Kaldrin of Farahlon
10-10-2008, 02:25 PM
“Wha' was tha', lass?”
I snap out of my silent reverie, realizing I'd been motionless so long the snow of Northrend had begun to build on me. It was odd to consider that the soft white substance, so pure and delicate, could come from a place so deeply rooted with a dark and treacherous evil. I hear the laughter in my head, feel the jabs of rat claws in my soul, and only wince slightly at the sharp invasions. I barely feel them, now, and its terrifying.
The sky is empty from horizon to horizon as the darkness of night recedes, and the shore of the tundra reaches up to us. The small boat, barely enough to traverse the ocean glides past frozen remains of the continent, bobbing silently in the midnight black waters. The air is frigid and crisp, and our breaths freeze in the morning air. His shows a violent burst of steam; mine has long since dissipated to barely a cloud.
“An old saying, Alyonsus. Lordaeron, I think. 'By blood and honor, we serve.'” The human manning the boat was my servant, so the story was. I'd saved him from Blackrock Spire nearly four years ago, a slave in the pits three days or so from giving in to his horrible wounds. The slash across his eye never healed right and still wound a disgusting scar under his eyepatch. I'd employed him as a spy and a messenger for places good people aren't supposed to go – a lot of places, these days. He didn't ask questions, he took gold and orders with equal ease. His rich red hair, cut at his jaw, shakes slightly around the ugliest damn face I'd ever seen – broken bones and poor heals and scars everywhere – and he moves about his tasks in silence and we moved through the silent waters.
I can feel the claymore on my back pulling, tugging, urging me onwards, a slave-driver with no care for my health or fatigue, life or feelings. His claws reach into me again, as the often did when I thought of the slab of steel strapped onto me. My hand absently reaches back, pitted and unkempt metal stroking the cool cobalt lacquer, tracing the gilded Lion of Stormwind. It passes over every flawless inch, as smoky purple tendrils reach out, caressing me in their own lover's embrace. Once, I would retch up at the horrible, chilling touch of the demon. Even now, not even a tremble in my stomach.
It is almost the end, I quietly think to myself. Esarus Thar No Darador. I will not be defeated.
The tiny boat lurches violently as it impacts the sand. Sky and ground interchange as my body, weak from a thousand aching wounds and the lodestone of my pride, falls from the ship and onto my back. I cough and weakly rise, as Alyonsus helps me up. I smile weakly to him, a haggard and sunken face. I think of the last person who called me beautiful, and if gives me the strength. Esarus Thar No darador.
“I won't be back, Alyonsus. You'll have to find another job.” He doesn't argue. He knew, coming, and he's sure now. A simple nod and he's back in the boat, retreating from the evergreen ramparts I slowly drag myself into. Alone now, I hear him begin talking.
“It's almost time, Chriselblood. We will have our revenge.”
There is a single deafening crunch of snow as I pause at the other side of the treeline, staring across the frozen wastelands between me and my objective. A mark on a nearby tree shows me the direction and distance since they've last moved, and I forge ahead into the dawning light and into the vast blinding glare of the snow.
I've stopped talking to him long before this. He never has anything worth responding to. But this is the first time he's mentioned vengeance. My armor keeps me warm in the death chill of the tundra, stuffed with fox furs and down, and I forge a trench through the white sea before me as I break through the treeline. I hear him laugh and hum to himself, the sword vibrating on my back like a tuning fork. I nearly lose my balance again and pitch into the snow, but catch myself on a whithered branch. Only a bit farther now.
“I was the Devourer. I brought plague to a thousand worlds. Plagues of madness, of pestilence. Plagues that drove greed wild, that man turned on man for the fillings in his teeth. I devoured the stars and gained an understanding of creatures. Nothing is eternal save the Legion, and that which is not eternal lives at the whim of that which is. When Arthas usurped the Scourge, he took the Dreadlords who would not serve him, and forged us into rune-blades. He knew then he could control us by controlling the Death Knights, and we in return would bring him great new knights with powerful blades. He has misjudged me, however. You will be mine, and we shall challenge Arthas and Ner'zhul ourselves!”
