Bloodsword: 12 - The Shadowrealm

When the total darkness faded away, Purah found himself standing in the same spot, the tents of Death's Breach still around him, but all the soldiers, the geists, the ghouls, and the Horseman were gone. The world was dark, steeped in a perpetual nighttime, and shades seemed to creep in the darker corners. He stepped up to the edge of the cliff and looked over the edge. Havenshire still stood below, empty but for the shades and the Dark Rider.

He was huge. Covered head to toe in heavy armor, bristling with spikes, and carrying a rather large sword at his side, he was the epitome of death and destruction. The elf took a look at the Rider's steed, and immediately recognized his stallion, even transformed as he had been.

The hide had been bleached slightly, giving him a ghostly grey quality, and where hooves and fetlocks of flesh and bone had once been, now an eerie glow emanated, blue in the darkness. The stallion had been given armor: the champron over the stallion's face was black metal, decorated at the top with the traditional horns that curved down and out; the criniere was of matching black metal, spiked a bit to give the deathcharger's neck a menacing silhouette each time he moved; a peytral adorned with a human skull protected the stallion's chest, with more human skulls dangling as grim trophies on each side where it met the saddle, and a dark metal croupiere protected it's flanks and hindquarters. Truly, he had chosen very well. Now just to earn it back.

The Rider seemed to be oblivious to his intrusion to the shadowrealm, so he made his way slowly down the hill, his sword out and at the ready. There would be no hiding this time, no waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He would defeat the Dark Rider and take back his prize.

At the base of the hill, Purah broke out into a run. The Rider saw him coming and charged, the stallion leaping forward to barrel towards the death knight at full speed. At just the last moment, Purah leaped out of the way, cutting high. His sword rang out as it scraped along the criniere to hit the rider square in the chest. The blow would have killed a mortal man, but this was anything but.

The equestrian turned the stallion tightly and faced him, using magics to disease Purah's dead body. It slowed him, made thinking difficult. He returned in kind, using what powers of frost he had to make the rider's moves sluggish. Hopefully it would slow him down long enough to keep Purah's confused movements fast enough to dodge out of the way.

The sword fight seemed to last hours, though it had to only be a few moments. Racked with disease, desperate to escape the heavy blows of the rider, fighting at a disadvantage, he almost didn't make it. Blow after blow rained down from above, the deathcharger eager to please it's rider... but in the end, Purah's speed and his ability to keep his head through the magical disease saved him. A final, desperate blow knocked the rider from the back of the stallion. The moment his body hit the ground, the elf death knight impaled him to the earth with his runeblade. It was finished.

The Dark Rider twitched once or twice, but finally collapsed to the ground, a pool of green ichor and red blood mixing in the grass. He removed his sword, cleaned it on the fallen undead's tunic, and turned to his prize.

The deathcharger stood waiting as if it understood what had transpired. As Purah approached, it didn't turn or run. He prepared to mount and it didn't sidestep. Oh, yes, this is my stallion. This is my deathcharger. Mine, and mine alone. The ride back up the hill was swift and the little horn he had been given was a clarion call in the darkness. It seemed to tear the shadows away, revealing the true Death's Breach and Salanar the Horseman. Purah had to blink a few times, to adjust to the brightness of the real world.

"Welcome back, Bloodsword. You have succeeded where most initiates fail, Purah." He gestured to the deathcharger, now tossing it's armored head. He then handed Purah a sigil, a symbol of his mastery and abilities thus far and turned away. The elf looked down at his mount, at his perfect deathcharger, and smiled.

Mine, and mine alone.

Bloodsword: 11 - Shadows and Horses

There were indeed Scarlet Crusaders to deal with. More than Purah could count. With a new purpose and a new name, he returned to Death's Breach to serve Prince Valanar. He did well, slaughtering the living and obeying orders. Though that small part of him was still disgusted when he killed "innocents," like the villagers that fled in terror at the very sight of him. He would often tell himself that this was war. There are no innocents, just casualties, and he was already numbered among them.

When he first arrived, other Death Knights challenged him, thinking him green, or weak. After he went undefeated, other Death Knights tried to subvert him or take his place, so he challenged them. He never lost a duel. Every other Knight fell before him and soon none dared cross blades with him except for Lord Thorval himself, whenever he needed another "workout."

It was some time later, after he had returned from another raid on the small town, when he was stopped by an armored figure he hadn't met before.

"If you are wanting a duel, I warn you now, I'm not terribly in the mood. I might kill you just for the inconvenience."

The tall figure laughed. "No, Bloodsword, not a duel. I am Salanar the Horseman, keeper of the Master's stables. Every Death Knight should have a steed worthy of his skills, yet you do not have one. It is time that is rectified."

Purah knelt quickly. "Forgive my insolence, Horseman. Any task you set I will complete."

The Horseman just laughed again. "You do not have to apologize. I know your reputation and I know that it is well earned." He paused then and looked out over the cliff to Havenshire below. "I would love to create a steed for you, Bloodsword, but I haven't stock worthy of you."

Purah nodded, understanding, and rose. "When last I was in the Scarlet Crusaders' town, I noticed a stable, my lord."

The Horseman turned back to him. "How fortuitous it is that the Crusaders have a stable full of horses just a stone's throw from this post." He smiled wryly. "Go. Find one of good stock, something of your own choosing. Beware the guards there, especially the stablemaster, Kitrik, I think he is called. Find a horse you deem worthy and... "borrow" it. I'll be waiting. Suffer well, brother."

Purah saluted the Horseman and strode off down the hill. Geists passed him on all fours, hissing as they passed. Ghouls under the Master's control also thundered down the hill right into a passing Scarlet Crusade patrol, catching them by surprise. Focused, Purah passed by without stopping. They weren't his concern.

The stable, however, was his concern. The paddock was filled with horses of all kinds, mares, geldings, and even a few stallions. He stopped out of sight, upwind of the guards and beasts. Though the spells of preservation kept him from reeking, truly from seeming like anything but a healthy, if pale, elf, the horses would still know. Animals could always tell. If they caught wind of him, they'd get nervous, putting the guards on edge. It's the last thing he wanted.

The guards were otherwise alert, but not focused. They didn't scan the horizon well, or see him standing not a hundred yards out, though there was little to hide behind to stay out of sight. Fools, the lot of them. He found a gap in the guards, a part of the fence only held by one solder. He carried a pair of maces, but wasn't otherwise dangerous. Purah readied himself.

With a thought, he gathered Shadow energies around the guard, pulling him towards his blade. The guard, bewildered and full of fear, suddenly found himself flying through the air right to a waiting Death Knight. Like so many of Purah's fights, it was over before it began. With the element of surprise, the guard held no chance at all. The guard's corpse now at the Death Knight's feet, he turned his cold eyes to the paddock.

A few of the horses had been spooked by the sudden movement of the guard, but they were already calming again, as Purah was still upwind and hadn't made his move. For a moment, he simply stared at them all, quietly moving about the paddock, eating, resting, completely oblivious to the fact that one of them was about to be chosen to become something else. Something darker.

Purah had never owned a horse, but he had learned of them, about how to spot a healthy, well-cared-for beast. Most of these were in excellent condition, bred for war and work. A few were too young, and he had no interest in any of the suckling mares. Still, that left plenty to choose from.

A well-muscled bay mare caught his attention as she moved amongst the others, obviously one of the lead mares of the herd. Strong-willed, he could tell, and judging from her size could easily hold a fully-armored man in life. Purah could only imagine what she could do when the Horseman was finished with her. He was nearly ready to break from cover, had nearly made up his mind, when the stable master, Kitrik, came into view. Purah paused just in time.

The man was tan from his countless hours outside, scarred and well-muscled. His horse was the same, obviously accustomed to fighting off attackers, whether they be a danger to the herd or to his rider. Purah, however, could care less about the horse and rider. The stablemaster was leading a stallion, black as pitch, into the paddock. He was perfect in nearly every way. Spirited, he was already pulling on the lead, trying to buck out, trying to free himself. Him. That's the one. Not only will he serve me perfectly, his loss will no doubt come as a huge blow to the Crusaders. He's mine.

The Death Knight waited patiently, willing to stand completely still for an eternity if necessary. A patrolling guard came close at some point, and his body joined that of his companion. Still, Purah waited. Eventually the stallion was led back into the stable and Kitrik emerged, mounted up, and went on his rounds of the paddock. Now. This is my chance, he thought to himself. Careful to remain upwind of the horses, he circled around to the building, taking care to pull any guards away from the horses so as not to scare them with a battle.

The stables smelled musty and straw and dust floated in the air. The horses immediately sensed Purah enter. Even as well preserved as he was, animals could tell when death walked inside their home. The stallion was in the largest stable, snorting and pawing nervously at the straw, his black hide sliding smoothly over muscles accustomed to carrying a soldier.

"Shhh," Purah whispered, reaching out to the horse. At first the horse pulled back, unsure of the smell of death, of the old blood and the newer splashes of gore from his recent fights with the guards, but the horse was accustomed to fighting and slowly calmed. Smiling in triumph, Purah leaped up on the stallion's bare back, right as Kitrik returned.

"Ay! You! Get offa' him!" he shouted, oblivious to the danger he was in... except that his shouts immediately alerted several guards outside. Even with Purah's sword skills, he'd have to leave the horse's back. He was too close to lose like this. Go, stallion. Run. Run like the wind. Purah pressed the horse into a run and the steed broke from the stable like a Goblin rocket, scattering straw everywhere. Horses shied away and whinnied, spooking and running away. The stallion's gait ate up the ground and carried him easily away, as if Purah were nothing but a feather upon his back.

The shouts and commotion around the stable faded away behind him as he rode his prize up the hill to Death's Breach to the waiting Horseman. The stallion was fearless, only shying once as a Geist leaped past, and Purah was pleased with his choice. You'll be perfect. No one will have a steed such as you. You'll be mine, and mine alone.

"My, my, Bloodsword," the tall undead said as Purah rode up, dismounting to hand the dark stallion over. "You've chosen well. Very well, judging by the curses coming from the stable." Salanar stared at the beast, walking around him, taking him in. Then, with a word and a gesture, Shadows engulfed the stallion, seeming to devour him whole until he disappeared altogether.

"I have sent the steed to the Shadowrealm. There, one of my riders will slay and raise the beast as a Deathcharger. Now you have to earn it back. Take this horn and enter the Shadowrealm. Find the rider, slay him, and take your steed. If you should succeed, use the horn to return."

Purah nodded, taking the offered horn.

"Thank you, brother. I shall accept the challenge."

The Horseman nodded and gestured, pulling Purah into a whirlwind of Shadows where he fell down, down into the dark.

Bloodsword: 10 - What's in a Name

Purah learned much about the Scarlet Crusade over the next days, spying on them with the eye of Acherous, acting as messenger, fighting them for the glory of the Scourge. It was as he was returning to the fortress that Instructor Razuvious pulled him aside.

"You've done well, Purah Lightsword. Your determination is commendable. I've also gotten news that you continue to only improve on your sword skills and that no other Death Knight of your class can match your weapon work. Truly Impressive."

"Thank you, Instructor. I endevour only to serve."

"I think it is time you spoke with Lord Thorval. While you could learn a great many things from the Lady Alistra and Amal'thazad, I think it is Thorval's teachings that you will find the most interesting. You'll find him in the Blood wing, below us. Go, seek him out."

Purah nodded and saluted the Instructor, turning away to take the transporter to the lower level. He had been down only once before to get his initial orders from the Hight Lord and had not explored. As he emerged from the faint red light to the lower level, he looked out over the room. The center of this level was occupied by the High Lord Darion Morgraine himself, along with his advisors and information and reports. The three walls of the fortress to his left and right, and across from the transporter each held instructors in the three schools of Death Knight disciplines: Blood, Unholy, and Frost.

You could almost always recognize students of each at a glance. Those Knights who followed the school of Frost actually lowered the temperature of the air around them, and their armor often carried a very thin coat of ice. Those that followed the Unholy school were masters of the ghouls, and had one with them at all times. The undead under their control were often more intelligent, relatively speaking, and they could summon gargoyals to aid them, if needed.

All those that were left were of the Blood school, and it is there that Purah headed. Lord Thorval was an imposing Human, covered head to toe in black and blood-red armor, dead eyes filled with fury. His black hair was long and matted, pulled back into a tail. Ash-grey, tribal tattoos covered his eyes from forehead to cheek. His students were masters of the runeblade.

He sized Purah up the moment he stepped forward to ask for instruction. Before the elf could even open his mouth to speak, Thorval struck with a gauntlet-encased fist. Purah, surprised, but not unprepared, twisted and dodged, almost fast enough to escape the Lord's attack. Almost, but not quite, as the dead Human's blow glanced off his armor. Thorval chuckled, pointing to Purah, then speaking to his students who were watching the entire thing take place. "You see? That was excellent reflex. He was not expecting attack, but adapted and turned, ready to fight back." He then turned to Purah and asked, "What is your name, Death Knight?"

"Purah Lightsword, Lord Thorval. I was told to seek you out by Instructor Razuvious."

Thorval nodded. "He did well, sending you to me. We will spar, Death Knight Lightsword, and I will see what I can teach you."

They pulled their weapons, facing off against one another, as Thorval had done with countless others he deemed worthy to teach. "You will use disease to weaken your opponents, perhaps even a ghoul to distract them, but, in the end, it is your blade that will finish the job and earn you victory. Unlike our brothers and sisters of the other schools, we don't rely on magic or our ability to raise the dead to win our battles." He turned back to Purah. "Now, fight!"

Thorval was good. Very good, especially for a Human. Purah used every trick he knew, every twist, every dodge, every attack, but Thorval would not be defeated. Purah actually felt himself tiring, something he did not think was possible anymore. Thorval was slowly backing him into a corner, and even with his skills, he wasn't sure he'd be able to escape the bad position. In the end, though, it didn't matter. Right before Thorval would have landed a killing blow, he pulled back, laughing.

"By Ner'zhul, you're good! I haven't had a workout like that in some time, elf." He stepped back and sheathed his sword as the students clapped politely. Purah followed suit, bowing to the Lord as he put his own weapon away. "Very well. There isn't much with a sword I could teach you that you don't already know. Instead, I'll be teaching you how to use our unique skills in conjunction with your weapon to win against any foe. There is much about runes for you to learn, Purah... well, now, your name doesn't really fit you, does it? 'Lightsword' is foolish. I'm surprised our Master hasn't demanded you change it already, or done away with you like he did with Harmony."

Purah looked confused, and asked, "But, my Lord Thorval, what else would I be called? My name is all I have."

"Wrong. You have the Scourge. And your skills. Still, we wouldn't want to confuse that pretty head of yours. You'll be known as Purah Bloodsword, now. Yes, Bloodsword should suit you quite well."

Memories stirred in the back of his mind, of a human lying in a growing pool of blood, a silver blade in his hand dripping red... He pushed them away.

"Thank you, my Lord. I am honored."

Purah Bloodsword. You are summoned to Death's Breach. There are Scarlet Crusaders to deal with. Bloodsword, serve me and obey.

"Greatly honored."

Bloodsword: 9 - Rising Dead

Purah obeyed his new Master without question. When the Lich King called, he appeared at his side; when he was sent to do a task, it was done without hesitation. He was the perfect soldier and earned every reward he was given, whether it was new, more permanent spells of preservation, or better armor and status amongst the dead army. His once golden complexion gave way to paler hues, his blonde hair bleached white with the preservation of his body. His eyes, though, they retained the icy blue they had always been, glowing now in darkness.

In the following days he learned that this floating fortress was known as Acherous, and below, on the ground, was a large group of the Scarlet Crusaders, religious extremists who had taken an irrational dislike to the Lich King and his minions, along with any who got in their way as they pursued the walking dead. Purah was called once again to the balcony overlooking the settlement below, called to the side of his lord.

"You called for me, my lord," he said coldly, unfeeling, kneeling down with respect before the looming figure clad in full armor. The Lich King said nothing, at first, instead looking out over the fields below.

It is time for you to complete your training. You have served me well, here in the hold, but you are capable of so much more. Report to the Instructor. Become a Death Knight of renown, Purah Lightsword, and serve me further.

"As you wish, Master, so it shall be done." He stood, turning briskly away and walked down into the depths of the fortress. Anything left of the living Purah was so fully buried now in the darkness of his mind, that obeying orders was simply second nature. His inner voice was drowned out by the whispering, and his soul was cold and unfeeling. Death will change a man.

Instructor Razuvious walked slowly around the pit that Purah himself had once been chained in, watching new Death Knights chosen by the Lich King as they put their training to use. He didn't notice or care when Purah walked up, instead simply stopping to watch yet another chained initiate die to the better-armed, new Knight. His eyes showed no emotion whatsoever at the destruction of the prisoner, nor at the victorious combatant.

He waited patiently, as only the dead can do, until the Instructor walked back. "You show restraint. Impressive."

"I was told to report to you. It is in your judgment whether or not I continue. No amount of talking or convincing or groveling will change that fact." The pit... He pushed that inner voice back into the cold. Not now.

"Very good," the Instructor said as he turned to him. "Intelligent, for a corpse. Let's see if you can follow instructions. Go to a rack and choose a weapon, Death Knight. You shall learn of Runeforging, one of our greatest strengths."

The lessons continued for some time, teaching him the intricacies of using the magical forges in the fortress, earning him accolades and a fine, new weapon. A part of him disliked the sword he now held, that small part of him that still thought freely found it sub-par to his memories of a fine blade, but he ignored it, pushing it down, down into the dark of his consciousness once again.

"Now that you have a serviceable weapon, take this key." The Instructor handed him a heavy key, one that Purah recognized. "You will soon begin feeling what we call the Endless Hunger. There is only one solution and that key is your salvation. Go into the pit, choose one of those who are chained there, release them... Live or die - the choice is yours to make."

Purah smiled. "As you wish, my lord Instructor." He knew it would be simple, knew it would be child's play. They were newly wakened, clumsy, and weak. He would choose the strongest of them. He wanted a challenge.

The pit was filled with chained undead, varying from trolls to orcs to humans and dwarves. Nearly every race of the living world was represented, and at least one of the Tauren was there as well. He was huge, standing well over seven feet tall, and well muscled even in death. If nothing else, a single blow would prove destructive, Purah thought. A worthy challenge to see if he was as capable as he believed he was.

"You. Get up." He stalked past the undead Tauren and unchained him from the wall. The bull stood, eyeing the elf warily, but nodding in understanding... and... was that thankfulness? "Put on armor and grab a weapon." The Tauren, refusing to speak, simply nodded again, and lifted some rusty armor down from a nearby rack, as well as a large blade. It, at least, was in decent condition, though it looked a bit clumsy in the Tauren's hands. The large creature swung it a few times, testing the heft, then grunted. Apparently, the blade would serve.

Smiling, Purah knew this would be a decent duel. "Show no mercy." The Instructor's voice carried, and it was clear that it was directed at them both. Should the huge Tauren win, he would no doubt take Purah's place, and Purah himself would be tossed out with the trash. I would be at peace... No. The fight is beginning, and I won't fail. Now that no longer fear the sword, I will once again be the best. He pushed that voice back down into the cold and concentrated on the present.

For a brief moment, they simply watched one another, trying to find an opening, each looking for the other's weakness. The bull shifted and the elf saw it... his moment. He could have given in to the quiet inner voice, could have let the prisoner win and survive, except that the inner voice was no longer telling him to lose, to be at quiet peace. End it quickly, before this poor soul must endure being chained to this Master. Look at him. He was once a wise man, or a shaman, at one with the world. Now he is at complete odds with it, an abomination to Nature. End it. Do it quickly. I will endure.

The bull lunged, quick and capable, using some magic to disease Purah's body. Too little, too late, he thought, twisting out of the way and turning again, gracefully, into an attack. Remembering the dance he had practiced for months as a young trainee, he spun and struck, perfect, laying his own diseases into the bull's corpse. It was over nearly as it began, swift... and merciful, in its way, he knew. That part of him that remembered life had spoken truly.

Purah, however, found himself overcome with a strange bloodlust, a desperate desire to continue the dance, to slice his blade into another victim, and another. He was angry, and he didn't know why. He nearly turned on the closest, chained body, but was halted by the Instructor's voice.

"Well done, Purah. I have not seen such swordplay since the second war, when the elven warriors of Quel'thalas came forward to aid the Human kingdoms against the Horde. Beautiful, even now, in its destruction." Purah controlled himself enough to salute the Instructor and step out of the pit, allowing the bloodlust to slowly drain away, though he felt almost pained.

"With skills like that, I believe you will advance quickly. Very well done indeed." The Instructor saluted him. "Now, report to our Master. He is waiting for you."

Purah turned, walking slowly around the ring to the balcony once again.

I will endure.

Bloodsword: 8 - Darkness

Blood. Gore. Cold.

Run, beloved. Run, run...

Darkness enveloped him. He was freezing, shivvering and naked in hip-deep snow that seemed to go on and on into the darkness all around. He wanted to cry, or scream, or laugh. He wasn't sure which. Perhaps all three at once, over and over. Sometimes he'd think there was a light in the dark, but it was always just at the edge of his vision. When he'd turn, it would always be too slow, and the light was gone. Maybe it hadn't been there at all. Maybe he was just mad.

What is your name? A voice from the darkness asks.

"I don't think I can remember," he replies, wishing he could answer, knowing that he can't, not truthfully. The voice leaves him alone, then, for an eternity. Alone in the cold snow.

He never moves from the spot he's in. There is nothing else there, no shelter, no other people. Just him, and the snow. And, occasionally, the voice from the dark.

What do you remember? It asks.

"Blood. Lots of blood. And dead flesh. And a bad smell, like all the world had died except for me, and I was drowning in the corpses." An accurate statement. It laughed then, the voice, and dissappears again for immeasurable time.

It suddenly asks, What else? What else do you remember?

"A wall. There was a wall as tall as a mountain. And a wooden gate."

Images rushed into his mind, then, all at once, overwhelming. Soldiers screamed and shouted orders, abominations and ghouls crowded in around him, but fell, as a sword cut through them. His sword, his perfect dance of death and destruction. He wanted to scream, to cry out to make the images stop. They brought back the smell and the death and the pain. Lots of pain.

Then, he saw her. She stood, a beacon in the cold and in the onslaught of nightmarish memories. Silea.

The voice laughed again, cold, unfeeling. It was a false laugh, he realized. Not a real one, not one that mattered. It had never loved something, someone, like Silea. Her name he could remember, even if he couldn't remember his own. It gave him strength.

The voice seemed to realize that he wasn't listening anymore, wasn't paying attention, and it got angry.

You'll never see her again! Never again! She's not for you, not now! It yelled, railed against this surge of warmth he seemed to feel, blocking out the freezing snow. He could almost see her standing there before him, reaching out. He wanted to reach out, too. To touch her hand, but...

What's wrong? Why don't you reach out? Go on then! DO IT! It was almost screeching, like a harpy or a gargoyle. A gargoyle...

More memories rushed to him now, memories of a battle. They were swooping down from above as they ran through the streets, he and his love, his Silea. They had to get out. That's when they ran to the gate, the northern gate in Silvermoon city. It had fallen to the Scourge. They were everywhere, even here, and they ran through the scattered lines of the enemy to the gate. Guardsmen were holding it off, and he helped, his shining blade in hand, until she had called out to him.

"Purah! Purah, over here..." and he had run to her, run to see the hole in the wall where she slipped through... and he fell. Down, down, down into the dark cold. This dark, where the voice was his only company, and the memories were all he had left.

"My name is Purah Lightsword, a Quel'dorei of Silvermoon and Quel'thalas, and you killed me you sick, twisted bastard."

The voice just laughed and laughed and laughed, unending, turning into a howling wind that bit deep into his body. But it wasn't his body, not really. It couldn't be, because he had been hit from behind by a Death Coil spell just as he had reached the hole, just as he had been so close to freedom. He turned his mind away from the memories, away from the pain. He wanted to turn numb from the cold and forget.

But something wouldn't let him. The light was back, stronger now, and the cold voice in the wind sputtered and died. You promised... you promised you'd wait for me, my love...

I did, he thought. I did promise, but it's hard to stay awake, here. It's hard to fight the cold.

Wait for me, beloved. Wait for me on the other side. One day, I'll join you.

I'll wait. I'll wait for you. Just run, run like the wind...

.: * :.

"Run."

Cold, blue eyes snapped open. They sat in a pale, numb face, surrounded by long, white hair that fell over his shoulder and back. He wore nothing, and knew this, yet didn't care. Finding it very difficult to move, he tried to sit, wondering for a brief moment why he wasn't still standing in the snow in the darkness. He tried to look around, to take in his surroundings.

The ground beneath him was stone, and the wall nearby was as well, though this had carvings of skulls and bones. Eerie green, glowing light allowed him to see, though not well. He had never seen anything like it before. A soft moaning came from beyond his range of vision, and he heard wails in the distance. He noticed, then, a robed man leaning over him, chanting quietly. Slowly, his neck cracking, he turned his head to look around. A mountain of corpses stood nearby, all of the bodies in decent condition, some covered in dirt, others embalmed.

He tried to speak, but it just came out as a mumble. The acolyte grimaced. "Welcome back to the waking world, unworthy initiate. You could have been great. You could have served, but you turned from the Master and will now pay with your life."

Purah was confused. Master? Who- You're not for her anymore, Purah Lightsword. Not now. Not now that you are this, one of my creatures, unworthy though you are. The voice from the dark. It was still here, now in his head.

Get up. Get up so that my Acolytes can continue their work. Get up, Purah Lightsword. He obeyed, complusively. It didn't hurt to stand, not really, though it seemed uncomfortable. He realized he wasn't breathing at one point and tried to make himself do so, conciously taking deep breaths. It was too much effort, after a while, so he accepted that breathing wasn't all that important anymore. He finally worked out the kinks and the stiffness. When he seemed to be moving well, he looked around him. Arching walls reached up into darkness. The architects of this fortress had used actual bones in its construction, instead of carvings as he first thought. His musings were interupted, then, by another robed figure.

"This way, Unworthy Initiate. Even though you were chosen out of many for this opportunity, you failed and must be dealt with." He led him down into a pit where other undead were chained around the circular wall. He stood, forced to obey, and caring less and less about his fate. If the Lich King wants me to be destroyed, I'll so so. I'm dead, Silea may or may not live. What difference does it make now? A feeling deep in his mind tried to stir, the only warm place left, and his still heart remembered what a fluttering beat was once like. Silea, I'm so sorry.

The Acolyte chained him to the wall, and he sat. To his left was a human woman, her face sunken and green. Whatever spell they had used to preserve him had worked far better than whatever they had done for her, though she didn't seem to care. To his right was a troll. For a brief moment, he felt fear, apprehension, and anger swell from that lingering warmth, but it all subsided quickly. Though in life the trolls had been his bitter enemies, he found he didn't actually care now. There were whispers in the back of his mind, but he ignored them, instead waiting to see what would happen now.

Other undead came and went, all of them in plate armor. Death Knights, he realized. This is a training fortress for Death Knights. And I'm fodder for the new recruits. Indeed, they would come, fully armored and armed with swords that glowed with strange light, down into the pit. They would choose one of the chained unworthy initiates from the wall and release them. Then, the initate would be allowed to put on ancient, rusted armor and pick up a rusted weapon. They would duel, and the one left standing would be rewarded with further training and continued existance. It seemed that, nearly always, the Initiates chained in the pit would lose to the better-armored knights.

Strangely, this fact didn't bother Purah in the least. If he was destroyed, fine. Apathy had set in and he couldn't shake it. A small part of him, though, that warm part that still seemed to cling to a shadow of life, wanted to fight, wanted to try to run. Run. No, not run, where would I go.

His train of thought was halted, though, as a stooped Undead, his body rotting and falling apart but still standing quite well, stopped in front of him. He was in full armor, and was marked as a new Death Knight and Purah knew his time had come to fight. To be destroyed. It grunted a bit and walked past him to the wall, unlocking his chains. The cold whispers in his mind grew strong again, then, saying he should put on armor, pick up a blade, prepare for battle. He did as he was told by the voices in his head, finally facing off against the rotting, former Human. He was ready to be tossed into oblivion, ready for destruction and peace. But that warmth inside actually faltered.

I wonder who he was, once. His build suggests a blacksmith. He'll hit hard, but not fast, even with his undead speed and strength. I wonder if I faced him before, in Quel'thalas. He bears a mark of Lordaeron. It is a pity, this existance. He seems almost... sad. The thoughts coming from that warm part of his mind tumbled out, distracting him, making him think instead of concentrating. The battle started quickly and he reacted, parrying the undead's attacks and he pushed the warm voice down, down into the dark. It made room for the other whispers in his head. Don't lose. Don't take an easy road. Fight. Do what you couldn't do in life. Let's see if in death, you can still fight with grace and beauty and strength as you did at the gate. You are dead, Purah Lightsword. Can you fight?

The answer was a resounding 'yes.' He could still fight as he used to, and he was as beautiful, graceful, and deadly as ever. His blue eyes, now faintly glowing in the dark pit took in the destroyed corpse as the whispers deep in the dark of his mind solidified and spoke.

Well done, Purah Lightsword. Come here. Come to me. There is much to discuss, now. A great deal of work needs to be done. Yes, lets speak together now, you and I.

"Yes, Master. I shall be right there." His voice echoed strangely, as though it came from beyond the waking world. It was unusual, frightening...

He decided he liked it.

The First Battle: 5 - Durotar and the End

The zepplin made good time, with favorable winds, and the dusty, hot lands of Durotar soon came into sight. The hot, steamy night of the jungle had given way to a cooler, drier night of the desert. The Alliance, eager and ready after their flight, prepared to jump from the zeppelin as it neared the tower.

Orgrimmar glowed in the night, smoke from bonfires billowing out and up into the night sky. Seona was surprised at how big it looked from the air. She had little time to enjoy the view, however, as the zeppelin came to a halt at the docking tower. A roar from below caught her by surprise, and she yelped. Orcs, trolls, and other members of the Horde poured from the city fully aware that the zeppelin wasn't carrying friendly passengers.

Many of them, she saw, wore the same colors. She quickly asked Gildaroy who they were.

"Nyx," she replied, then grabbed her hammer and leapt from the zeppelin. Seona protected herself from harm using holy Light and jumped after her, soaring through the air to the ground below. She ran, then, charging with the rest of the soldiers from Grom'gol into the fray.

Within moments, she blacked out.

.: * :.

She was no match for the hardened Horde warriors. Nyx and their allies seemed to be unending, their numbers so overwhelming and great that with numbers alone they pushed the Alliance back all the way through Razor Hill, a small Horde outpost on the road to Orgrimmar, and to the river and across into the Barrens. Seona awoke in the dirt, vague and hazy memories of a grey world, and realized that she had nearly died. Every bit of her hurt, and she counted bruises as she tried to stand.

Realizing she was soon going to be behind enemy lines, she quickly called Caliburn to her and in a flash of Light he appeared. That was no doubt highly visible to the enemy, she thought, and grabbed onto his saddle to hoist herself up, urging him to start running even before she settled.

She caught up with the other Alliance soldiers and crossed the river, narrowly missing being bitten by a river crocolisk. They hissed loudly as she and Caliburn plunged past them through the water and up onto the Barrens bank. The other soldiers of the Alliance stood there, nursing wounds and bandaging up their comrades.

Beaten but not broken. They stood their ground, regrouping and fighting off the Horde that soon surged across the river after them. Seona, knowing that she couldn't face the Horde warriors in her current state, stayed clear, blessing the Alliance fighters and healing when she could. On occasion, she'd try to destroy one of the Horde totems that their shamans planted to give them strength and speed. A bad idea, in the end, as she was, yet again, struck down from behind.

When she awoke this time, the Alliance morale was gone, too many had fallen, and it was time to make a strategic retreat. The loud, gnome mage, now called all to her as she created a portal to Theramore isle, warning those that were near that she couldn't hold it open forever. Just as she did, the Horde returned, regrouped and in even greater numbers than before. The few Alliance left now stood no chance whatsoever. Zappie, knowing it was futile, shouted one last warning, and stepped through her portal, knowing that soon enough it would close behind her.

Seona and most of the other members of the Kingship hadn't been close enough or in time. The horde stood there now, and the portal was closing anyway. They turned and ran. North, ever north they went, along with other soldiers. Lord Cendall stayed behind, buying them some time as they made their way up to Ashenvale, to Astranaar. They staggered into the town, the Night Elves stationed there tending to wounds and giving them some measure of safety.

Lord Cendall wasn't behind them. The Kingship stood, waiting, at the archway into the town, hoping to see him on the horizon. Nervous, they began wondering where he had gone, a few even saying they'd turn back, go get him. Then, there he was, his loud motorcycle coming up the road. They were all bruised, all beaten.

Thanking them for their service, he dismissed them, telling them to get some rest. Saluting Lord Cendall and then sighing with relief, Seona reached into her saddle bag for her hearthstone, activating the magic that would take her back to the Hinterlands where she'd get a nice malt beer and a warm bed under the mountains. As wild as the Hinterlands were, they would be tame compared to this night.

_____________________

((Note: These events happened (with some literary liscense, of course) during the Strands of Fate storyline run by Al'shar lo Dor'ano, an RP guild on the Emerald Dream US server. More specifically, it has to do with the Prisoner Transfer that occured during that storyline, where Al'shar was going to move a Nyxian ambassador for trial, when things got rather out of hand. ;) All in all, I had a blast, and all of the above happened over a few hours at night one evening. It was much more fun than questing in the Hinterlands, let me tell you. Still, I desperately am trying to level Seona up to 80 so that the next time something like this happens, I won't be a bump on a log, I'll actually be able to do some damage back.))

Bloodsword: 7 - The End is the Beginning

"Purah. You were right," Silea whispered, and Purah winced at the fear in her voice.

"I wish I hadn't been. I wish I had just been paranoid, or crazed, or even insane."

The glow was getting stronger and the haze was beginning to get closer, but the worst thing was the smell. It moved ahead of the army, announcing it's putrid presence to anything living within miles. Sounds from the city drifted up to his window. Shouting, and screaming, and the sounds of men preparing for battle. Silea gagged behind him as the stench reached her, and he did all he could not to do the same.

"We need to run, Purah. We have to leave. We should warn everyone we can, and just go." Silea let go of his hand and rushed out of the room. Shortly, Purah heard her in the kitchen, no doubt gathering what little food he had in the apartment. He remained by the window, knowing in his heart that it was too late. Too late for the city. Too late for him.

She was coming back now, he could hear, something heavy in her arms. He never turned from the window. "Purah, come on!" She gasped. "There's no time."

Purah smiled sadly. "You're right about that, beloved. There is no time." Even as he said it, a loud boom sounded from the Southern Gate. It's under bombardment from siege weaponry, no doubt a catapult or, what were they called in the reports? Ah, yes, a 'Meat Wagon.' Purah looked out over the city one last time. He would get Silea out. Even if it killed him.

Turning away from the window, he made his way out to the front room, to the wall. For a moment, one that felt like an eternity to him, he started at the weapon that hung there. "Purah, what's wrong with you?" Silea asked, almost unheard. He was too focused. He reached up, for the first time in years, and gripped the hilt. It slid down easy, so easy it seemed as if it should have fallen off the pegs ages ago on its own. It was heavy in his hands, yet right. Comfortable, like two old friends meeting again after being apart for a long time.

He chuckled at that. Silea no doubt looked terribly alarmed now, worried about him again, perhaps worried that he was, in fact, insane. "Purah?"

He lifted the sword, and stepped back from her, swinging it from side to side in perfect, circular motions. She gasped, surprised.

"So it was true? You used to be a swordsman?" She stepped back, now, giving him more room. He smiled ruefully. "Oh, yes, Silea. I was the best student they had ever had, the best in centuries. Until..." Even now it was hard to talk about, to say out loud.

"Until the accident with that nobleman," she whispered. Purah nearly dropped the blade.

"You knew?!? How?"

She nodded. "I looked it up, did some digging in the archives, nothing special."

He turned away. "How could you bare to be around a murderer?"

She dropped the basket of food and walked to him, gripping his free hand. "You're no murderer, 'Rah. It was an accident, a terrible one, yes, but an accident nonetheless. You gave up your sword because of it, and never looked back. I can forgive you that, even if you can't forgive yourself. Look at me." He did, nearly losing himself in her deep, blue eyes. "Don't beat yourself up over something that happened over 50 years ago. Learn to look back once in awhile and let it go. Forgive yourself-"

"Forgive myself?" Purah shut his eyes. "I'm not sure I can. But I can get us out of the city. Let's go." He moved towards the door, opening it to the warm night. "And leave the basket. We need to move fast." Silea had only just reached for it, when another scream, this one closer, came through the open door. She left it and returned to his side. "I'm afraid, 'Rah."

"So am I, my love. So am I." He gripped her hand tight with his left hand and made his way down the stairs to the street, his right hand holding the blade before them.

Even though it had seemed like a long time that they had stalled in the apartment, the majority of the city was still only just realizing the danger. He made his way with Silea towards the nearest gate, only to suddenly be stopped by a loud crashing noise from the South. They turned in that direction, seeing clouds of smoke billowing up. "The gate..."

"It's fallen." He finished her sentence. Other crashes sounded now, and roars came from the broken gate. Foul things were entering the city and he was on the far western side. Screeching sounded from above and they looked up. Dark shapes glided in the night sky, gargoyles that fed on the flesh of the living and turned to stone to regenerate. Purah knew of them from his studies, but had no idea the army of the undead included them in their ranks.

He pulled Silea under cover, hoping that they hadn't been seen. They weren't that lucky, although it wasn't the gargoyles that had seen them. A different screech sounded from the darkness and a ghoul launched itself from the ally nearby. It flew through the air at the couple, only to be sliced neatly in half by Purah's fast blade. Still, it didn't die immediately, or, rather, wasn't immediately destroyed. It's front half crawled towards Silea for a moment before collapsing to the ground. She stared, wide-eyed at the thing, then turned away and retched.

Purah wanted nothing more than to do the same, but couldn't, as more of the things came out of the dark. Gods, where are they all coming from? They're faster than they look... he hacked and slashed, ensuring that none of the foul creatures got anywhere near Silea. Unfortunately, some of them showed no interest in the swordsman and his companion, and continued straight onward, disappearing again into the dark city. They were flowing north, ever north, and his fears were proved true. They were heading for the Sunwell.

He grabbed Silea by the hand and led her east a bit, hoping to make it back into the main part of the city again, away from the dead army heading to the fountain of energy, and out through one of the other gates. It was as they were running that they began seeing the terrible destruction. Meat Wagons had rolled into the city, Necromancers were raising fallen elves to serve as skeletal soldiers, and ghouls were feasting on the flesh of the newly dead.

The worst came when they passed by a large town home near the wealthiest part of the city. Silea gasped and came to a halt, forcing Purah to stop as well. "Silea, what is it?"

She pointed to the open doorway, the curtain that normally would be across it, dangling by just a few threads, the rest of it torn beyond recognition. "That... that was the Lady Kinedra's home." She let go of his hand and raced up the steps to the curtain. "Silea! Wait!"

He followed close behind her, sword at the ready. The courtyard was empty, but there were large splashes of blood on the walls. A nearby alcove revealed one of the drunken youths from that celebratory dinner from so long ago, his neck slashed, his chest torn open. Red blood puddled all around him. Silea choked back a sob.

She and Purah quickly and quietly searched the house for any survivors. There were none. They found Reth'al, the other drunken bully, cut to ribbons on the upper floor. Purah could see that the man had actually tried to defend the room behind his corpse, unsuccessfully, but he had tried. He guessed who would be inside. Unfortunately, he was right.

Kinedra lay in a pool of blood. Silea couldn't hold her tears back any longer, and stood, sobbing over her. The lady was in what would have been a white dress, now stained red. Silea knelt down and reached to close the lady's eyes. She jumped suddenly back, though, when the corpse seized and slashed out. Kinedra wasn't dead. Or, at least, wasn't staying dead.

The body twisted and contorted, jerking upright and lunged at Silea. Purah was too far away, too slow to stop her... but a single word from Silea and Kinedra's body, now reanimated by Scourge magics, burst into flame. She had never been a particularly powerful mage, Purah knew, but the girl did know the basics and put them to use. Still sobbing, mourning her one-time friend, Purah grabbed her and pulled her out of the room, afraid that what had happened to Kinedra would happen to the other bodies they had found in the estate as well.

Luckily, the body outside the door was much too damaged to have been reanimated, as was the first they had found in the courtyard. As they burst out of the house, though, Purah thought he heard something skittering away into the dark courtyard. He didn't look back, instead running as fast as possible out of that part of the city, Silea crying silently at his side.

As they neared the Northern gate and wall, he slowed, worried now that they had been flanked or even surrounded by the Scourge. "I'm sorry Purah. I just... I wanted to see if we could have saved them." Silea quietly said. Purah squeezed her hand, reassuring her. "I know, love, I know. I would have done the same, had I known they lived there."

Cautious, he poked his head around every corner and tried to look deep into every alleyway for lingering undead. The entire city reeked of the walking corpses, now, and it was getting harder to tell where they came from when they attacked. He heard fighting up ahead, which was revealed soon enough to be guardsmen doing all they could to hold off a huge Scourge force from the gate. They were losing.

Purah turned to his companion. "Silea, listen to me. Listen very, very closely." He paused to make sure she heard, and she nodded. "I want you to run. Run as fast as you can, straight for the gate. Use your magic, frost, fire, whatever, to keep the path clear. I'll be right with you, right there, to keep them off. We have to get to the gate. We have to get out of the city. Do you understand?"

She nodded again. "Yes. Run. Run and don't look back."

He nodded grimly. "Good. Okay then," he looked out again, trying to time the erratic movements of the undead. An opening in the lines appeared and he swung out from the hiding place, pushing her ahead. "GO! Run!"

And she did, fast. It was all he could do to keep up with her. He noticed her flinging spells out, slowing the undead that noticed the two elves rushing to the gate, keeping them from getting too close, and allowing him to easily remove their heads. She used frost to slow them as well, though it was less effective. She was tiring already, he knew, her magic getting tapped out. His sword arm was just as tired, not having had to swing a weapon in over half a century. They dodged around smoking remains of Meat Wagons, and fallen undead. Still, they made it to the battered gate.

Too late. The guardsmen had barred it to keep the Scourge from getting any further north. It had come under heavy fire from the Meat Wagons before the soldiers had destroyed them, and now, most of the guards were half-dead. Their morale was gone, after having to deal with killing the stinking, rotting undead and, on occasion, one of their own that had fallen only to rise again. And now, just as he and Silea had made it to the gate, more of the Scourge catapults were rolling up, and this time, they were flanked by Abominations. Behind them, in the haze of disease and dirt kicked up from the machines of war, a large figure, mounted on the back of a skeletal horse, stood silently amongst the destruction.

Silea tugged at Purah's sleeve, begging him to get out of the way. She knew before he did that he couldn't leave these men. He couldn't leave them to die when he could fight, and fight well. The Meat Wagons let loose and loud thuds sounded behind and above the soldiers. Stinking flesh rained down on them, and Purah realized that the ammunition was bodies, most in armor, along with stones.

The wooden gate groaned, the last two attacks nearly pushing it over. A gap in the stonework opened, then grew wider as the gate shook under more attacks. The flanking abominations charged forward, and Purah turned to face them. His sword danced through dead flesh, making mincemeat of the stitched horrors and covered him in gore. Sickened he wished he could stop, but the undead kept coming, and he couldn't allow them to get to Silea. He didn't even care about the gate anymore, or the Sunwell. It was her.

"Purah! Purah, over here!" She shouted, the only thing that could get his attention. He finished off a ghoul and turned, flinging himself away from the battle. There, near the bottom of the near-shattered gate, the wall had crumbled. Silea stood next to a hole big enough for them to slip through. They could escape, they could get out... if he ran. Her shouts had gotten the attention of some Necromancers as well, and even now they were raising skeletons from the dead.

This was his chance. He ran, faster than he had before, as fast as the wind. He gestured for her to go through, he'd be right behind her, he was right there, go, go quickly. She hesitated for a moment, but finally ducked down, and through the wall, out of sight. He was close, so close, near the wall. The stone was rough under his hands, but the air on the other side seemed sweeter, clearer. He reached down, and nearly screamed in agony as his body was enveloped in green light. The Necromancers had caught up.

He was falling, slowly, so slowly down. The stone street was cool against his skin, even if it was now covered in blood and gore and disease. The Necromancers loomed closer and, try as he might, he couldn't rise. He wanted to. His sword was still in his hand. It twitched futilely as he moved his hand, wanting desperately to behead the nearest foe, but he couldn't move. He just watched as the gate fell. The mounted figure rode up, all in armor, like a knight. A Death Knight, he realized. A strange, glowing sword stood naked in the Knight's hand, and it caught his eye. Is it... whispering to me? How strange, he thought, trying to clear his head, finding it hard.

The Knight got closer and dismounted, walking slowly between the skeletons, and abominations, and Necromancers, until he stooped down over Purah. The fallen elf wanted to spit in his face, recognizing the Human as he got close. Arthas, you bastard. You traitor... Oh, gods, my love, I'm sorry.

He hoped Silea had gotten away. She had gone through the hole, gone out to the other side. She could run fast, he knew. She might still get away. Run, beloved. Run as fast as the wind, and stay as a shadow. Run. Run...

.: * :.

The Necromancers were about to use the body for it's skeleton, when his voice rang out. "No." The Death Knight stooped low over the dead Quel'dorei, blue eyes open, staring with hatred even in death. He had watched the swordsman defend the gate. He had seen the single elf destroy ghoul and abomination and Necromancer alike, more or less single-handed. He would not allow talent like that to be used for a simple skeleton. No, not this one.

The special Meat Wagon he had appointed rolled up, slowly, a hollow echo sounding from within, as it was far from full. He gestured, and the acolytes that flanked the war machine moved forward as he mounted and left, following his army north to the great fountain the elves kept.

These living servants stooped down, their dark robes a stark contrast against the pale skin of the dead elf, his golden hair coming loose from its tie and cascading down. They used their magics to preserve him in this moment of death, this perfect moment of transition. And they placed him in the Wagon, him along with others, those that had caught the Master's eye, those that had fought with ferocity to defend their homes, their families, everything they had. Some were human, some elf, some were of the Horde, too, for there is no discrimination in Death.

Run, my love. Run. Run as fast as the wind and be as shadow, and live. I'll be waiting for you.

That, beloved, I promise.

Bloodsword: 6 - Fallen Gates

The days passed in a blur as Purah worked himself to the bone. The Rangers went out regularly, until finally all of them had been sent out, including the Ranger-General herself with an elite group of her finest scouts and soldiers.

It was shortly after her departure, however, that all runners stopped. No news came from the front lines. For the military, it was generally assumed that sending a runner was simply dangerous, and that things would be taken care of. Ranger-General Windrunner knew what she was doing, knew how to handle the front lines, and that things were going smoothly. The gates still stood, and the city was safe.

Purah, on the other hand, stood on edge. This wasn't normal, or right, and he knew it. The best runners were those who could move with speed and do so silently, unseen. Someone, somewhere, should have been able to send word. Even if that word was "All clear." His nervousness got him into trouble. After another day of pacing in front of his desk with no runners in sight, Runner-Commander Bur'ir sent him home. "You're making the others nervous. Hell, you're making me nervous. Go home, Purah. It's slow now anyway. I'll send a messenger for you if your services are needed again." A dismissal, pure and simple. He had left without argument.

But he didn't go home. He found Silea near the school, reading on a bench. She was fully engrossed in her book and didn't look up as he collapsed onto the bench beside her. In fact, he sat staring at her for some time without her noticing him. He was glad of the silence, for the time he had to look at her. He loved her, he realized. The way she remained optimistic, her steadfastness, her friendship... she was perfect.

"I think I love you," he whispered.

Startled, she looked up from her book. "Purah? When did you get here? Did you say something? I didn't hear." She immediately put her book aside, worried again. About him, he realized.

"Silea, I shouldn't tell you this. I could lose my job, even be put in jail..." he paused, the gravity of what he was going to do stopping him for a moment. "Something terrible is going to occur. I don't have proof, except what I know, and what isn't happening. I want you to leave. To get out of the city."

Once he said it, he realized how foolish it sounded, how crazy. He realized how he must look, in day or two-old clothing, his hair mussed, his hands and clothes and face smudged with ink. He hadn't slept in his own bed in days, and he hadn't slept well in far longer than that. He knew the next words out of her mouth would be for him to stop worrying, that things are fine, that the city is safe behind the gates. He was surprised, then, by her reaction.

"Okay." He started to protest, to try to convince her to go, when he realized she had already agreed. "What?"

She almost laughed at him. He must have looked ten times more absurd than usual. "I said 'okay.' I believe you. I know you wouldn't lie to me, or to yourself. I trust your judgement. So, when do we leave?"

He almost breathed a sigh of relief. Almost. It was that last bit, that last little sentence that stopped him. "We?" he turned to her. "'We' go nowhere. You, on the other hand, you have to go. Take basic supplies and get out of the city. I have to stay, to work."

"No. Absolutely not." She stood then, and put her hands on her hips. Purah would have laughed if he didn't feel so afraid of what might be going on outside these walls, with no word getting through. "Purah Lightsword, if you think for even a moment I'd leave this city without you, you're as crazy as you look. You do look terrible, by the way. Have you eaten today? Hell, have you eaten this week? Month? You look half-crazed, skinny, and pale. In fact..." she stopped down and grabbed his arm. "You're coming with me. Obviously you're done with work for the day."

She scooped up her book and marched away, Purah in tow. He didn't realize until a few minutes later that she was taking him home. She opened his apartment with a key she pulled from her pocket (When did I give her a spare key? he was thinking rapidly, then remembered that he had asked her to check in on his apartment occasionally) and sat him roughly down on his couch. She then scurried about, fixing him a light lunch and pouring him a glass of wine.

She made sure he ate, then sent him off to bathe. Bewildered, and far too exhausted at this point to argue, he did as he was told. By the time he was done, she had laid out clean clothes and turned down his bed. "Sleep," she commanded. As he collapsed into the bed, he reached out and grabbed her hand.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Please... don't go. I'd like to talk, later, if you can." She smiled, then.

"You're welcome, 'Rah. And I'll be here. Knowing you, you'd probably just wait 'till I left then jump back out of bed to go work. Now, rest mister!"

She walked out and closed the curtain behind her. Purah, for the first time in days, finally slept soundly and dreamless.

.: * :.

He awoke to someone shaking him. For a brief moment, he completely forgot where he was. He had expected to see the desks and scribes from the runner's station, not his bedroom at home, and nearly bolted from his bed. Slowly, the day before came back to him, and looked up to see a frightened Silea attached to the hand that had woken him. "Silea? Silea, what's the matter, what's wrong?"

She gulped and gestured to the window. He stood and pulled the sheer curtains aside... only to see a terrible green glow in the forest surrounding the city. Fires. Not campfires, but simply the destructive, magical fire of the approaching Scourge army. It was muted a bit by a strange, hazy cloud of dust or smoke that hung over the horizon. His eyes widened in shock and dismay. Reaching behind him, he found Silea's hand and held it tight.

No runners came to Silvermoon, because none got through. Things had not gone smoothly. Things did not turn out okay, and the city wasn't safe. The gates had fallen.

Arthas was on his way, and all the walking dead of Lordaeron were at Silvermoon's front door.

Bloodsword: 5 - Prepare

After that fateful day, Purah had less and less time to himself as he spent more and more time in the office, writing reports and copying orders.

Silea noticed his stress one evening when they had met to catch up and reminisce. Some time before, the announcement of King Terenas' death had finally gone out to the populace, and Silea was smart enough to know that his work was now much harder and far more busy.

"They're going to kill you," she whispered, making Purah choke a little in surprise, spilling his drink a bit down his front. He silently thought to himself, I really need to stop drinking when women make strange comments to me.

After cleaning up a bit, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean you're working yourself to the bone. You hardly ever see your friends anymore. This latest news is disturbing and I know you know more than the rest of us, and can't say anything. That weighs on a person, too."

He looked away. It was true, every word, and it was hard to not blurt out everything he was feeling to her, his now closest friend. Her hand found his across the table and she squeezed it reassuringly.

"I'm sorry, 'Rah. This probably just made it harder on you, but I worry. You look thinner than you used to, and you rarely smile anymore." She frowned. "Perhaps that's unfair. Not many smile these days, what with all the disturbing news coming from the south."

He did smile, then, though it was small and sad. "Thank you, Silea. This... knowing that you care, that you worry... it means a great deal to me." He sighed. "Honestly, though, I'll be fine. I can handle the pressure, it's no worse than my studies used to be." She didn't look convinced. He wasn't sure he had convinced himself, either. Still, things couldn't be helped or changed, not now.

He bade her farewell outside and walked back to his apartment. The moonlight was comforting and the night air was cool and refreshing. His mood picked up a bit again and instead of staying inside he decided to go for a longer walk around the park near the western gate of the city.

What he saw there, though, quickly dashed any hopes he had of keeping his good mood. Rangers were at the gate, in full armor and weaponry, preparing to depart. The Ranger-General herself, Sylvanas Windrunner, was striding back and forth, looking over the troops before sending them out. It looked to be a scouting party. Purah knew better than most that the more recent news from Lordaeron and the surrounding territories wasn't good. The army of undead marched over the land far faster than any had guessed and more recent reports showed them headed north towards Quel'thalas faster than before, as if they were driven with some purpose in mind.

The raw reports he saw had no further information, but a foreboding began growing in his mind, especially now that the Rangers were going out of the city. What news had come that had made this action necessary? he thought to himself as he stayed out of the way. Curiosity getting the better of him, he made his way out of the park, this time heading towards the station. Information abounded there, and if the Rangers had made this decision recently, the scribes in the station would no doubt know why.

When he entered, he realized quickly that the news had been dire indeed. Another red scroll had come, this time with news almost as terrible as the first. Uther the Lightbringer, one of the greatest paladins of all time, and a great friend to all of the Alliance, was dead. Killed, again by Arthas. This time, none were surprised by the fact that the former Prince had done such a deed. It was well known, now, that he had turned traitor, had become the very thing he had fought so obsessively against, had become a Death Knight of the Scourge.

Still, the loss of Uther was a terrible blow, especially since the note also mentioned that the urn holding King Terenas' ashes was stolen and the Scourge was indeed pressing North into Quel'thalas. What Arthas needed the urn for, none really knew, but it couldn't be for anything good. If he was bringing it here, there had to be a reason, and the consensus was for power.

The Sunwell, Purah thought. It has all the power Arthas would need for whatever terrible thing he's concocting. Now worried, Purah didn't return home. He stayed in the station, working with other scribes in rotating shifts, ensuring the station was manned at all times. As his time at a desk ended and another scribe took his place, he stumbled over to a cot in the corner to sleep for a few hours before doing it all again.

His quiet dinner with Silea was forgotten in the unending rotation, as more and more runners came in with grave news. Terrible things were happening, but the royal family and the council said nothing to the people. The gates of Quel'thalas would hold, they were all told. There is nothing to worry about. The keys are safe and Arthas had no idea how to open them.

Small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. Truth be told, they were right. Arthas didn't know how to open the gates, and the Rangers were keeping watch over the forests surrounding the city and their home. Quel'thalas had survived far worse, the Kaldorei people had fought off Trolls and other aggressors for centuries. They'd survive this.

Of course they'd survive this.

