II) Rude Awakening
Matasuntha bolted upright in bed, darting a hand for Rimesheen before the shadoweave sheet fell past her buxom chest and settled under her toned abdomen at the same instant her long-nailed fingers wrapped around the runeblade’s hilt. “What the fuck was that?” she hissed. Squinting into the darkness, her view distance limited by the canopy so light blue it almost glowed like Rimesheen’s blade and her equally sharp eyes, she gripped the sword until enough time passed for her to realize it had just been a dream.
Or was it a vision? She rubbed her forehead plate with her free hand. Whatever it was had overloaded her senses and, in the wake of the sudden anxiety, sent twitches of hot fear through her icy body.
Rimesheen jeered at the rising fever. She snapped back her hand and shifted towards the middle of the bed, away from the poster on which the weapon was loosely lashed, but not away from its insults.
Settling into the blankets, she tried to close her mind to everything but the haunting remnants of the dream. A few flickers of red lit an otherwise empty blackness before she realized the sheets were damp. She felt the left side of the mattress where she had been sleeping. Her fingers skimmed through moisture no warmer Lake Indu’le, yet it was tepid to her touch.
Sweat, she concluded, frowning as she rubbed the liquid between her thumb and forefinger. If she still had her olfactory senses, she would have smelled snowplum brandy. Having taken full advantage of her night on the Aldor Rise, she had removed her armor, peeled off her leather bralette with netherweave lining, closed the canopy out of respect of any fellow patrons, and uncapped her flask full of booze, drinking in bed until sleepiness soothed her mind with its rare embrace.
The slumber initially featured splintered recollections of her night on the eastern Colossal with three of her racial sisters. Each fragment pricked the erogenous nerves of her dreamself. Then the scene faded to black and, in place of naked skin and scattered undergarments, a towering doorway of primitive architecture appeared between equally crude scaffolding. Unlike the images before it, the structure dominated her mind in crystal clarity. It sang a battle hymn, red light pulsing from its center. The incandescence swirled to all edges of the frame. Accompanied by a feeling of unbridled rage, the crimson spilled beyond the doorway and lapped at the borders of the vision.
Fear had pounded inside her with each beat of the writhing glare, and that is when she had realized her mind’s eye was looking at the Dark Portal. But it wasn’t the same portal that had become a metonym for demonic conquest. The wrath spiking straight into her subconscious had been absent from the fervent corruption of fel energy. It was pure, she remembered, staring off into the middle distance. It was the self-originating anger of a warmachine determined to conquer for the sake of conquering. And that had caused her to perspire puddles of snowplum brandy onto the sheets.
At least I will not have get up and piss it out in unkempt facilities like everyone else, she thought, trying to shake the dread that crept back into her flesh. She reached under her pillow for what permitted her undead form to metabolize alcohol: the enchanted obsidium flask emblazoned with the sigil of the Ebon Blade. Finding it empty, she returned it with a grunt.
She got comfortable again, evenly spreading her dreadlocks around her head as to not lie on them. After some more thought, she determined the dream was nothing but a reaction to the cautionary words spoken by a paladin trainee. She had to be careful or she would make that permanently fatal mistake and be buried under a blanket of angry greenskin solidarity. That the Dark Portal symbolized this lesson was merely a coincidence sparked by the rumors of strange activity surrounding the gateway.
Satisfied with her explanation, Matasuntha started to relax. She was glad she had given up her room at the Scarlet Raven Inn. The roving Horde warbands would have made her rest even more fitful. Now she needed serenity and satiny sheets against her bare skin. Usually she did not sleep alone, but she welcomed the break. She had been quite busy since her return from Silverpine Forest and Tirisfal Glades.
The faces and spread limbs of her partners, ranging from old friends to new acquaintances, sashayed through her mix of fantasies and memories. Succumbing to the pull of her loins, one hand slipped into the waistband of her netherweave boyshorts; the other hand tugged at the obsidium piercing her nipples and navel. Her fingertips slid down her smooth mons but stopped when a green-eyed visage with curled horns grinned her way into the imagery.
No longer smirking, her countenance tightened with perplexion. This…eredar, this man’ari, was one of her favorites. How could she call for the execution of the Horde for their vile nature, their desecration of her people, when she routinely fornicated with a corrupted draenei? Her hands falling to her sides, she felt like a hypocrite.