I realize my knees have given out as he trails off into laughter and I curl in the white vastness. He is surely mad, I think quietly, but it won't matter soon. Esarus Thar No Darador. I see the cave. Tendrils of smoke rise from inside and I crawl with all my strength through the vastness. I realize as I close with that cyclopean salvation, the cold of Northrend seeping into me, that the smoke from inside the cave is acrid, black and thick – my last glimpse a wicked, terrifying blade, cross-guarded with a curve-horned skull. The blade that destroyed Lordaeron.
- - -
“I know this one. Wake.”
By some strength, my eyes rise. A black clad figure, armor the color of a lake at midnight, stands before me, and I realize skeletons grip my arms, tight and unyielding in their rigor mortis. It is Arthas Menethil the Second, the Lich King of the Scourge himself, and he laughs at my reaction. I feel the strength drain again, and realize in a panic my blade is gone. Yet I live. He holds up the sword from his other hand and tosses it aside, as if it were nothing. Scrap before a diamond.
“He will be dealt with for his treachery, but you. Elsymir Chriselblood. Lord-Commander in the Argent Dawn. Yes, I know you well. You led attacks on a number of my citadels during the invasions. You killed a number of my subordinates. Several Death Knights. You are surprised I am here. Terrified.”
His voice is confidence, of the implacable march of death. His eyes are beacons of malice, and something in his voice is...terrifying. He stands as a giant before an ant, more a legend in this time than Uther or Lothar. His is a name that will be mentioned for centuries, and if he has his way, till time itself ends. I know the truth of what has happened here already, why there is smoke and death and why none of the men marching by stop to regard me though I've met them a dozen times before.
“Its over, isn't it?” My voice, I find, is stronger than I remember. The last vestige of my fury, of my righteousness smolders in me like a spent ash, it catches a gust and flares strong...and in one blow I find myself on the ground again, the taste of dirt and copper in my mouth. My jaw is surely broken. He laughs, a dark, echoing noise magnified a thousandfold into a chorus of monsters, amazed at my ignorance and naiveté.
“You thought these fools were beyond my reach? A handful of insects and deluded rebels? They were the perfect snare for you, and any other bearer of one of my swords. You would inevitably come home, and I would catch you. This is the end for you, peasant. You, Orbaz, Thassarian....you are all mine. Heart and soul. If the Argent Dawn wants a war...I will wash them away in a tide of Death Knights. An Ebon Blade to cut away all those who would dare defy the inevitability of Death itself.”
His movement was smooth and rapid as he gripped into my hair, matted and dirty, and lifted me into the air to meet him face to face. I had no strength left to resist, This is the end. Esarus thar no darador. The world will remember me a monster like him, they will remember the children I killed, the blood spilled. The tears find themselves, somewhere deep inside, and burst forth onto my cheeks, washing away the dirt of the ground in rivulets. How I delighted in the laughter of life. Not a love for black violets or the feel of lakes in summertime. The call of a goose. I will be a monster, and it gives me an ember. A tiny spark of life.
“But you. You will be special, woman. Your body will live on, in my control like the rest, but you will be awake, inside of your mind. You will witness the sins I commit in your name, and know the pain of loss a thousandfold. You, like your demon friend Balhazzim, must know the price of resistance. For eternity you will serve, and you will know every minute.”
My heart races at every word. I see him raise the blade. I can almost imagine his father, in the same position, the shock and confusion within him. I repeat over and over, in my head.
Esarus Thar No Darador
I will not Fear.
Esarus thar No Darador
As long as I live, I will fight you!
Esarus Thar no Darador
What I feel I will return a hundredfold.
Esarus Thar no...I feel the tip of Frostmourne pierce my breast as the heat vanishes from the world, and darkness fills the void.
I snap out of my silent reverie, realizing I'd been motionless so long the snow of Northrend had begun to build on me. It was odd to consider that the soft white substance, so pure and delicate, could come from a place so deeply rooted with a dark and treacherous evil. I hear the laughter in my head, feel the jabs of rat claws in my soul, and only wince slightly at the sharp invasions. I barely feel them, now, and its terrifying.
The sky is empty from horizon to horizon as the darkness of night recedes, and the shore of the tundra reaches up to us. The small boat, barely enough to traverse the ocean glides past frozen remains of the continent, bobbing silently in the midnight black waters. The air is frigid and crisp, and our breaths freeze in the morning air. His shows a violent burst of steam; mine has long since dissipated to barely a cloud.
“An old saying, Alyonsus. Lordaeron, I think. 'By blood and honor, we serve.'” The human manning the boat was my servant, so the story was. I'd saved him from Blackrock Spire nearly four years ago, a slave in the pits three days or so from giving in to his horrible wounds. The slash across his eye never healed right and still wound a disgusting scar under his eyepatch. I'd employed him as a spy and a messenger for places good people aren't supposed to go – a lot of places, these days. He didn't ask questions, he took gold and orders with equal ease. His rich red hair, cut at his jaw, shakes slightly around the ugliest damn face I'd ever seen – broken bones and poor heals and scars everywhere – and he moves about his tasks in silence and we moved through the silent waters.
I can feel the claymore on my back pulling, tugging, urging me onwards, a slave-driver with no care for my health or fatigue, life or feelings. His claws reach into me again, as the often did when I thought of the slab of steel strapped onto me. My hand absently reaches back, pitted and unkempt metal stroking the cool cobalt lacquer, tracing the gilded Lion of Stormwind. It passes over every flawless inch, as smoky purple tendrils reach out, caressing me in their own lover's embrace. Once, I would retch up at the horrible, chilling touch of the demon. Even now, not even a tremble in my stomach.
It is almost the end, I quietly think to myself. Esarus Thar No Darador. I will not be defeated.
The tiny boat lurches violently as it impacts the sand. Sky and ground interchange as my body, weak from a thousand aching wounds and the lodestone of my pride, falls from the ship and onto my back. I cough and weakly rise, as Alyonsus helps me up. I smile weakly to him, a haggard and sunken face. I think of the last person who called me beautiful, and if gives me the strength. Esarus Thar No darador.
“I won't be back, Alyonsus. You'll have to find another job.” He doesn't argue. He knew, coming, and he's sure now. A simple nod and he's back in the boat, retreating from the evergreen ramparts I slowly drag myself into. Alone now, I hear him begin talking.
“It's almost time, Chriselblood. We will have our revenge.”
There is a single deafening crunch of snow as I pause at the other side of the treeline, staring across the frozen wastelands between me and my objective. A mark on a nearby tree shows me the direction and distance since they've last moved, and I forge ahead into the dawning light and into the vast blinding glare of the snow.
I've stopped talking to him long before this. He never has anything worth responding to. But this is the first time he's mentioned vengeance. My armor keeps me warm in the death chill of the tundra, stuffed with fox furs and down, and I forge a trench through the white sea before me as I break through the treeline. I hear him laugh and hum to himself, the sword vibrating on my back like a tuning fork. I nearly lose my balance again and pitch into the snow, but catch myself on a whithered branch. Only a bit farther now.
“I was the Devourer. I brought plague to a thousand worlds. Plagues of madness, of pestilence. Plagues that drove greed wild, that man turned on man for the fillings in his teeth. I devoured the stars and gained an understanding of creatures. Nothing is eternal save the Legion, and that which is not eternal lives at the whim of that which is. When Arthas usurped the Scourge, he took the Dreadlords who would not serve him, and forged us into rune-blades. He knew then he could control us by controlling the Death Knights, and we in return would bring him great new knights with powerful blades. He has misjudged me, however. You will be mine, and we shall challenge Arthas and Ner'zhul ourselves!”
I realize my knees have given out as he trails off into laughter and I curl in the white vastness. He is surely mad, I think quietly, but it won't matter soon. Esarus Thar No Darador. I see the cave. Tendrils of smoke rise from inside and I crawl with all my strength through the vastness. I realize as I close with that cyclopean salvation, the cold of Northrend seeping into me, that the smoke from inside the cave is acrid, black and thick – my last glimpse a wicked, terrifying blade, cross-guarded with a curve-horned skull. The blade that destroyed Lordaeron.
- - -
“I know this one. Wake.”
By some strength, my eyes rise. A black clad figure, armor the color of a lake at midnight, stands before me, and I realize skeletons grip my arms, tight and unyielding in their rigor mortis. It is Arthas Menethil the Second, the Lich King of the Scourge himself, and he laughs at my reaction. I feel the strength drain again, and realize in a panic my blade is gone. Yet I live. He holds up the sword from his other hand and tosses it aside, as if it were nothing. Scrap before a diamond.
“He will be dealt with for his treachery, but you. Elsymir Chriselblood. Lord-Commander in the Argent Dawn. Yes, I know you well. You led attacks on a number of my citadels during the invasions. You killed a number of my subordinates. Several Death Knights. You are surprised I am here. Terrified.”
His voice is confidence, of the implacable march of death. His eyes are beacons of malice, and something in his voice is...terrifying. He stands as a giant before an ant, more a legend in this time than Uther or Lothar. His is a name that will be mentioned for centuries, and if he has his way, till time itself ends. I know the truth of what has happened here already, why there is smoke and death and why none of the men marching by stop to regard me though I've met them a dozen times before.
“Its over, isn't it?” My voice, I find, is stronger than I remember. The last vestige of my fury, of my righteousness smolders in me like a spent ash, it catches a gust and flares strong...and in one blow I find myself on the ground again, the taste of dirt and copper in my mouth. My jaw is surely broken. He laughs, a dark, echoing noise magnified a thousandfold into a chorus of monsters, amazed at my ignorance and naiveté.
“You thought these fools were beyond my reach? A handful of insects and deluded rebels? They were the perfect snare for you, and any other bearer of one of my swords. You would inevitably come home, and I would catch you. This is the end for you, peasant. You, Orbaz, Thassarian....you are all mine. Heart and soul. If the Argent Dawn wants a war...I will wash them away in a tide of Death Knights. An Ebon Blade to cut away all those who would dare defy the inevitability of Death itself.”
His movement was smooth and rapid as he gripped into my hair, matted and dirty, and lifted me into the air to meet him face to face. I had no strength left to resist, This is the end. Esarus thar no darador. The world will remember me a monster like him, they will remember the children I killed, the blood spilled. The tears find themselves, somewhere deep inside, and burst forth onto my cheeks, washing away the dirt of the ground in rivulets. How I delighted in the laughter of life. Not a love for black violets or the feel of lakes in summertime. The call of a goose. I will be a monster, and it gives me an ember. A tiny spark of life.
“But you. You will be special, woman. Your body will live on, in my control like the rest, but you will be awake, inside of your mind. You will witness the sins I commit in your name, and know the pain of loss a thousandfold. You, like your demon friend Balhazzim, must know the price of resistance. For eternity you will serve, and you will know every minute.”
My heart races at every word. I see him raise the blade. I can almost imagine his father, in the same position, the shock and confusion within him. I repeat over and over, in my head.
Esarus Thar No Darador
I will not Fear.
Esarus thar No Darador
As long as I live, I will fight you!
Esarus Thar no Darador
What I feel I will return a hundredfold.
Esarus Thar no...I feel the tip of Frostmourne pierce my breast as the heat vanishes from the world, and darkness fills the void.