Origins: Cobb Eastman

It was pitch black in the woods, where the moon's light had difficulty piercing the leaves. They were only just starting to turn the bright orange, reds, and yellows of autumn's fiery palette, signaling that summer was on it's last legs.

Cobb could care less. He was running as fast as his long, thin legs could carry him, wheezing with the exertion. It was all he could do not to trip on roots hidden under the dirt, moss and leaves of the loamy ground as he made his way to the Crone's hut. He had made the journey many times at night, sneaking out of his family's home, but never in such haste. And never as terrified as he was now.

What have I done? What have I done! His thoughts raced through is mind, a manic and uneven cadence to match his running. From his doorway to hers, he ran full out, as if wolves were on his heels. His short, brown hair was plastered to his forehead from sweat by the time he burst out of the trees and into the small clearing where her hut was.

It was a small house, built of mud and thatch and stones, and slowly crumbling from vines climbing up the walls, as if a giant hand was grasping it to pull it back into the trees and earth. As a young child, he was terrified of this house and the woman who called it home. He was still afraid of her, but only because he knew her ire when he didn't complete his studies to her satisfaction. It was the only place he felt safe these days. Home certainly wasn't.

He rapped his knuckles on the wooden door, quickly but quietly, a desperate and uneven tattoo. When the hut remained dark and silent, he did it again, more intently and whispered, “Get up old woman, I know you're there and I've done something...” He trailed off, swallowing and looking over his shoulder, paranoid even now.

“Please,” he whined, impatient, glancing over his shoulder towards the village for anyone who might have followed. His heart was still pounding from his flight, and from adrenaline and fear, and he was in no mood to stand in the dark, outside, exposed. He was about to start pounding on the door, caution be damned, when he heard grumbling, and saw a soft glow from the hearth, the fire being re-awoken.

The bolt was undone, the iron scratching against the old, weathered wood, and the door opened a tiny crack. There she stood, in all her grumpy, ancient glory. Grey hair with a mind of its own stood frizzy in every direction around a gaunt, wrinkled face. She was much shorter than Cobb, by a head, but he always felt small around her, even though she looked as if a stiff breeze could tip her over. Her eyes were a bright green, and seemed to almost shine like jewels, even in the dark. Especially in the dark. They were unnerving. Cobb shivered under her scrutiny.

“Boy,” her voice threatening, “This had better be the best damn tale you've ever told to warrant me giving up beauty sleep.”

“I killed him. I killed my father.”

.. :: | :: ..

Cobb peeked through the shutters at the village outside, normally quiet at this time of night, but torches were flickering against walls and windows, and faint shouts could be heard. He was still out of breath from running out to the forest that surrounded the quaint town, terrified of what he'd done. The Crone was muttering excitedly behind him, shuffling about, occasionally chuckling. Her ancient, hunched form was pulling down a bundle of herbs that had dried over her hearth.

“How can you be laughing?! There is absolutely nothing to be happy about, old woman,” Cobb cried, pulling away from the window, and the view of the awakening village.

“Oh, no?” she asks, clearly amused by the situation, and Cobb couldn't understand how.

“I killed my father!” Cobb ran his hands down his face in anguish, and dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “I killed him,” he repeated, more to himself than to the Crone. “I set him on fire. I set him on fire. With only my mind!” The last words came out as a wail, high pitched and keening, as if he was nothing more than a toddler having a tantrum, and not a 17 year old young man.

The Crone just chuckled again and continued her gathering. Cobb dropped his hands and shot her a look that could kill. Literally, he realized. “What is wrong with you. My father is dead because of me. Because of what you've taught me.”

“And good riddance to him, boy! Serves him right for beating you. Beating you bloody instead of letting you be who you really are, trying to force you into a mold you were never meant to fit.”

“No, instead, you've turned me into a monster!” Cobb could feel the tears coming down his face, and he wiped them away in anger. His mother had seen what he'd done, the whole thing. She was the one that had called him a monster, used those very words, and backed away in fear and shock as her husband burned down to his bones after striking Cobb across the face for the last time.

The Crone shook her head. “No, boy, not a monster. Powerful. You could be truly great, if you get the chance to continue your studies. These half-wit villagers wouldn't recognize true talent if it spit on them.”

She turned away then, to continue gathering up supplies, putting them away into an old traveling bag made of stained leather. It was only a moment later, though, that she stopped, ear cocked towards her door. The smile fading from her face.

“Cobb, child, take this,” she said, her tone hushed, pushing the leather bag into his arms with more force than he realized she could muster. He wanted to protest her constantly calling him a child when he wasn't one, but the urgency in her voice kept him silent. His blubbering confession of what had happened not an hour before had given her a strange, manic energy and unusual strength. And something else, too, something beneath the surface that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It made him uneasy.

Cobb listened then, too, holding his breath to catch whatever it was that she thought she had heard. It didn't take long before he realized the shouting from the village was getting louder...and closer.

The fire, he thought to himself. Why aren't they putting out the fire he started?

“Oh,” the old Crone whispered. “They're coming here.”

Her eyes got big as plates, the whites shining in the flickering light of her hearth, and that strange, otherworldly energy made them seem even brighter than usual. Bright, and green, and almost mad.

She whirled around, making Cobb jump, and gripped his shoulders so tight, he knew he'd have a new set of bruises over his father's old ones. “Quick, boy. Grab whatever else is useful, and climb out through the hatch up above.”

Cobb nodded, wiping stray tears from his eyes again, and frantically grabbed what few herbs he recognized from her tutelage, along with a wine-skin and an old cloak. Throwing the cloak over his shoulders, he climbed the rickety ladder up to the loft, and eased himself over to the loose part of thatch that the old woman would prop open on good days, when the weather was dry and the sun could shine in.

The shouting had grown very loud now, and flickering lights from torches could be seen through the little window below. He looked back only briefly and saw the old woman whispering over a bit of purple glass, which she then tucked into her robe.

He shook his head and opened the hatch in the roof just enough to squeeze out, and shut it behind himself as he clung to the top of the hut. Below, he heard the Crone screech at the small mob that had gathered, like a pack of hungry, rabid wolves.

“Begone! You have no business here! Begone, I said!” She shouted from her doorway. Her voice cracked, and Cobb swore she sounded almost excited. Like laughter was threatening to bubble up in between her curses.

“Witch!” some of the villagers cried, while others in the crowd just screamed, “Burn it down!” or “Kill her and kill the monster child!”. He heard his mother's shrill voice among them, calling out “Damn you witch! Damn you for cursing my boy! My beautiful boy!”

You were the one who cursed me, mother, by never protecting what should have been your greatest treasure, Cobb thought to himself. Cursed me to live a life of pain and solitude. He wasn't surprised she was part of the mob. She was meek and stupid, and followed others orders instead of thinking for herself; she always had. He hated her as much as he had hated his father, for her unwillingness - or inability - to shield him from his father's abuses his entire life.

He was forced back to his new and terrible reality when he heard the old woman screech sharply in pain, like a wounded hawk. He carefully crawled up to the top of the roof, peeking over the edge to get a glimpse of what was happening below.

The villagers had surrounded her, grabbed her roughly, and pulled her away from her hut. They were building a pyre. They wouldn't! He thought to himself, horrified. They wouldn't dare...not without a trial of some kind! Not without proof she had done something wrong!

But the fervor, fear, and anger of the village would not be quelled. They pushed and pulled at the old woman, tearing at her already tattered clothing, scratching at her face and arms, keeping her prisoner while they piled more branches high, and bound her hands together tightly, waving signs against evil and spitting at her.

Cobb was terrified. These were the people he had grown up seeing every day, and most were common folk more likely to invite you in for tea and freshly baked bread, than harm another person. Yet here they were, preparing to burn his mentor alive.

He covered his mouth to keep from crying out and laid as flat as he could while still keeping an eye on the angry mob below. He thought at first he might try to escape, try to run into the woods, but the men of the village had brought out their dogs, and there was no way he could get away without being seen. Even now, the beasts circled around the milling people, howling and barking and growling.

The pyre was finished almost as fast as they had started building it. They dragged the Crone over to it, and up to the top, tying her there to a single pole they had erected at its center. She was too old, too frail, and in too much pain from the beatings they had given her already to fight back much. Cobb was sickened by what he saw, but he couldn't look away. The only person in his entire life who had cared about him was about to be burned alive.

Men poured pitch over her head, and over the branches and twigs at her feet. She screeched obscenities at them, each in turn, and at the village as a whole, and at his mother in particular, and his father, who would never hear her particularly nasty opinions of him. There was a pause, then, as those bearing torches gathered around, closer and closer. I'm going to be sick, he thought, and turned his head to quietly retch, praying to the Light that he would not be heard over the commotion below. As if the Light is watching out for you now, fool. Not after what you've done.

They tossed the torches without fanfare, and the flames caught fast, licking up the Crone's ripped robes, now stained with her blood, and dancing up into her frizzy, gray hair, now sticky with the pitch.

She leaned against the pole, barely able to stand, her arms pulled tight against the bonds that kept her in place as her back arched in pain, but then...then, she laughed.

Cobb was struck as silent as the crowd. They all stared at her, in shock, like deer suddenly caught in the open, stupefied by her cackling. It was a full-throated laugh, which quickly morphed into a manic cackling, her voice cracking along with the logs at her feet, as the fire burned hotter and hotter, pushing the spectators back. Her robes burned away, her gray hair too, and her skin seemed to blister and melt, yet still, she laughed.

The villagers began muttering, making the sign against evil, backing away, as scared of what was happening as Cobb was. “By the Light, what are you?” a village elder cried, his eyes wide with fear.

The old Crone fell silent then, finally, the fire roaring as loudly as a lion, and they could barely make out her shout, “Done with you lot, is what I am!”

The fire suddenly burst into a bright green flame that roared up high above the Crone's head, and acrid smoke poured forth, causing the people gathered to panic and run in all directions, coughing and sputtering, tears running down their faces as they choked on the ash. Cobb wasn't quick enough pulling back over the ridge of the roof, and caught a face full of it himself.

It burned down his throat, in his eyes, in his lungs, and he lost his grip on the old, dark thatch of the hut. He slid, then rolled down, off the back of the house, and landed unceremoniously in a heap on the ground, coughing and gagging, and completely out of breath. