Except for his temper. Ah well...
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Fallen (Part 12) - The Dream Mists
In the dim almost-darkness, there was nothing to see but endless mist and fog. She found herself walking aimlessly, her steps muffled in eerie silence. No, not quite aimlessly. But for what purpose she couldn’t remember.
“About time, paladin,” a gruff voice called out.
The voice echoed hollowly, unnatural even in the strange blanket of dream mist. She blinked. A shadow detached itself from the fog. From the darkness of an ornate, covered helm, a pair of glowing eyes glowered. Familiar eyes.
And in that instant, all the memories washed over her. She was not surprised when the figure removed the helm, revealing a face that was a reflection of her own.
The paladin nodded neutrally. “ ‘Twas hard findin me way through th’ bloody dream mists. Th’ lass was makin sure th’ sleepin draught would be keepin me asleep. Seein as how ye were tryin ta stir up mischief,” she added pointedly.
The death knight sighed. “Yes.”
She folded her arms and scowled. “I’m thinkin we agreed ye’d nae be tryin tha’ agin,” she growled.
The other dwarf mirrored back the same scowl. “That was before, paladin. Things are changing. Getting worse. Even with that salve, the fel energies are still building up. We don’t have time to sit back and wait for someone else to find a different solution.”
“So ye were explainin ta Lyir, aye. I’m rememberin tha’.” She had memory of that conversation now, though she had not technically been present at the time.
“It’s the easiest solution, paladin. Cut off the hand, cut me loose, and you’ll be free.”
“Aye,” she agreed. “But what o’ ye?”
The death knight rolled eyes impatiently at the gentle tone of that question. “What does that matter? I don’t belong here anyway,” she added darkly. “I knew where my choices would take me.”
For a silent moment they shared the death knight’s memories of those dark choices.
The paladin shook her head. “Has ta be ‘nother way…”
“WHAT other way? Face reality, paladin – I’m a damned soul! My fate was sealed the day they branded this thing on my hand!” The death knight threw off her left gauntlet and brandished the glowing demonic symbol in the paladin’s face. “Like it or not, Branwynne Stelhamor, I AM damned, and none of your oh-so-shiny goody-goody intentions can undo that!”
The paladin’s jaw set mulishly. “An’ I’m sayin there HAS ta be ‘nother way, ye pig-headed bloody fool o’ a dwarf! Yer jest set in yer ways, an’ nae willin ta look fer it! ‘Sides, ‘tis MY body, like Lyir was sayin, an’ I’m nae willin ta hae me hand cut off, an’ tha’s final!”
The pair bristled at each other with identical expressions of ire.
“Do you not listen? Or are you just stupid? The fel energies are building up! It’s like, like an infection, or a cancer – if you don’t get rid of it, it will rupture, it will spread.”
“So how can we be getting rid o’ the blighted energies, then?”
The death knight snorted. “The only way *I* know of to get rid of them is to USE them. And right now, Miss shiny paladin, that’s not exactly possible, is it?” She sneered at the paladin, expecting an explosion of dwarvish temper.
But the expression of the other turned suddenly pensive instead. “An’ iffen ye could?”
Glowing eyes blinked in confusion. “…what?”
“If ye could bleed off some o’ them fel energies, use ‘em fer summat. Would tha’ give us more time ta find ‘nother way?”
She considered it for a long moment. “Possibly. But I don’t see how it would work. You’re so besotted by the Light, there’s no way you could harness the power.”
“Aye, I’ll nae be able ta. I’m knowin tha’. But ye’d be able ta.”
Another long moment of silence.
“Your druid friends won’t like it,” the death knight hazarded cautiously. “Nor your paladin friend, I think. They don’t trust me.” She did not have to add, with good cause.
“I’m knowin that,” the paladin shook her head tiredly. “But ‘tis our best chance, I’m thinkin. I’ll talk ta them ‘bout th’ idea, leastwise.”
The death knight offered a wry grin. “Good luck with that, paladin.” She turned to walk back into the mist.
“Dun ferget yer gauntlet,” Branny shouted after her. A muffled grumbling was the only response.
“About time, paladin,” a gruff voice called out.
The voice echoed hollowly, unnatural even in the strange blanket of dream mist. She blinked. A shadow detached itself from the fog. From the darkness of an ornate, covered helm, a pair of glowing eyes glowered. Familiar eyes.
And in that instant, all the memories washed over her. She was not surprised when the figure removed the helm, revealing a face that was a reflection of her own.
The paladin nodded neutrally. “ ‘Twas hard findin me way through th’ bloody dream mists. Th’ lass was makin sure th’ sleepin draught would be keepin me asleep. Seein as how ye were tryin ta stir up mischief,” she added pointedly.