Tilting her head sideways, she gazed at Rimesheen. She knew why she liked Eaorcia so much: They were a lot alike. Now both death knights, they had also once suffered from fel corruption. Matasuntha had never completely surrendered to it. In this light, she had not injured her own people the way Eaorcia had done.
But in the name of retribution, she had committed acts so violent against the orcs that even the draenei would have tried her for war crimes if a court case had been feasible in the midst of the chaos engulfing Draenor. As a Knight of the Ebon Blade, she continued to indiscriminately slaughter all races of the Horde. From fel-touched to undead, she had never existed in a pure state. Folding her hands across her abdomen, she wondered if she would have been such a bloodthirsty Vindicator without the corruption.
Maybe she would have never had that fight with Niala in the Blue Recluse a few days ago. She chewed on her black lip as her thoughts drifted to another kaldorei. The loss of friendship with Niala bothered her little. The huntress was much closer to Ryoka–that is, until Matasuntha’s fellow Umbrian had vanished once again. She was worried that this other night elf would think less of her if rumors spread.
After some more chewing on her lip, her tongue swirling over her lip rings, she shrugged. There was bound to be tension regardless since the kaldorei had rejoined the Twilight Empire. What was Raven’s Wing thinking? The Horde are striking close to the heart of the Alliance, and the powerful Sentinel reenlists in an organization promoting its own self-absorption under the equally decadent veneer that peace could truly exist between the factions.
She narrowed her eyes, thinking about how far the Empire had fallen since the last times she had served the Imperial Military. The Empress had disbanded the Senate for one reason or another. Matasuntha no longer trusted the woman. There was something odd about how she watched people with her head tilted, her eyes seeming to concomitantly look into and look through a person.
The there was the matter of the stuffy nobility in the upper echelon’s of the Citizen Branch. She clenched her fists against the mattress, regretting not punching the sourpuss sisters in their lemon-lipped mouths. There had only been an exchange of caustic words with the stagnant twats, as well as with the once proud soldier that seemed to have been turned to putty by the aristocratic harlotry of the priestess sisters.
“Did you just think the phrase ‘aristocratic harlotry?’ You fool.” Rimesheen lacerated her mind. “You have piles of gold, the nicest possessions of any death knight, and an army consorts. You rent a luxurious bed and can bathe anytime you please. How are you any different?”
“I am not a self-righteous poseur.” She glared at her runeblade. “Narcissistic? Yes. Vengeful? Absolutely. Obsessed with death and sex?” She sat up to run her hand down its hilt. “No question. But I am not afraid to get my hands wet in Horde blood, nor am I so delusional that I think such bloodshed unnecessary.
Rimesheen prodded her mind. It was thinking. “Yes, you are a death knight. It would be ridiculous to think any peace possible for you. At best, there is a tentative collaboration between the factions of the Ebon Blade beyond the battlefield. Imperial Ebon Knights are only lying to themselves.”
She shook her head, dreadlocks snapping. “No. The officership is lying to them. They only want peace so they can perpetuate their own self-importance, even in the vile ranks of the Horde.”
The runeblade sneered and she collapsed against the bed.
On the surface, she wanted to annihilate the Horde, but underneath the icy wrath twinged a hint of remorse. She remembered how she had enjoyed protecting Yurei’s caravan with Vonmar, although he had not technically been Horde.
This made her think about what made one a member of the Horde, but she buried such philosophizing with the recent Scions of Draenor memorial for one of their exarchs murdered by greenskin scumbags. She would help her people exact revenge. The runeblade cackled its approval.
Her mind settling on another draenei female death knight she had met at the mournful celebration, she decided the military campaigns would have to wait. With a disgusted sigh, Rimesheen withdrew from her mind, leaving her fingers to wander through her lecherous desires.
I) Diplomacy of Sorts
The shabby figure in the elegant robes approached. Still not trusting the agreement, Matasuntha had Rimesheen drawn. Its blade was angled towards the ground. A ghoul stood at her left, as alert as such a pathetic creature could be. As she narrowed her eyes at the approaching mage, she inwardly cursed about her own lack of skeletal magi. At least she had her gargoyle waiting in stoneform to her right in case her suspicions proved true. Behind her floated Nyx. With contempt in its big eyes, the shadeling watched the Forsaken walk nearer. Snowplum hovered above them all. She was ready extricate the death knight.