Bloodsword: 4 - Unthinkable News

In the end, Purah took the job with the Farstriders. How could he not, once he had heard the news out of Lordaeron, the disturbing rumors of plague and strange sightings of the walking dead. His days at the Arcanum ended, much to the sorrow of his friends and especially Silea, though they never found out exactly what he was doing for them. Some no doubt thought that they were taking him to turn him into a soldier, after the incident outside the tavern, and he said nothing to the contrary. Let them think such things. The only one he felt truly terrible lying to was Silea.

He was working diligently, making copies of a report, when a runner came in with an urgent message. His skills far surpassed most of the other scribes in speed, so he passed his current work to another and gestured to the messenger.

She was breathing hard as she walked over and handed him the sealed scroll, telling him how many copies were needed and for whom. Inside the scroll were accounts from several mages and priests that had been sent to Lordaeron to aid their old Human allies, and none of them were pleasing to read. They spoke of rampant plague, most likely magical in nature, and dead that refused to rest in the ground. Doing his best not to show any emotion, he got to work penning shortened versions of the reports for those that needed just the basics, and other copies for the commanders and generals who needed details. It was strangely gruesome work, taking these stories from the front lines and turning them into cold lists of numbers and raw information.

He was done quickly, and the runner was off again, the new copies in her pack. He had a moment's respite now, but didn't leave his desk. These last few weeks had been grueling, as he learned the military shorthand and methods. Still, this work was even more satisfying than what he had done in the Arcanum, as this work potentially saved lives. He stretched his arms back, and yawned.

"Tired, Greenie?" His neighbor, Mer'dith, a veteran, as it were, had been a great deal of help in the beginning, showing him the ropes and explaining military procedure. He called him "Greenie" or "Greenhorn" at first snidely, but now just as a friendly jest, seeing as Purah had caught on fast and even surpassed Mer'dith's own skills within just a few weeks. He wasn't surprised, as he had also learned under the Lady Oalina and knew the students she produced were of the highest caliber.

"Just stretching a bit, 'Dith. While this work is infinitely more interesting than at the Arcanum, I get far fewer chances to stretch my legs here."

The older scribe just chuckled, nodding.

They were interrupted fairly quickly, however, as a runner burst through the door, panting heavily and wearing a red sash. For a split second, the two scribes were surprised into silence. The red sash denoted extremely urgent news of high importance. Mer'dith waved the runner over and Purah jumped up to get him some water. All the scribes in the room were silent and staring. Even Runner-Commander Bur'ir, who had come out of his office the moment the runner moved out of the doorway, remained quiet.

Mer'dith opened the red-sealed scroll and skimmed it, preparing to copy... and his face turned white in shock. The runner walked around, loosening his legs, and downed the water Purah had given him. Bur'ir started over to see what was going on, but Mer'dith was already frantically copying the letter, word for word. Purah was able to steal a glance himself before the Commander got there, and nearly choked.

It was short and to the point, no doubt from some outpost in Lordaeron, the penmanship coarse, probably human... but the words were like a bucket of ice-cold water:

King Terenas is dead. Prince Arthas Menethil, finally returned from Northrend, has slain him. Lordaeron is fallen and the army of dead spread North. Prepare.

Purah, wide-eyed, stood a bit slack-jawed at the news. KingTerenas... dead? By his son's own hand? By the Sunwell, what was going on in the South? he thought, his mind racing. He had known Arthas had gone to the northern continent, had remained there even when his father had demanded he return. What had occurred to the boy while he had stayed in that frozen wasteland?

There were no answers from the short letter, or from any gathered there. Purah returned to his desk, pushing paper aside. Commander Bur'ir rolled up the original and took it back to his office. The other scribes sat in silence, still. When the copies were finished, the runner left to hand off the finished reports to others. The news would spread. This was not something that could be kept from the populace of Silvermoon, Purah knew.

In fact, the commander returned as soon as the thought crossed his mind, to address all the scribes. Some of them sat stoically, while others exclaimed in shock and outrage. "Arthas is a paladin, there is no way he'd do such a thing!"

The commander just shook his head. "As always, I expect complete silence regarding this until the general populace has been informed." He turned then to Mer'dith and Purah. Leaning in, quietly, he said "The two of you are excused for the remainder of the day. Go eat something, or drink. Relax. As always, though, say nothing. While disturbing, this isn't all that alarming... yet."

Purah and the older scribe left quietly. The warm sun beat down on Purah's face and, for a moment, lifted the weight the grim news had brought. When a cloud passed overhead, though, it came rushing back. "Can you imagine..?"

Mer'dith just shook his head, slowly and sadly. "No. And I don't want to imagine what that last bit means for us down the road." He sighed. "I'm going for a drink. You want to come along?"

Purah shook his head and waved goodbye to his co-worker. He stood a little longer in the Farstrider's Square, waiting and wishing that it had all been a dream, like the terrible memories of the sword accident that still haunted him. But, just like those memories, this, too, was real and no amount of wishing or standing in the sun would take away the terrible truth that Arthas, Prince of Lordaeron, had just done the unthinkable.

Lordaeron is fallen and the army of dead spread North. Prepare.

Bloodsword: 3 - Opportunities

Days passed, uneventful, though he started hearing more and more whispered rumors about the scribe who was more than he seemed. He did his best to ignore such things, hoping that, like with most rumors, it would pass in time. Kinedra and her group ignored him, even avoided him, and he realized he liked that just fine. He had thought the lady Kinedra beautiful, true, but when she said nothing, did nothing, except giggle at the antics of her "friends," he had little to admire.

Silea, on the other hand, spent less and less time amongst the aristocracy and more and more with him and his friends, mostly servants and other such laborers. She seemed more at ease around him, though he occasionally caught her staring at him. No doubt she wondered about the story surrounding his sword and what really happened. Luckily for him, the guardsmen and other soldiers had long ago buried the story regarding his unfortunate accident. They looked after their own, even if he no longer walked that path.

It was one sunny day when he was eating lunch in the courtyard of the Arcanum with a few friends, Silea included, that his old master came striding up with a purpose. He was surprised, of course, as she was accompanied by one of the Guardians of the city.

"Lady Oalina!" Purah exclaimed, jumping up and bowing. "What can I do for you?"

Oalina was old and wise, her hair turning silver and her eyes full of knowledge. She was tall for a woman, and though the Quel'dorei do not wrinkle or show any real physical sign of aging, she carried an aura of great wisdom that could only come with many years of life.

"Purah Lightsword, this is Guardian Rad'ith. He is here on behalf of the Farstriders. They seek a scribe to help them with a few military endeavors. When they came to me for advice, I suggested you." She stepped aside to allow the Guardian to speak.

"Correct," Rad'ith said, his voice a little clipped. "You come highly recommended. The details of the job, however, are not mine to give. If you're interested, please come with me, and everything will be explained."

Purah was surprised, to say the least. Silea looked concerned, but remained silent, and his other friends simply looked bewildered. Purah finally spoke up, "While I appreciate the offer, sir, my job and my place is here." He turned to Lady Oalina, to thank her for her confidence in the recommendation, but stopped. There was a look on her face that he didn't quite understand. She seemed to be filled with apprehension and a sense of urgency. "Although... I suppose speaking to the Farstriders about the position couldn't hurt. Perhaps I can do both jobs." He grabbed his pack from the bench where he had been sitting. "Lead the way."

The Guardian, clad in the colors of the city, stood out quite clearly. Oalina kept easy pace with them both, even for her age. Purah felt very out of place between the two of them, but stayed silent as they walked the street. As they turned the corner, Oalina sighed and the Guardian grunted in response. "Looks like you've got a decent head on those shoulders, boy. For a second there, I didn't think you'd come along."

Confused, Purah looked back and forth between his old teacher and the soldier. "Pardon?"

"You obviously picked up on the lady's expression. Means you're observant. Means you aren't a complete idiot and may actually fill our needs quite well."

Still terribly confused, he looked to the Lady Oalina for a better explanation.

"I can't give you any details here on the street, Purah, as the information you'll be handling if you get the position is classified and confidential. When you speak to the commander, you'll understand. I recommended you because you have a level head, you're intelligent, and you'll do a good job."

"My lady, while I appreciate the praise a great deal I'm not so sure I can do anything for the military. My past-"

"Completely irrelevant, Purah. They won't be asking you to touch a weapon, much less pick it up and swing it about." She sighed again. "Though, based on the information they're starting to get, your previous skills would no doubt be welcome."

She refused to elaborate further, which only piqued Purah's curiosity, but he didn't press her, knowing her sharp tongue. Indeed, if the information was confidential, it was a huge risk to tell him even as much as she had. Whatever it was, it must be rather concerning.

The Guardian and his former teacher led him to the Farstriders Enclave, an area of the city that acted as the military center. Politicians came and went, members of the Convocation greeting each other or having debates. Further in, more and more soldiers could be seen. They also wore the colors of the city, though they were more heavily armed than the Guardians. Some of them were the Rangers, led by Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of the Quel'dorei. She was practically legend with her bow and leadership, a true hero of the people, though there had been very little need for fighting as of late.

The concerning news was revealed to him soon enough. They had finally come to a stop near what was obviously a runner's station for getting messages out to the soldiers in the field. It was a small building, with a few offices, but mostly desks where scribes could write copies of orders and reports to send out via fast messengers. As they entered, he could already see several scribes frantically scribbling away, as well as runners coming and going out into the city and through the nearby gate.

The commander of the post was a tall, thin, and stern-looking elf who introduced himself as Runner-Commander Bur'ir. He thanked the Guardian for the escort and dismissed him, leaving just Purah and the Lady Oalina sitting in the small, slightly stuffy office. He sat at the large desk opposite them and stared for a moment at Purah.

"Well. The Lady says you'd serve us well. Ever been a solder, boy?"

Purah shook his head. "No, not officially."

Bur'ir said nothing at first, then nodded. "Yes, the Lady explained your tale to me. An unfortunate thing, that. If you choose to work for me, though, you'll need not worry about weaponry. None of my other scribes have ever learned to fight. Ha! I doubt they'd know which end to hold." He chuckled at that for a moment, obviously finding more humor in his joke than either Purah or Oalina.

Once he settled, however, he stood to close the door and then spoke plainly.

"Purah Lightsword, the information I'm about to reveal to you must be kept secret, do you understand? We don't want to concern the citizenry over what may end up being nothing."

Purah nodded. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"Very well," Bur'ir nodded. "There have been some rather strange and concerning events occurring in the Human lands of Lordaeron...

Bloodsword: 2 - Dreaming

The practice field was wet from recent rain. Weapon racks stood empty, as all the practice swords, maces, and ranseurs had been brought in to protect them from the weather. The breeze was nearly still, only stirring occasionally, and when it did it was cold and damp. Young initiates of the guard were warming up in one corner of the yard, a master watching over them. A few older students were already practicing one-on-one, their wooden swords clacking together in the still morning, the only sound that carried in the heavy air.

He stood silently, a sword in his hand. Not a wooden one, no, this one gleamed silver, it's keen edge glinting. He looked down it's length, his eyes tracing every part of it, every inch of it's perfect blade to the tip and back again, the hilt simple and unadorned. It was a master's weapon, a well-crafted beauty of death and violence. And it was his.

He began the dance to warm up and loosen his muscles, the sword practically singing in his hands. He slowly picked up speed, flowing from one form to another, his innate grace beautiful to behold. Not much older than the initiates in the corner of the yard, he had already surpassed them all, brilliant and strong and perfect.

No. Not this...

Not a single step out of place, not one mistake. Faster, now, again and again, increasing in speed until the sword was a blur of steel, a perfect whirlwind of death. From the corner of his blue eyes he saw his swordmaster silently nod, pleased. He didn't let it distract him, didn't allow himself anything except the dance, and the blade, and the movement.

Please... please, don't do this...

No one moved, now, all of them enthralled by his movements, his dance of death. Every form flowing into the next, every moment suspended in the gray morning. He was nearing his top speed, a climax nearly as sweet as any he had shared with a woman, and everyone watched. Everyone but him.

Oh, gods, forgive me...

As quickly as it began, it ended. He was looking down the blade once again, this time in shock, his blue eyes tracing the blade's keen edge, now red with blood. The wooden clacking of the practice swords had stopped, replaced now by screaming, the screaming of a dieing man.

The man lay in a growing pool of his red blood, some human nobleman who had walked by and stumbled, stumbled into his deadly dance. The sword's perfect edge had cut him near in half. Men were shouting, gathering around, yelling for healers and priests, but he could barely hear over the ringing in his ears. Loose fingers dropped the blade and it fell, so slowly, slowly, to the ground. He closed his eyes...

... And opened them, nearly screaming, his body drenched in sweat. Purah was back in his apartment, on his low couch. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but it had just been a dream, a simple manifest of memories he did his best to forget. The elf took ragged breaths, trying his best to calm his pounding heart as it seemed to rattle against his aching ribs. Oh, gods, why? He cradled his head in his hands. Tears streamed down his face as he was forced to remember that day.

The nobleman had been passing by, distracted by something or other. No one ever fully understood what had happened. They just know he had stumbled and fell right into the path of Purah's blade during his morning exercises. All the soldiers and guardsmen knew that Purah preferred to practice with a naked blade early in the mornings and no one ever came close to him. His master had even told him that it wasn't his fault, that the fool human should have known better than to come that close to a practice yard, especially to the area where he had been practicing with his blade, that there was nothing he should or could have done differently.

Still, Purah had never forgiven himself. He had been young by his people's standards, was still young by his people's standards, but the nobleman had only been twenty-three. Twenty-three! So very young, too young, to die. And he had killed him, accident or no. He remembered all the condolences, all the advice, all the preperations and talk, but none of it mattered. He felt empty and alone, and he had called it quits.

It had been both the hardest and easiest decision in his life. Hardest because he thought that all he was, all he could be, was a swordsman. He thought that there was no other way, no other choice, but, thankfully he was wrong. It was also an easy decision, easy to say, easy to do. He set it aside, hung the sword up on the wall as a reminder, and never felt the need to touch a sword again. He picked up a quill and never looked back.

Lucky for him, his skill with the sword was not the only skills he had. His penmanship was nearly as perfect as his fencing, though he admittedly had to work harder at it. He had found a master to teach him illumination and translations of ancient texts fairly quickly in Silvermoon. His job at the Arcanum was simple and fulfilling.

Still, there were days where he desperately wished he did not fear the sword. Like last night. Drunken bullies or no, he could have easily put those upstarts in their places, but didn't. The idea of physical violence now made him ill... and sad. He remembers the young nobleman, the human who got too close, and he wishes... What? That he hadn't been a fool? That I had been more aware of my surroundings? That the world were fair and just and right?

Purah sighed and stood, rubbing his face and turning to face the gleaming sword on the wall. His eyes traced it's perfect edge, from point to hilt. Even in the moonlight that came through his thin curtains, the blade seemed to glow. It could not be any more enticing even if it whispered to him. But he passed it by, ignoring its allure, instead going to a nearby chest and pulling out his work clothes.

The sun was still hours away, but he couldn't sleep now. He'd go for a long walk in the city gardens, then work early. Perhaps, if he finished some of the backlog requests, he'd get to leave early and spend some time with friends in the tavern. Real friends, not some aristrocrats who care more about shiny baubles and foolish magics than simple common sense.

The First Battle: 4 - The Zeppelin

Heavy underbrush dragged at her armored legs as Caliburn crashed through the jungle towards the northern Horde outpost known as Grom'gol. Little more than a circle of tents within a wooden palisade, the Horde station was crude but strategically very important, as the Goblin Zeppelins would land and take off from the tower constructed in the center of the outpost. Two came and went, one to the Forsaken home of Undercity, once known as Lordaeron, and one to the Orc stronghold of Orgrimmar, and the seat of the Horde's power.

Seona had once again lagged behind, as Caliburn didn't have quite the endurance to keep up with the more experienced and older steeds, so she came upon the carnage of battle a little late. Still, there was plenty to do. She summoned the Light as she leapt from Caliburn's saddle, blessing those near her and healing a few less grievous wounds. The orcish guards were taken entirely by surprise and were easily swept aside by the Alliance fighters. Any civilians had fled, or, if they were foolish enough to fight, already slain. The bonfire in the camp burned bright, and as the fighting began to die down, they all gathered around it for a moment's rest.

"We'll take the tower next. Watch out for the goblins. Though small in stature, they are devilishly clever and often fight with nets." Small groups then made for the tower, staying together in the tight fighting quarters. Seona followed soon after, with a druid, Gildaroy the paladin, and the young rogue Anaara. Truly the goblins were prepared for them, and thanks to their greater defensive position were even able to hold them off for a time, occasionally pushing soldiers off the tower or entangling them in nets, but were defeated, in the end.

The tower and the outpost were theirs. Cheering in triumph, the soldiers lifted their weapons and fists. "We'll hold this position until further notice. No Horde will use the zeppelins to reach their cities while we are here."

Soldiers sharpened swords or bandaged wounds while they waited. A returning Orc scout would occasionally charge into the group, only to be cut down almost immediately. The leaders of the party sat around the bonfire, bodyguards keeping a wary eye, while they strategized the next move. What only was a short moment quickly seemed like an eternity to the young, Dwarf paladin. She made the rounds, healing and blessing the soldiers to keep from nervously pacing.

When the group leaders shouted out new orders, she nearly jumped out of her skin. "New orders. We're heading to Orgrimmar. It's time we made a stand at the gates of Thrall's city."

It surprised Seona, and frightened her a little. She had never been to Durotar, much less the Orcish city Thrall had built, but she had promised to follow this through to the end. The group moved up the ramp again to the tower and took control of the zeppelin to Orgrimmar. Eager warriors readied their blades and mages prepared spells. Seona again did what she could, calling holy Light to bless the soldiers before the battle.

Finally ready, the zeppelin was shoved off from the tower, dipping low for a moment before rising up again into the sky and soared over the ocean, carrying the soldiers towards the distant continent of Kalimdor. The winds picked up speed and the huge engine spun the rotating blades to propel the flying machine out over the blue water. Seona looked below to see the moonlight glittering over the waves. For a moment, at least, the journey was peaceful, though she could see huge stormclouds in the far distance.

"The Maelstrom. We'll steer around it, no worries." A grizzled, human warrior stood next to her and had noticed the direction she looked in. "With this favorable wind, and the subdued goblins easily steering our way, we should actually make Durotar in a few hours. The battle will be glorious."

Seona wasn't so sure, especially seeing the glint in the warrior's eyes, but simply nodded, looking once again out over the sea. A few hours, she thought. A few hours and I'll be before the gates of Orgrimmar, the home of the Orcs, the damned beasts who took my father from me. She sighed. Still, I have little chance of helping these soldiers. One day, though... One day I'll face the Orcs and I'll show them the mercy of the Light. The same mercy they showed my father.

Grim determination set on her features, and her heart pounded in her chest. In her mind, the zeppelin could go no slower. Mercy, indeed.