The death knight sighed. “Yes.”
She folded her arms and scowled. “I’m thinkin we agreed ye’d nae be tryin tha’ agin,” she growled.
The other dwarf mirrored back the same scowl. “That was before, paladin. Things are changing. Getting worse. Even with that salve, the fel energies are still building up. We don’t have time to sit back and wait for someone else to find a different solution.”
“So ye were explainin ta Lyir, aye. I’m rememberin tha’.” She had memory of that conversation now, though she had not technically been present at the time.
“It’s the easiest solution, paladin. Cut off the hand, cut me loose, and you’ll be free.”
“Aye,” she agreed. “But what o’ ye?”
The death knight rolled eyes impatiently at the gentle tone of that question. “What does that matter? I don’t belong here anyway,” she added darkly. “I knew where my choices would take me.”
For a silent moment they shared the death knight’s memories of those dark choices.
The paladin shook her head. “Has ta be ‘nother way…”
“WHAT other way? Face reality, paladin – I’m a damned soul! My fate was sealed the day they branded this thing on my hand!” The death knight threw off her left gauntlet and brandished the glowing demonic symbol in the paladin’s face. “Like it or not, Branwynne Stelhamor, I AM damned, and none of your oh-so-shiny goody-goody intentions can undo that!”
The paladin’s jaw set mulishly. “An’ I’m sayin there HAS ta be ‘nother way, ye pig-headed bloody fool o’ a dwarf! Yer jest set in yer ways, an’ nae willin ta look fer it! ‘Sides, ‘tis MY body, like Lyir was sayin, an’ I’m nae willin ta hae me hand cut off, an’ tha’s final!”
The pair bristled at each other with identical expressions of ire.
“Do you not listen? Or are you just stupid? The fel energies are building up! It’s like, like an infection, or a cancer – if you don’t get rid of it, it will rupture, it will spread.”
“So how can we be getting rid o’ the blighted energies, then?”
The death knight snorted. “The only way *I* know of to get rid of them is to USE them. And right now, Miss shiny paladin, that’s not exactly possible, is it?” She sneered at the paladin, expecting an explosion of dwarvish temper.
But the expression of the other turned suddenly pensive instead. “An’ iffen ye could?”
Glowing eyes blinked in confusion. “…what?”
“If ye could bleed off some o’ them fel energies, use ‘em fer summat. Would tha’ give us more time ta find ‘nother way?”
She considered it for a long moment. “Possibly. But I don’t see how it would work. You’re so besotted by the Light, there’s no way you could harness the power.”
“Aye, I’ll nae be able ta. I’m knowin tha’. But ye’d be able ta.”
Another long moment of silence.
“Your druid friends won’t like it,” the death knight hazarded cautiously. “Nor your paladin friend, I think. They don’t trust me.” She did not have to add, with good cause.
“I’m knowin that,” the paladin shook her head tiredly. “But ‘tis our best chance, I’m thinkin. I’ll talk ta them ‘bout th’ idea, leastwise.”
The death knight offered a wry grin. “Good luck with that, paladin.” She turned to walk back into the mist.
“Dun ferget yer gauntlet,” Branny shouted after her. A muffled grumbling was the only response.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Blade of Rage (Part 2) - Of Ghouls and Teddies
“Ratslobber, go!” I shout, pointing at a target. With a wordless growl, it shambles forward, lashing out at the indicated target with claws and teeth, even as I engage another. Scarlet fools, remnants of the fallen Crusade, they huddle at Hearthglen and imagine themselves safe.
There is no safety for them.
We of Acherus no longer follow the frozen ass of Northrend. His whispers do not cloud our minds, or fill us with hatreds not our own. We have our own hatreds to tend to now. Oh yes, and tend them we shall.
“No! Stop him!” I growl, directing my ghoul after one of the fools, trying to flee. Ratslobber breaks off his attack and immediately gives chase.
Unfortunately leaving me to deal with the angry female he had been clawing a moment before.
“Die, unclean filth!” the woman screams at me, swinging her blade wildly.
“Already did that,” I reply with a dark grin, easily blocking her unbalanced swing. A quick twist, a wretching jerk, and I send her heavy blade flying. She stands blinking down at me, weaponless. Stupid Scarlets, untrained for gnomish opponents. “Your turn now.”
A leap upwards, a quick, practiced sweep – she falls to the ground in a bloody mess of viscera and fluids. I pay no mind, turning to my next target. I smile viciously at him, a tall man, his Scarlet tabard now freshly splattered. “Wanna be next, shorty?”
My mistake. The bitch isn’t quite dead.
The holy energies hit me unexpectedly. It is a weak strike, but enough to break my focus for the briefest of moments. An armored boot to my gut steals my breath a moment, and I feel myself fly backwards. I hit the ground heavily, just managing to keep my grip on my runeblade. Not that it matters, as a heavy foot smashes down on my wrist. I cut off a shriek of pain.
“Time to die, gnome,” the man tells me, holding his blade above me, like some kind of holy executioner.
“Seriously, don’t you fools EVER come up with new lines?” I gasp derisively, then use my left hand to fling a frosty bolt of pain straight at my would-be tormentor’s head. He screams and falls back a step, releasing my sword-hand. Gritting teeth against the pain, I try to rise, but find myself knocked down again.
Damn. More of them. Stupid paladins. A pair of them hold me down now. I struggle fruitlessly, even as I see a blade being raised once again.
“For the Ligh…”
“NO HURTS TEDDY!” roars an inhuman voice, filled with rage.
I blink.
A whirlwind of flying teeth and claws hit the poor fools from behind. Amid shouts and screams, I clearly hear the strange battle cry, over and over again.
“NO HURTS TEDDY! RATTY’S TEDDY! NO HURTS!”
Once the dust settles, I find myself hoisted in the air, lungs almost crushed in an overly-exuberant hug, face assaulted by horribly disgusting slobber. And I realize exactly who – and what – my savior was.
“BY THE NETHER, YOU STUPID ROT-BRAINED OAF! PUT ME DOWN BEFORE I PUT YOU BACK INTO AN EARLY GRAVE!” I shout.
It takes several minutes before I convince the stupid thing to put me down.
There is no safety for them.
We of Acherus no longer follow the frozen ass of Northrend. His whispers do not cloud our minds, or fill us with hatreds not our own. We have our own hatreds to tend to now. Oh yes, and tend them we shall.
“No! Stop him!” I growl, directing my ghoul after one of the fools, trying to flee. Ratslobber breaks off his attack and immediately gives chase.
Unfortunately leaving me to deal with the angry female he had been clawing a moment before.
“Die, unclean filth!” the woman screams at me, swinging her blade wildly.
“Already did that,” I reply with a dark grin, easily blocking her unbalanced swing. A quick twist, a wretching jerk, and I send her heavy blade flying. She stands blinking down at me, weaponless. Stupid Scarlets, untrained for gnomish opponents. “Your turn now.”
A leap upwards, a quick, practiced sweep – she falls to the ground in a bloody mess of viscera and fluids. I pay no mind, turning to my next target. I smile viciously at him, a tall man, his Scarlet tabard now freshly splattered. “Wanna be next, shorty?”
My mistake. The bitch isn’t quite dead.
The holy energies hit me unexpectedly. It is a weak strike, but enough to break my focus for the briefest of moments. An armored boot to my gut steals my breath a moment, and I feel myself fly backwards. I hit the ground heavily, just managing to keep my grip on my runeblade. Not that it matters, as a heavy foot smashes down on my wrist. I cut off a shriek of pain.
“Time to die, gnome,” the man tells me, holding his blade above me, like some kind of holy executioner.
“Seriously, don’t you fools EVER come up with new lines?” I gasp derisively, then use my left hand to fling a frosty bolt of pain straight at my would-be tormentor’s head. He screams and falls back a step, releasing my sword-hand. Gritting teeth against the pain, I try to rise, but find myself knocked down again.
Damn. More of them. Stupid paladins. A pair of them hold me down now. I struggle fruitlessly, even as I see a blade being raised once again.
“For the Ligh…”
“NO HURTS TEDDY!” roars an inhuman voice, filled with rage.
I blink.
A whirlwind of flying teeth and claws hit the poor fools from behind. Amid shouts and screams, I clearly hear the strange battle cry, over and over again.
“NO HURTS TEDDY! RATTY’S TEDDY! NO HURTS!”
Once the dust settles, I find myself hoisted in the air, lungs almost crushed in an overly-exuberant hug, face assaulted by horribly disgusting slobber. And I realize exactly who – and what – my savior was.
“BY THE NETHER, YOU STUPID ROT-BRAINED OAF! PUT ME DOWN BEFORE I PUT YOU BACK INTO AN EARLY GRAVE!” I shout.
It takes several minutes before I convince the stupid thing to put me down.
Blade of Rage (Part 1) - Enter the Ghoul
“Concentrate, death knight,” the Lady Alistra instructs, looking down upon me coldly. “Focus your will.”
Wordlessly, I nod, gathering the sickly-green energies within myself. The circle of initiates around me watch dispassionately, dead eyes reflecting neither curiosity nor compassion. I expect neither.
Acherus has washed away all that. Heroes and champions, villains and thieves, all washed clean – each an empty canvas for the Lich King to paint upon anew. And though we followed High Lord Mograine to a freedom of sorts, we yet remain what the frozen arse of Northrend made of us.