Though her fingers and hooves twitched, Matasuntha did her best to remain calm. She didn’t want to be responsible for failed negotiations. Even Rimesheen remained passive, its incessant thirst for souls only a dull ache at the back of her mind. There was too much at risk to make an aggressive move, unless she was forced to defend herself. That would change the encounter. The possibility curled her black lips into a smirk.
Thinking of several more months of dull patrols should she succumb to violence wiped away the sneer. Her reports on Forsaken military actions contained nothing outside the normal hostilities. With Siouxsie the Banshee irritated by the uneventful writeups and Highlord Darion Mograine bored with them, the intensive reconnaissance missions were slated to be reduced back to their less frequent scheduling–that is, if the information in the bony hand of the agent was not merely a ruse.
When the mage had shuffled within a couple yards, Matasuntha pointed the tip of the blade to his chest. “That is far enough.” Once again, her black lips dropped into a scowl, and her eyes glowed an icy cyan.
The Forsaken straightened from his slouch as much as his once rotting spine allowed and look at her. His eye sockets were bright green under his hood. In the time it took her to quirk an eyebrow at him, something with long horns, big breasts, and a flicking tail faded out of and back into a cloak of invisibility.
“Just try and touch me,” the succubus taunted.
The warlock laughed at this, and Matasuntha shot him a fanged grin. She had misidentified the undead.
“Come forward a bit more and give me the papers,” she hissed, holding out her left hand.
“I’m surprised you aren’t asking to see more of Mirtai,” he said, stepping closer and extending his arm. “Deathstalkers have eyes everywhere.
Your indulgences are no secret in the Undercity. Quite surprising for an undead.”
She snatched the papers and glared at him. “Yeah, well, my parts are still intact whereas yours were gone before you were reanimated.”
The Forsaken laughed. “Physicality is irrlevent when it can be replaced by magic.”
She snorted and, though it made her nervous, drove Rimesheen into the ground so she could hold the paperwork with both hands while she glanced over it. As she flipped through the pages, she sensed her ghoul was distracted by the warlock’s glowing eyes. She really didn’t want to spend anymore time Silverpine Forest.
“Okay, these look good,” she snapped, tucking the scrolls into a black leather bag slung from her shoulder. “You’ll receive a response from my superiors soon.” She reached for Rimesheen’s hilt.
“Your superiors, huh?” The fel-green eyes seemed to squint. “Tell Highlord Mograine that he can suck my fel–”
“Do not finish that sentence!” She thrust the tip of Rimesheen against his throat.
Before the Forsaken could answer, a whip coiled around her wrist and drew taut. Mirtai dropped her occlusion. She was gripping the whip handle in raised hand.
“Tell your bitch to let go, and I will not cut off her tits and fuck her while she bleeds back into the Twisting Nether.”
What remained of the warlock’s mouth grimaced. “Like you would have sex with anything without breasts.”
“Do it,” she growled. The runic aura around Rimesheen’s blade turned an even darker shade of blue. “Now.”
“Fine, fine.” He shook his head at her. “Mirtai, release her wrist.”
The succubus pouted at her master. “Oh, you never let me have any fun.”
“We can have fun as soon as we’ve returned. Promise.”
She disappeared back into invisibility, jubilating. “I hope we can play ‘Where in the Nether are my Nethers?’ tonight.”
The warlock was about to respond, but Matasuntha interrupted: “Are we done here?”
“Yes, we are done here, Alliance harlot.”
“Thanks for the compliment. Now get out of my sight.”
She lowered Rimesheen, but waited until the warlock (and no doubt his succubus) had withdrawn into the distance to sheath the runeblade to her back. Sighing, she conjured a portal to Ebon Hold. The gargoyle burst out of stoneform and flew back to headquarters while Matasuntha called down Snowplum. Once the circling hippogryph landed with a hesitant squawk, the beast having never fully adjusted with the macabre nature of her rider, they filed one-by-one into the death gate.
The living have a way of being irritating.
This was Matasuntha’s thought as she dropped contact with her friends. She would miss them, but the upkeep was less than the provided entertainment. She hoped none of them would be seriously offended.
If they were, so be it. She had plenty of work to do for the Ebon Blade. The Forsaken were becoming a real nightmare.
She sighed, looking out over the Eastern Plaugelands. She would really miss Synkaa. Their relationship had been an invigorating animation in an existence of reanimation. She wondered if she was in her thoughts.
She shook her head. It was just as well they no longer spoke. The death knight had little time to satisfy the shaman’s unquenchable lust, and that was saying something. They would probably never again mix ice and fire.
Loneliness twinged against her bones, but Nyx interrupted her with a summons. She turned and nodded at the shadeling.
She reported to Highlord Darion Mograine and listened to his assignment, knowing she would be loyal to the perfection of death. For all its monotony, the stasis was better than the perpetual threat of succumbing to natural causes.
Perpetuated by a ridiculous feud in the officership, ravens were leaving the nest in flocks. Fel and shadow! Why did it have to happen after the meeting that seemed to set the stage for a ravenfeather future?
I slap Snowplum on the side with my riding crop, and she shoots higher into the air with a squawk. I am through dealing with these toxic personalities. They are like the leper gnomes that plagued Gnomeregan several years ago.
To fel with them. I am done with ravens for now. Well, full-fledged ravens. I lean forward to stroke the white feathered neck of Snowplum’s ravenesque upper body. She chirps, although the tension in the noise betrays her wariness of my crop. I nod at her, and an eye the color of snowplum brandy watches me hook the accoutrement to my belt.
I give her a hug, feeling her powerful muscles flap the massive white wings, while her staglike bottom-half pumps her legs in unison. She is a shining example of a living creature, and being so close to her almost makes me wish I was alive again.
The sensation is fleeting. I revel in being an undead killing machine. Vivisecting the Horde and traitors to the Alliance, stealing their souls through the icy prowess of Rimsheen, and honing the necromantic runic magic of the unholy path fill me with contentment.
A smirk parts my black lips as I think of all the Horde the Ravenwatch eviscerated. That is the only part of House Ravensong I shall miss, although I am sure I will find such solace amongst my older friends. Indeed, I served as a substitute soldier for the Indelibles when activity was slow with the House. Now I am on my way to meet with their council in Ironforge to discuss officially joining their ranks.
I shall savor the reunion with my other old friends and acquaintances, especially the ones who inspire me to be an engine of cold pleasure. None of them seem to want me to change. Even the Sentinel Commander stopped pushing her potion on me that would temporarily restore vitality to my draenei form.
This is just as well. A temporary restoration to life would not do justice to those that knew me when I was alive. Oh, Vyeraana and Illexya, I will always carry your memory in my frozen heart. And yet, I ponder, furrowing my brows, they are long since dead. If I will be reconvening with my former partners, it would be a disservice to them to not be known as Matasuntha.
“Matasuntha,” I repeat aloud, and Snowplum reaffirms my coalescing feelings towards readopting my birth name. Yes, it is time to set aside the names of my past lovers, those glorious twins who affected me so much that I do not need such obvious keepsakes by which to remember them. I am Matasuntha, not Vyerillexya.
As more distance passes between us and the Lodge, I feel a tug of three strings trying to get me to return. Synkaa, although she had downgraded her membership to mercenary captain, was a strong presence in House Ravensong. I shall miss being her guildmate of sorts, but I will ensure we cross paths in the very near future. The same sentiments extend to Faralos. I am positive we will still engage in bloodsports and ensuing celebratory drinks. We can invite Allestala to our table and have a real party.
I lick my lips. Yes, I will be sure to…reconnect with them very soon. Business before pleasure, though; business before pleasure. That mantra has kept me alive and unliving for over ten millennia and will continue my existence for many more.
Maybe I really can help Lord Revos carry his plan of universal order to fruition. He is exceptionally talented. The other warlocks I met in my recent adventures paled in comparison to him. I hope they would be the first to go in his reordering of the worlds.
Snowplum caws, her head cocked so that she can focus on the ground below us. I follow her gaze to the southern edges of the Arathi Highlands. There is a cloaked figure riding in north from the Wetlands. Squinting, I can see the horse it is riding is skeletal. Perhaps she has spotted Darethy. In that case, I should say hello.
A furious twinkle ignites the eye with which she studies me. I give her a sharp nod. Immediately, she starts diving towards the road. A wicked grin spreads across my countenance. Rimsheen’s hollow voice cackles within my skull. Sometimes business could be mixed with pleasure.
The path of the frost revenant was one of cold-hearted killing, but Vyerillexya could never fathom why it wasn’t a solitary one. Many people still wanted to get close to her icy plate armor and nearly flawless, alabaster skin. She could understand why her sisters in undeath were willing to approach her, but the number of living beings who never ceased their pursuits perplexed her. Even so, she usually welcomed the confusion with lecherous curiosity.
She smirked and ran her tongue over her black lips while recalling the night elf assassin from a few nights ago. They had turned the crypts at Ravenhill Cemetery into their personal bedroom, or wherever it was civilized people were intimate. Vyer was never one for polite behavior or political correctness, even when living. She smirked at her past barbarity as she looked out over the harbor, the water littered with the lingering debris of war galleons. Sex and death truly were the only constants in organic existence.
Since both fornicating and killing had their merits, she had welcomed the break the assassin had provided from the grind of slaughtering Horde. Her blade for House Ravensong, indeed, but the battles had lately been draining. She was studying offensive necromancy, colloquially referred to as the unholy path by by her trainers in the Ebon Blade. Executing Horde was a much more taxing and militant use of necromancy than easing her people into the Void as she had done when she served as an Auchenai Cryptkeeper. It required much practice. At least Synkaa had agreed to alleviate the extra damage she endured while training.
She shook her head, a smile crawling across her face. What would she do without Synkaa?
She gripped the wooden fence post as she tried to think of the answer. A few seagulls flew by the cannon tower. She watched them until they were out of sight. With their disappearance came her answer: she would continue to proudly fly Ravensong’s banner.
Lord Tahl’isar Ravensong forced her to learn runic unholy magic, but she knew the change was for the better. Harlan was also a master of icy destruction. The House didn’t need two frost revenants. Still, Vyer thought as she looked across the cold waters, I will ensure I do not forget the path of frost.
She withdrew from the balcony and descended the spiral staircase. Nodding goodbye Keeper Jaril, she exited and found her ghoul waiting outside. The creature was disgusting but loyal. Its lack of intelligence offended her, but it would serve its function until she raised a replacement.
“Ghoul,” she ordered, “come with me. It is time we patrol Lion’s Landing.”
It bowed. “Me like…shiney.”
Vyer sighed as she flagged down from the skies her new dread raven. His name was Ravenclaw. When she was situated on the giant bird, she snapped the side of his head with a riding crop. Ravenclaw hissed but rose into the air enough to grab the ghoul by its shoulders with his talons. She squeezed her thighs against the dread raven, and he flew up and over the wall of the keep.
The Horde better not be desecrating our fallen, she thought as they zoomed towards the graveyard. I need all the parts I can get for replacement ghouls. She smirked as Rimesheen’s hollow laugh resounded through her skull.
House Ravensong reborn? No, that cannot be true. A raven is not a phoenix, Vyerillexya thought, rubbing her temple. It has to be a totally different guild.
She reclined against her wooden chair, examining the black and white tabards draped in various places on the walls. Yes, this Tahl’isar is a warrior. He was a druid before, was he not? They probably just have similar names, similar inspirations. Ravens were a common breed of birds; common, yet beautiful. They were symbols of intelligence, power, and death. In those regards, they mirrored her existence.
She was home at last.
In fact, she should not have left the first time, but she had thought the Scions of Draenor would make her feel comfortable. As fitting as it was to be among her people, membership was slim. Despite resigning due to lack of activities, she had grown closer to Faralos. May your sister rest in peace, she thought, and then a grim smile overtook her features as she remembered their night together a week after the funeral.
She had made a lot of new contacts, many of them dreanei. She did not need to be in an official order to be close to her people. Still, she craved organized combat against the Horde. House Ravensong served this need with its active, militaristic membership and victory-at-any-cost ethics. It was still disorganized, but the Lords Ravensong had motivation, and several new recruits had finances. With Vyerillexya, Commander Detorstretu, who had also left the Order of the Kaldorei that fateful night, and the other officers, the guild would become an elegant and deadly force on Azeroth, and perhaps even Outland.
“But it won’t go anywhere if you can’t get your head out of the gutter,” Rimsheen’s voice sliced through her mind.
