She pushed the jutting precipice of existence into her gaping slushiness. Neither alive nor dead, she viewed meaning as just another artificiality she rode until she came, drenching it with the icy juices of her death-sex drive.
When asked what made her wish to continue haunting the multiverse she answered with her hollowly echoing voice, “It is a thirst for vengeance and a need to constantly refresh the necromancy reanimating me.” Oftentimes the unsatisfied asker would pedantically explain that is how she remains undead. Rather than uselessly describe a fondness of slaughter, she would part her black lips in a smirk that revealed one of her pristine fangs and say in a quiet, lascivious tone, “Smearing my dirty intellect over what I interpret as alluring keeps me content.”
At least that was how she would have responded. Much to the maleficent glee of Rimesheen, she was getting bored with her rampant lechery. “You’re not killing enough enemies, you insipid wench,” the runeblade constantly whispered in her head. “What disgusting acts you commit with that shamanic harlot of yours have become dull to your mind. There is no point in continuing your partnership…with anyone. Your body cannot feel without your mind being engaged. When will you learn?” This berating had finally borrowed past her dismissing sneers and into her facilities of reason.
And the weapon was right.
“What do you propose I do?” she thought, slowing Emberstone to a trot as she entered Embaari Village.
“Go back to Acherus and harass the Forsaken. Even if Windrunner has nothing planned, she is too cunning to ignore.”
She nodded and handed over the dark war talbuk’s reins to a stablehand.
In the humble inn, she sat at a small table and sipped brandy from her flask emblazoned with the sigil of the Ebon Blade. Some of the draenei gave her wary looks. They were native to this alternate timeline and still suspicious of their undead sisters and brothers.
She ignored the stares and thought about returning to Acherus. She didn’t like being on this version of Draenor. She was used to the crumbling wasteland into which the other had been transformed under the assault of the Burning Legion. The Iron Horde were a mockery of a threat, a shadow of the menace that the fel Horde had been when she was alive.
Fel and shadow, she thought, taking a long haul from her flask, I am so tired of any type of orc. She was sick of fighting either Horde. The Forsaken were barely part of the one from her timeline, and they were undead like her. Whether friend or foe, her contacts would not have the impetuousness of the living.
Even though she had been appreciating her time with the Shadows of Argus, her most exhilarating interactions happened outside the guild with other Knights of the Ebon Blade. She almost always found one or more lurking at the Blue Recluse, thinking of ways to kill time.
She would probably never go to Stormwind once she arrived to Acherus. Suddenly she felt a little sad. “What about my new…associates in the Vanguard?” she asked Rimesheen as she stared at the symbol on her flask.
Rimesheen groaned. “If they are worth a damn as death knights, you will see them at Acherus.”
She nodded. A dull pulse beat between her thighs. She could sate any compounded lust on the rooftop with them. When Rimesheen groaned again, she told it that she could either use her allies when the desire struck or use its hilt.
With a pained sigh, it relented. “Fine.”
“Actually, I will still use you for that from time to time.”
“No!” it shouted before retreating from her mind.
After a quick burst of empty laughter, she finished her drink and stored the flask in its pouch hanging from her belt. Outside, she returned to the stablehand. She tossed him a small sack of gold coins. “Keep him safe out here,” she ordered. She stroked the talbuk with her plate gloves. The beast flinched under her touch. “You will be happy here. You will make a fine mount for a paladin. I will have Penumbra.” She withdrew from the stable as she pictured her skeletal horse.
She promenaded to the outskirts of town, her decision to once again be stationed at Ebon Hold firm in her mind. With some extra concentration to overcome the separation between the two timelines, she opened a gateway to Acherus, ran her tongue across her twice-pierced bottom lip, and stepped into the swirling unholy energy of the portal.
My dear former employer,
It is not without a twinge of regret that I am now declaring my withdrawal from the ranks of your syndicate. I admire your mission, and I admire you. At the same time, I cannot simply stand the tedium of waiting around for assignments. I have obligations to myself that require action. I have lived a long, chaotic life, and if I wish to continue it in my undead state (which I do), I must seek more exciting paths. Therefore, I am once again setting forth into the worlds.
I am also searching for new prey–or should I put “old” prey. The so-called Azerothian Horde is now a haphazard coalition of races with questionable loyalty to one another. At best, they are a thorn in my side. I will still hunt them, that is for certain. Yet, the real threats are the Iron Horde and the Burning Legion.
Recently, I have joined the ranks of the Shadows of Argus. I fight for the cause of my people when I am not fulfilling the needs of the Ebon Blade. I have already aided them in culling the ranks of the Sargerai. I detest those filthy traitors! Anyway, I can inform you that the Shadows are helping me find the activity that I have been craving.
That being said, I, as sincerely as I can, apologize for leaving you vulnerable. I would say that was callous of me, but that would be redundant given that I am a undead killing machine. Plus, I left roughly twelve-thousand gold coins with our mutual warlock friend. I gave her instructions that she put the money towards ensuring your continued safety. You are certainly in deft hands with her, if not safe ones…
I hope to cross paths with you again. For a while, our time together was invigorating. By fel and shadow, may you find what you seek. Until then, suffer well, my former director, and remain vigilant.
Knight-Champion of the Ebon Blade
Neophyte of Shadows of Argus
The human saying “time marches on” hollowly tolled next to Rimesheen’s infinite soul-thirst. Riding along on her runeblade’s ceaseless death drive, Matasuntha’s similarly limitless indulgence of wrath proved time to be cyclical, progress an illusion, and change a pendulum. She had gone from hunting Forsaken near the Sepulcher of the present to decapitating one on the cliffs overlooking the Throne of Elements of the past.
“Your Banshee Bitch cannot save you here,” she taunted in Draenic the severed head before kicking it off the cliff. Sheathing Rimesheen, she watched the head until the verdant landscape swallowed it from sight.
Cyan eyes and black lips snarled at the headless body now twice a corpse. “Pathetic,” she hissed. “What a waste of reanimation.” She raised her hands into the air, and then immediately slammed them towards the ground. A pestilence-green rune twisted in its spot on one side of her lower back made visible by a cutout in her black armor. The grass surrounding the permanently dead Forsaken erupted in boiling decay, eating away at the already rotted matter until even the bones were fetid soot in a shallow, blackened crater. “Now that is real necromancy, you Scourge poseur.”
The unholy rune, dulled from use, rotated back into an upright position, regaining its coloration until it matched its twin embedded into her other back dimple.
Satisfied for the moment, Matasuntha rode Emberstone, her dark war talbuk, down the perilous roads leading to sea level where she continued slaughtering Horde–Iron and Azerothian–as the days blurred into weeks. Immorality was monotony, especially as an engine of death, but she was content.
Then some news set fire to her icy vengeance: Faralos had been badly injured.
“Who did this to you? Who!” she shouted in Draenic at her bedside. “I will string up by their feet and rot their flesh from the inside out, I promise you this.” She squeezed the bandaged draenei’s hand tight enough to make her squeak. Matasuntha barely noticed. She was listening to Rimesheen frost her mind with hatred.
Faralos squeaked again, and Matasuntha finally loosened her grip. They stared at one another, the solution from the IV dripping into her forearm. Breaking the charged silence, the death knight asked the wounded monk once more about the identity of her attackers. After a couple sharp coughs, Faralos croaked the name of the assailants: Warsong Battalion. It was an ugly sound, even in their native language. Matasuntha bared her fangs.
“Fucking Warsong pigs! We will make them pay.” She clenched her free hand into a fist.
Faralos propped herself up on one elbow and mustered a smile. Matasuntha sat on the edge of the bed and hooked an arm around her shoulders. She rested her head against the hard yet smooth armor protruding over the death knight’s breasts.
Looking down, Matasuntha noticed for the first time that Faralos wasn’t wearing any pants, although her legs were covered in bruises and wound dressings.
She took off her heavy gloves and caressed the parts of her thighs that were exposed and unblemished. Faralos hoisted herself up using the spikes of Matasuntha’s shoulderplates and pressed her face against her cheek, her lips parting in soft moans.
Quickly, though, the sounds of pleasure turned to an uncertain sigh.
“Am I hurting you?” Matasuntha asked, her fingers sliding onto the hem of her blue panties.
Faralos shook her head, and then buried her face in her neck tendrils. Her voice heavy with dread and medication, she asked if she was still pretty.
Matasuntha pushed her back just far enough so she could study her. “Well, you look pretty fucked up right now, that is certain.” Her black lips twisted into a grimace.
The other draenei looked heartbroken. Matasuntha cupped her face with one hand, her long, magically durable black nails scratching lightly at her hairline. “Worry not, for you will heal and be as luscious as ever. Plus,” she let her voice trail off as the hand slipped down to a breast, “a few scars here and there are sexy.”
A call to arms wrenched apart their lips. According to the Elodor peacekeeper that sheepishly alerted the couple, Azerothian Horde forces were attacking Veil Terokk. The Alliance member leading the resistance was a draenei female shaman.
“Synkaa?” Matasuntha said, her tone foolishly hopeful. Draenei were not quite as near-extinct as they were in the present since the Burning Legion had not corrupted the orcs in this timeline.
Faralos coughed and struggled to the edge of the bed, and Matasuntha raised an eyebrow at her.
“As Ebonthorn Coterie, we are obligated to respond, but you are too injured to fight.” She looked on with strained concern as she tried to ignore Rimesheen’s whispers for reprisal.
Faralos wheezed but told her she would be fine if they fought together. She slid off the bed and into her leather pants. Matasuntha blinked at her with disbelief, but Fralos smiled with half her face and quaffed a potion.
“For the Ebonthorn Coterie!” Matasuntha shouted, her hooves atop the corpse of an inexperienced blood elf huntress.
The leader of the war party glared at her. “Do not kill their weak warriors. We are only after their champions.”
Matasuntha sliced Rimesheen through the air, blood flying off the blade and splattering on the shaman’s face, which was disappointingly not as pretty as Synkaa’s. “I will kill all the Horde. They have tortured our people for too long. The hands on the clock of retribution will never stop spinning. Death to them all!”
The shaman sighed but led their party towards Southport.
A couple skirmishes and some Horde casualties later, the threat was neutralized. The effects of her potion fading, Faralos collapsed against Matasuntha and begged her to take her back to Elodor.
They safely returned to the inn. Matasuntha took off her plate gloves so she could better assist Faralos out of her clothes and redress her wounds. She showed her gratitude by shoving her tongue down her throat.
Matasuntha lost her tongue in her mouth and her hand in her underwear, but claws clicking on the floor brought her back to the room. Her lips still moving with Faralos’s, she looked sideways and saw a familiar worgen approaching the bed.
Sighing, Matasuntha shifted parallel to Faralos. “This is a rather inconvenient time to ask for the favor I owe you.”
Fauxpaw said that favor repayment was inherently inconvenient and leaned her back on the door frame. She cast her eyes away from the couple as she and Matasuntha discussed the latter’s waning interest in Pax Umbris. Faralos watched, her eyes wide with curiosity.
Fauxpaw, gladdened by the news, offered to recruit Matasuntha into her Blackwald Syndicate as a mercenary.
“I think I would like that,” she said, nodding and squeezing Faralos, “but I would like a few days to think about it.”
Fauxpaw nodded and told her that she would be in the area, but sooner was better than later.
“Very well. Now, if you do not wish to join us, I will have to ask you to leave.”
Fauxpaw studied them for a moment but declined.
Faralos said through a yawn that she was sleepy anyway. The three parted ways, Matasuntha returning to the Shadowmoon Valley fortress where she served as knight-lieutenant
She thought about joining the Blackwald Syndicate while she patrolled the grounds. Not requiring sleep meant she was almost always assigned to night watch. It reminded her a bit of her caravan escorting on Outland. History had an odd way of repeating itself.
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.