Death incarnate.
“Harness the power of Death, gnome. Drag this sorry carcass back into unlife. Now.”
As instructed, I direct the unholy energies into the unmoving corpse at my feet. It was human once, from the size and shape of the bones and unrotted flesh. Perhaps it was once a Scarlet Crusader. It would fit Lady Alistra’s humor to have such a one used in such a manner.
Briefly, I feel the spirit struggle within my ethereal grasp, but quickly it succumbs to my will. Against the very powers of death, there is no hope of escape. As the Lady has instructed. Numerous times.
“Rise,” I command, raising one gauntleted fist.
Groaning inhumanly, the thing struggles to obey. Drags itself up from the ground, blinks stupid dead eyes at me. Though it towers above me, it knows me to be its master.
“Adequate,” the Lady says.
“I am grateful for the instruction, Lady,” I reply, bowing formal respect.
“Now take your new pet, and go. Put it through its paces, see what it can do.”
I take three backward steps, head still bowed. As I turn, I spare a glance at my new creation. “Come,” I order it tersely. Obediently, it follows.
“Teddy?” the thing mumbles questioningly at me, as we walk down the halls.
“No, rot-for-brains,” I reply. “Shaddup and follow.”
Wordlessly, I nod, gathering the sickly-green energies within myself. The circle of initiates around me watch dispassionately, dead eyes reflecting neither curiosity nor compassion. I expect neither.
Acherus has washed away all that. Heroes and champions, villains and thieves, all washed clean – each an empty canvas for the Lich King to paint upon anew. And though we followed High Lord Mograine to a freedom of sorts, we yet remain what the frozen arse of Northrend made of us.
Death incarnate.
“Harness the power of Death, gnome. Drag this sorry carcass back into unlife. Now.”
As instructed, I direct the unholy energies into the unmoving corpse at my feet. It was human once, from the size and shape of the bones and unrotted flesh. Perhaps it was once a Scarlet Crusader. It would fit Lady Alistra’s humor to have such a one used in such a manner.
Briefly, I feel the spirit struggle within my ethereal grasp, but quickly it succumbs to my will. Against the very powers of death, there is no hope of escape. As the Lady has instructed. Numerous times.
“Rise,” I command, raising one gauntleted fist.
Groaning inhumanly, the thing struggles to obey. Drags itself up from the ground, blinks stupid dead eyes at me. Though it towers above me, it knows me to be its master.
“Adequate,” the Lady says.
“I am grateful for the instruction, Lady,” I reply, bowing formal respect.
“Now take your new pet, and go. Put it through its paces, see what it can do.”
I take three backward steps, head still bowed. As I turn, I spare a glance at my new creation. “Come,” I order it tersely. Obediently, it follows.
“Teddy?” the thing mumbles questioningly at me, as we walk down the halls.
“No, rot-for-brains,” I reply. “Shaddup and follow.”
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Fallen (Part 11) - A Price to be Paid
“Does Branwynne know about all this?”
The other shook her head. “No,” the hollow voice replied. “She does not. For her, our memories are yet… tangled. Much of what she recalls of my existence, she mistakes for her own deeds.”
“Then what right do you have to decide what is best for her?” Lyirdanna growled. “You admit this isn’t your body, or your place.”
The bound dwarf barked a laugh. “Think about it, elf! Use that bit of fluff between those big, floppy ears of yours. What’s the price of a hand – a mere hand! – compared to eternal damnation and torment? And believe me, the Burning Legion know well how to make even a minute seem an eternity of sorrow. A hand is a small price to pay.”
“Be that as it may, YOU don’t have the right. Branwynne should be the one to decide this matter.”
The deathknight’s bound spirit rolled her grey-green eyes disdainfully. “SHE would just make things more complicated. Drag her oh-so-high-and-mighty morals into the whole thing…”
“How do you know?”
“By the Nether, I know because I’ve been STUCK in here!” snapped the dwarf. “With HER! All this time! All the weak-willed compassion, all the righteous purpose, wrapped up in a sense of honor and topped off with a frilly bow! Bloody hells, who WOULDN’T want to get away from all of that sappiness?”
The dwarf’s words were harsh and filled with scorn, but sounded slightly rehearsed to the druid’s ears. Her eyes narrowed, sensing deception. “Why…?”
“Lyir,” the priest interrupted softly, voice strained. “I can’t hold the spell much longer.”
She grimaced, then nodded reluctantly at the priest. She shot one last glare at the deathknight. “We aren’t through here, dwarf. I’ll be watching you, so don’t try it again.”
_____
The dwarf was asleep in the other room, resting. The priest was also tired, but sat with Lyirdanna sipping tea.
“Well, that was interesting,” the priest noted wryly. “Is this something you get to do regularly?”
“No, it isn’t.” Lyir growled quietly.
Her attempt at levity rebuffed, the priest sighed. “So, what now?”
The druid considered a moment. “That spell… could you do it again?”
“I should be able to, yes. So long as I get a chance to recover first – wrestling an uncooperative spirit is a taxing thing.”
“Could another do the same, do you think? Another priest? Or a paladin, maybe?”
“Lyir, I just need a little time to rest…”
The night elf shook her head. “I know. But I don’t know how much time we have.”
Mollified, the priest considered. “Another priest probably could, yes – if they were strong enough. But I don’t think a paladin be much use in this matter. Unless you want to beat the spirit out of her.”
Lyir growled something wordless into her tea. A thoughtful silence followed. “It was lying,” she said finally.
“Hmm? With the compulsions I set upon it, I don’t think…”
“Lying,” she repeated firmly. “Or at least, not telling the whole truth.”
“Ah. Well, probably not. We are talking about a deathknight spirit, after all.”
“It was hiding something.” The night elf’s expression set. “We need to find out what.”
“Not tonight, I hope.”
“No, not tonight,” Lyirdanna agreed. “For now, we wait until Branwynne wakes.”
“And then?”
“Then, I drag her off to find Alishe and Prydion. And we can all argue with her about what to do next.”
The other shook her head. “No,” the hollow voice replied. “She does not. For her, our memories are yet… tangled. Much of what she recalls of my existence, she mistakes for her own deeds.”
“Then what right do you have to decide what is best for her?” Lyirdanna growled. “You admit this isn’t your body, or your place.”
The bound dwarf barked a laugh. “Think about it, elf! Use that bit of fluff between those big, floppy ears of yours. What’s the price of a hand – a mere hand! – compared to eternal damnation and torment? And believe me, the Burning Legion know well how to make even a minute seem an eternity of sorrow. A hand is a small price to pay.”
“Be that as it may, YOU don’t have the right. Branwynne should be the one to decide this matter.”
The deathknight’s bound spirit rolled her grey-green eyes disdainfully. “SHE would just make things more complicated. Drag her oh-so-high-and-mighty morals into the whole thing…”
“How do you know?”
“By the Nether, I know because I’ve been STUCK in here!” snapped the dwarf. “With HER! All this time! All the weak-willed compassion, all the righteous purpose, wrapped up in a sense of honor and topped off with a frilly bow! Bloody hells, who WOULDN’T want to get away from all of that sappiness?”
The dwarf’s words were harsh and filled with scorn, but sounded slightly rehearsed to the druid’s ears. Her eyes narrowed, sensing deception. “Why…?”
“Lyir,” the priest interrupted softly, voice strained. “I can’t hold the spell much longer.”
She grimaced, then nodded reluctantly at the priest. She shot one last glare at the deathknight. “We aren’t through here, dwarf. I’ll be watching you, so don’t try it again.”
_____
The dwarf was asleep in the other room, resting. The priest was also tired, but sat with Lyirdanna sipping tea.
“Well, that was interesting,” the priest noted wryly. “Is this something you get to do regularly?”
“No, it isn’t.” Lyir growled quietly.
Her attempt at levity rebuffed, the priest sighed. “So, what now?”
The druid considered a moment. “That spell… could you do it again?”
“I should be able to, yes. So long as I get a chance to recover first – wrestling an uncooperative spirit is a taxing thing.”
“Could another do the same, do you think? Another priest? Or a paladin, maybe?”
“Lyir, I just need a little time to rest…”
The night elf shook her head. “I know. But I don’t know how much time we have.”
Mollified, the priest considered. “Another priest probably could, yes – if they were strong enough. But I don’t think a paladin be much use in this matter. Unless you want to beat the spirit out of her.”
Lyir growled something wordless into her tea. A thoughtful silence followed. “It was lying,” she said finally.
“Hmm? With the compulsions I set upon it, I don’t think…”
“Lying,” she repeated firmly. “Or at least, not telling the whole truth.”
“Ah. Well, probably not. We are talking about a deathknight spirit, after all.”
“It was hiding something.” The night elf’s expression set. “We need to find out what.”
“Not tonight, I hope.”
“No, not tonight,” Lyirdanna agreed. “For now, we wait until Branwynne wakes.”
“And then?”
“Then, I drag her off to find Alishe and Prydion. And we can all argue with her about what to do next.”
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Fallen (Part 10) - A Deathknight's Story
Once, in life, I was a dwarf of the Steelhammer clan. I do not recall much of the time before the Deathwar. But I remember the name.
According to the dragon we spoke to, your dwarven friend and I, there is another Azeroth out there, on some different plane of existence. A different Azeroth, where different choices were made.
In my Azeroth, former Highlord Tirion Fordring was executed for treason. His son, Taelan Fordring, grew up hating the Silver Hand and all it stood for. That hatred drew the attentions of Kel’Thuzad, and through him the Lich King. In time, he became the commander of the Ner’zhul’s military forces.
As for Prince Arthas, he died a hero, leading the tattered remains of the Silver Hand against Lord Taelan’s forces. Under his leadership, we held them at bay just long enough, allowing Lady Jaina and the last members of the Council of Tirisfal to cast a gate spell. A handful of survivors escaped from Azeroth altogether through that gateway, to lands unknown.
Arthas paid for that victory with his life – and unlife. Lord Taelan turned him into a mindless, shambling husk. The rest of us weren’t so lucky.
Those few who survived the Scourge were eventually turned, or slain. Once all the lands had fallen, the Lich King, empowered by the conquest and desecration of Azeroth and Kalimdor, rose up against the Burning Legion, and was betrayed by Lord Taelan in turn.
It is a ruined, dying world, where death – true death – is the only escape.
How I got here, I do not know. Not exactly. My brother – a spineless traitorous toad, a lapdog of the Lich King – tried to recreate that original gate spell, as cast by the Lady. I tried to stop him. I thought I killed him in time. But the spell did not end with his death, it merely became unstable. Something hit me, and I was felled.
When I woke, I was in Ironforge. For a time could not recall much of my past. I slowly recovered my memories. I realized that I had somehow become linked to this other version of myself. Your dwarf did not know of my intrusion, at first. It gave me time to learn, and plan.
Originally, I plotted to oust your dwarf, and stay in this place forever. Here, where I was free, and no pawn of demons and their ilk. And after all, she was weak, like all the people of this place. Soft. None of you have known the horrors that we of my world have suffered. I felt I deserved it, more than she ever did.
But before my plans were in place, another intervened.
Just as my spirit had been torn from my homeland and brought into this land, so had my brother’s spirit been brought here as well. But where I had become aware only months before, he had had years to accustom himself to this new world.
And he had plans. Whatever they were, they involved your paladin.
She consulted one of the magic wyrms for aid against him. That one sent her to another, a time wyrm. The time wyrm sensed my presence, as well as the presence of my brother’s spirit. We did not belong here, in this time and place. But the wyrm said she could not directly interfere, and neither the paladin nor I were powerful enough to best his spirit alone.
Instead, she proposed something different, which could only succeed with our consent. She cast some manner of spell, allowing us to speak, the paladin and I.
The paladin could not let my twisted brother succeed. Nor could she let her brother’s captive spirit remain in torment. And I knew that I could only be free with my brother’s death. We agreed. Using draconic magics, the wyrm melded our two spirits – deathknight and paladin – together into one. Our memories and powers, virtues and sins, all bled into each other.
I do not recall much of that time. I remember it was not pleasant. I know that, somehow, we succeeded in destroying the physical vessel of my brother’s spirit, and freeing her brother from damnation.
We… suffered wounds from that battle. Not all of them have healed. For a time, I… we… had no memories of what had befallen. And when at last the memories began to return, they were blurred – some mine, some hers. For a time, it was a strange balance.
But the melding is not perfect. It begins to fray. And as I have become slowly aware again, I understand why.
The Light rejects the darkness I embraced, when I pledged myself as a deathknight to the cause of the Burning Legion. Now that oath is broken as well. And the fel-blood brand, the mark of my oath, blazes to claim my soul. I am thrice-damned – by the dark, by my betrayal, and by my forsaking of the Light I once bore.
My spirit is bound to the fel-blood brand. Somehow, I know this to be true. By severing the brand from the paladin, the bonding between our two souls will be broken. The fel energies would consume my essence, but leave your paladin whole and unharmed.
By my own choices, and by my own deeds, I am damned. I accept this. But one last decent act I can do, is to keep your paladin from sharing my fate.
According to the dragon we spoke to, your dwarven friend and I, there is another Azeroth out there, on some different plane of existence. A different Azeroth, where different choices were made.
In my Azeroth, former Highlord Tirion Fordring was executed for treason. His son, Taelan Fordring, grew up hating the Silver Hand and all it stood for. That hatred drew the attentions of Kel’Thuzad, and through him the Lich King. In time, he became the commander of the Ner’zhul’s military forces.
As for Prince Arthas, he died a hero, leading the tattered remains of the Silver Hand against Lord Taelan’s forces. Under his leadership, we held them at bay just long enough, allowing Lady Jaina and the last members of the Council of Tirisfal to cast a gate spell. A handful of survivors escaped from Azeroth altogether through that gateway, to lands unknown.