She sighed, and hunched over her paperwork and bottle of winter squid ink. She moved her gloved fingers from temple to raven feather quill. She needed to focus; Rimesheen was right. Currently, she was preparing some documents for Thursday’s meeting. They would be building a foundation for the House.
One of the events they had planned was a formal ball. Many people seemed excited, but there was already bickering about how it should unfold. She wasn’t sure how to mediate the discussion. It wasn’t that she was afraid to lay down the law; she was afraid of being too firm. Her civil servitude in Pax Umbris was ruthless, although it had been successful. Well, it would have been if people actually stayed interested in her efforts.
Luckily, she wasn’t worried about growing tired of the work for House Ravensong. There were already plenty of enthusiastic members, and more people were joining with each passing day. Some of them she had served with in the Order of the Kaldorei. Others had left the Silverleaf Monastery; others like the resplendent Moriyna. She would have to get to know her later. There was something intoxicating about her, even without the leggings that exposed her thighs.
Her fashion reminded her of that worn by Priestess Muurie, another draenei with a sordid past like her own. Rimesheen tried to keep her thoughts from the purple flesh, lusciously long hair, and hooded face, but Vyer slathered her mind all over her body, from horns to hooves. She longed to speak with her, to touch her, and that desire swelled within her until she realized that there a catastrophe explained why she had not seen the priestess in over a week: She could be dead.
“You’ll be dead, too, if you are unprepared for this meeting!” the runeblade snapped.
She growled. Nyx looked up at her and jabbed its tiny shadow arms in her direction. She shook her head, dreadlocks swaying slightly against her bare shoulders. As soon as the meeting was adjourned, she would try to get in contact with Muurie. She didn’t like the idea of putting her own hold when two men were after her life, but the Ravensong leaders had tempers. They would quickly strip away her newly acquired rank of Seneschal if she disappointed them.
Plus, she really was looking forward to the formal. She already had a date. Windcaller Synkaa had begged for Vyer to ask her to go. After making her prove her worth, the death knight gladly accepted the shaman as her escort. It would be a magical time, she knew, but not without the proper preparations.
She started scribbling some notes about the entertainment. Several members had offered to sing. Norvka, yet another draenei priestess, had volunteered to act as Vyer’s assistant. She was not sure how she felt about the proposition. Norvka was already bickering with Harlan about musical options. While she preferred the infighting to boredom, the lack of a solution frustrated her, and soon her attention once more meandered to Synkaa.
Her eyes had a touch of something primal in them, more so than the other shamanic draenei. It made sense, given that she was half-orc. Fortunately, her mother’s draenei genetics were dominant. Her father’s disgusting bloodline only showed in traces, and most of it was in her intense and enrapturing eyes.
Thank fuck that is all I have to deal with, Vyer quietly fumed. She scribbled several angry, incoherent lines, tried to read them, failed, and spit her rage out onto the stone floor of Ravensong’s headquarters in the Aerie Peak basement.
If Synkaa had told her the truth before she was enamored with her, she would have in the very least shunned her. At worst, she would have been a corpse for her pleasure until she had rotted too much and needed to be resurrected as a ghoul. The sentiment earned a hollow chuckle from Rimesheen. She laughed with the sword, and even Nyx tried to get in on the dark humor with its tormented chortles.
When the laughing stopped, the smile remained. She did care about Synkaa. She actually felt like she was starting to love her. The shaman made her feel warmth that the Sentinel Commander was unable to produce. Vyer didn’t blame the purple-haired vixen. The kaldorei and Elune were not what she really needed in a partner.
Not right now, at least. She hoped the night elves would regain their immortality. That would give the two of them time to be together in the future. As an undead with ten millennia of combat experience, Vyer planned on being around for a very long time. With the nearly infinite amount of possibilities unfolding before her imagination, she was sure she would be getting intimate with the Sentinel Commander again.
“Stop being such a whore and plan this damn dance so we can go out and kill something!”
“Silence,” she hissed.
But the blade was correct. She looked at the several dark ink spots she had inadvertently soaked into the parchment while her mind had strayed from the paperwork.
With a sigh, she scrawled some potential nights for the ball. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get the schedule to work. There were too many variables. When would Lord Ravensong wish to march against the Horde? They had already laid waste to the Sludge Fields with the help of dwarven siege engines from Gavin’s Naze. Though a resounding victory, the Ravenwatch knew the Forsaken would be quick to rebuild their vile laboratories. The Banshee Queen would not rest until every last living denizen of Azeroth was infected with the latest strain of plague.
She scowled. “Filthy bitch.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” echoed the sword’s voice in her skull.
“She will meet her permanent death, I swear it. Members of the Eternal Flame and the Scions of Draenor are massing an army as we speak.”
“You’re speaking, and I’m communicating directly with your mind,” Rimesheen said, much to Vyer’s ire. “Regardless, I remember your meeting with Momo and Faralos.”
She stared off into the distance. She didn’t want to schedule the night with the campaign was still in the works. There would be many Alliance organizations involved. House Ravensong would be wise to join the ranks. She must petition the Council for its endorsement at once.
“Focus, death knight. One thing at a time.”
After allowing her memories to briefly revisit the early mornings she had spent with Synkaa in Zangarmarsh that were as steamy as the region itself—the death knight’s frigid form comingling with the shaman’s elemental warmth—she sat up straight and looked at her gathered documents. Folding her bare arms across her revealing leather vest, she chewed on her black lip, her glowing cyan eyes roving over the dwarven architecture while she pondered the dates she had quilled. She finally shrugged, knowing the meeting about House Ravensong’s future would yield more conclusive results.
It better, she thought, as she resumed writing. The organization meant a lot to her. She didn’t want to fail her guild mates, nor did she want to disappoint Synkaa. The formal ball was going to be perfect. She would make sure of that.
(Note: This marks the last post for the February Challenge.)
Thirteenth Entry: The Chill of Hate // Song: “Polar Plateau” // Artist: The Frozen Autumn
Out from the Stormwind portal to Nordrassil, Vyerillexya made sure her armor, Nyx, and her hippogryph, Snowplum, had survived the teleportation with limbs and armor plating intact. She nodded, satisfied the results, and rode Snowplum towards Winterspring, a heavy scowl on her black lips.
She was thinking of last night, when she had discovered Valyseria, one of her former co-leaders of Pax Umbris, among some of the defenders preparing to repel a gathering Horde invasion of Darnassus. After exchanging pleasantries, the druidess mentioned how one of their most promising recruits, a former Twilight Imperial, had vanished. The death knight speculated he had left to live with his sin’dorei mistress, punctuating her estimation with frozen saliva that she sent splattering to the green floor of the bank’s courtyard.
That was yesterday. Today, she was on her way to Frostfire Hot Springs, where she once conversed with the elf and “his” nether drake. One can never own a drake, Vyerillexya thought, nor any half-sentient beast. At least he had made no such claims. She gently patted Snowplum’s head. The hippogryph gave no acknowledgement, but nothing was better than the revulsion her undead state used to produce. Rider and mount, however, had forged an impeteramble bond over the years since the Argent Tournament.
Those were fond memories, but today was not about fondness. They dove down from the mountains separating Hyjal from Winterpsring on a mission of preservation. After the brief partnership with a sin’dorei death knight who had suddenly vanished, Vyerillexya swore never again to mix with one of their kind, unless the blood elf had a death wish. Or if they are already dead, she thought, sneering.
Zooming over the snow, she knew she would do no such thing with this one’s body. Her growing loyalty to the night elves would not allow for it. The only punishment for this kind of relationship–or Light and Shadow forbid, interbreeding–was a quick and painful death.
She brought her hippogryph down on the edge of the hot springs. She saw nothing, although that was just what she was expecting. She was no warscout after all, even though she had done a bit of spying on Sylvana’s forces in the name of the Ebon Blade.
While nothing was in site but endless snow and steam rising from the naturally heated water, she jumped off her mount and sank Rimesheen’s blade several inches into the frozen ground. There she kneeled, both hands on the cross-guard, head rested against the pommel. The hate and fury of both death knight and runeblade swirled together in her mind.
“I am coming for you, you blood elf bitch. You will not taint the kaldorei bloodline!” She snatched up a bunch of snow, stood, and threw it over the steam. The flakes evaporated into the warm mist. Yanking Rimesheen from the icy ground, she once again climbed aboard Snowplum. “Mark my words, your end is nigh,” she hissed and flew off towards Mount Hyjal.