Arthas paid for that victory with his life – and unlife. Lord Taelan turned him into a mindless, shambling husk. The rest of us weren’t so lucky.
Those few who survived the Scourge were eventually turned, or slain. Once all the lands had fallen, the Lich King, empowered by the conquest and desecration of Azeroth and Kalimdor, rose up against the Burning Legion, and was betrayed by Lord Taelan in turn.
It is a ruined, dying world, where death – true death – is the only escape.
How I got here, I do not know. Not exactly. My brother – a spineless traitorous toad, a lapdog of the Lich King – tried to recreate that original gate spell, as cast by the Lady. I tried to stop him. I thought I killed him in time. But the spell did not end with his death, it merely became unstable. Something hit me, and I was felled.
When I woke, I was in Ironforge. For a time could not recall much of my past. I slowly recovered my memories. I realized that I had somehow become linked to this other version of myself. Your dwarf did not know of my intrusion, at first. It gave me time to learn, and plan.
Originally, I plotted to oust your dwarf, and stay in this place forever. Here, where I was free, and no pawn of demons and their ilk. And after all, she was weak, like all the people of this place. Soft. None of you have known the horrors that we of my world have suffered. I felt I deserved it, more than she ever did.
But before my plans were in place, another intervened.
Just as my spirit had been torn from my homeland and brought into this land, so had my brother’s spirit been brought here as well. But where I had become aware only months before, he had had years to accustom himself to this new world.
And he had plans. Whatever they were, they involved your paladin.
She consulted one of the magic wyrms for aid against him. That one sent her to another, a time wyrm. The time wyrm sensed my presence, as well as the presence of my brother’s spirit. We did not belong here, in this time and place. But the wyrm said she could not directly interfere, and neither the paladin nor I were powerful enough to best his spirit alone.
Instead, she proposed something different, which could only succeed with our consent. She cast some manner of spell, allowing us to speak, the paladin and I.
The paladin could not let my twisted brother succeed. Nor could she let her brother’s captive spirit remain in torment. And I knew that I could only be free with my brother’s death. We agreed. Using draconic magics, the wyrm melded our two spirits – deathknight and paladin – together into one. Our memories and powers, virtues and sins, all bled into each other.
I do not recall much of that time. I remember it was not pleasant. I know that, somehow, we succeeded in destroying the physical vessel of my brother’s spirit, and freeing her brother from damnation.
We… suffered wounds from that battle. Not all of them have healed. For a time, I… we… had no memories of what had befallen. And when at last the memories began to return, they were blurred – some mine, some hers. For a time, it was a strange balance.
But the melding is not perfect. It begins to fray. And as I have become slowly aware again, I understand why.
The Light rejects the darkness I embraced, when I pledged myself as a deathknight to the cause of the Burning Legion. Now that oath is broken as well. And the fel-blood brand, the mark of my oath, blazes to claim my soul. I am thrice-damned – by the dark, by my betrayal, and by my forsaking of the Light I once bore.
My spirit is bound to the fel-blood brand. Somehow, I know this to be true. By severing the brand from the paladin, the bonding between our two souls will be broken. The fel energies would consume my essence, but leave your paladin whole and unharmed.
By my own choices, and by my own deeds, I am damned. I accept this. But one last decent act I can do, is to keep your paladin from sharing my fate.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Fallen (Part 9) - Strangers
They secured the paladin firmly, tying her to the chair at several points, in order to be sure she would not manage to break free. Just in case.
“Try to relax,” the priest soothed, her voice soft and comforting. “Let your tension go, envision it lifting from you…”
“Bloody hard ta relax, right now,” the dwarf grumbled under her breath. “I’m tied ta this bloody chair, and someone keeps chattering at me.”
“You’re the one who wanted to be tied, stubborn dwarf,” Lyirdanna chided.
“It’s safer this way, in case I go bloody crazed on ye again.”
“Never mind that now,” the priest said, with a sharp, silencing glance first at one, then the other. “Now, Branwynne, just close your eyes and try to relax. Breath deeply.”
She nodded tersely, then closed her eyes and tried to focus on releasing the tension within herself. She concentrated on her breathing, and slowly felt the pressure of her neck and shoulders ease.
“There. Good. We’re almost ready.”
A pair of warm hands gripped her shoulders gently. There was a sudden, brilliant burst of light.
Then everything was gone.
_____
The priest stood behind the seated dwarf, eyes closed, focused on the task. After a long moment of silence, she nodded.
“You’re right, Lyir,” the priest confirmed. “There is something – someone – in there.”
The druid frowned. “Is it demonic? Can you tell?”
Silence, as the priest probed further. “No, no I don’t think so. It... the presence seems linked to the fel taint, there,” she tilted her head towards the dwarf’s bandaged left hand, “… but is not demonic itself.”
“Can you tell what it is? Why it’s tied to Branwynne?”
“Why don’t you ask it? I can bring it to the fore, though not for long.” The priest concentrated a moment, then nodded again.
Lyirdanna leaned down towards the dwarf’s still face. “Who are you?”
Grey-green eyes opened suddenly. “What do you want, elf?” The voice was harsh, dry, and slightly hollow.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Stop meddling. You endanger yourself, and those around you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. A warning, elf. You don’t know what you’re dealing with…”
“I’m dealing with you, you… whatever you are!” snapped the druid, eyes flashing. “Possessing my friend. Trying to cause her harm…”
“Harm?” A cold, sharp bark of laughter. “No, not harm. Cure. The only cure. The taint, the fel energies, the brand – they need to be removed.”
“Not that way. The salve…”
“Only delays the inevitable,” the voice cut in. “Cut it out now, and minimize the damage. Free her from the taint. And me.”
“And you? Who are you?” Lyirdanna snarled. “Tell us, damn you!”
“Your curses mean naught to me.” The eyes closed again, tiredly. “Damned I am, damned I was, now and forever. By my own hand, and by my own choice.” The bandaged hand clenched, and the eyes opened again, blazing with a fierce determination that set the druid aback. “I’ll not have this one damned as well.”
“Who ARE you?” the druid growled.
The blazing green eyes regarded her for a silent moment of cold calculation.
“I am Deathknight Stelh, of the Order of the Shattered Mountain. Subaltern of the Fourth Talon, Deathreaper Company. Among the elite deathknight troops, sworn in service to Deathlord Taelan Fordring, Commander of the Azerothian Corps. Part of the Burning Legion.”
“Try to relax,” the priest soothed, her voice soft and comforting. “Let your tension go, envision it lifting from you…”
“Bloody hard ta relax, right now,” the dwarf grumbled under her breath. “I’m tied ta this bloody chair, and someone keeps chattering at me.”
“You’re the one who wanted to be tied, stubborn dwarf,” Lyirdanna chided.
“It’s safer this way, in case I go bloody crazed on ye again.”
“Never mind that now,” the priest said, with a sharp, silencing glance first at one, then the other. “Now, Branwynne, just close your eyes and try to relax. Breath deeply.”
She nodded tersely, then closed her eyes and tried to focus on releasing the tension within herself. She concentrated on her breathing, and slowly felt the pressure of her neck and shoulders ease.
“There. Good. We’re almost ready.”
A pair of warm hands gripped her shoulders gently. There was a sudden, brilliant burst of light.
Then everything was gone.
_____
The priest stood behind the seated dwarf, eyes closed, focused on the task. After a long moment of silence, she nodded.
“You’re right, Lyir,” the priest confirmed. “There is something – someone – in there.”
The druid frowned. “Is it demonic? Can you tell?”
Silence, as the priest probed further. “No, no I don’t think so. It... the presence seems linked to the fel taint, there,” she tilted her head towards the dwarf’s bandaged left hand, “… but is not demonic itself.”
“Can you tell what it is? Why it’s tied to Branwynne?”
“Why don’t you ask it? I can bring it to the fore, though not for long.” The priest concentrated a moment, then nodded again.
Lyirdanna leaned down towards the dwarf’s still face. “Who are you?”
Grey-green eyes opened suddenly. “What do you want, elf?” The voice was harsh, dry, and slightly hollow.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Stop meddling. You endanger yourself, and those around you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. A warning, elf. You don’t know what you’re dealing with…”
“I’m dealing with you, you… whatever you are!” snapped the druid, eyes flashing. “Possessing my friend. Trying to cause her harm…”
“Harm?” A cold, sharp bark of laughter. “No, not harm. Cure. The only cure. The taint, the fel energies, the brand – they need to be removed.”
“Not that way. The salve…”
“Only delays the inevitable,” the voice cut in. “Cut it out now, and minimize the damage. Free her from the taint. And me.”
“And you? Who are you?” Lyirdanna snarled. “Tell us, damn you!”
“Your curses mean naught to me.” The eyes closed again, tiredly. “Damned I am, damned I was, now and forever. By my own hand, and by my own choice.” The bandaged hand clenched, and the eyes opened again, blazing with a fierce determination that set the druid aback. “I’ll not have this one damned as well.”
“Who ARE you?” the druid growled.
The blazing green eyes regarded her for a silent moment of cold calculation.
“I am Deathknight Stelh, of the Order of the Shattered Mountain. Subaltern of the Fourth Talon, Deathreaper Company. Among the elite deathknight troops, sworn in service to Deathlord Taelan Fordring, Commander of the Azerothian Corps. Part of the Burning Legion.”
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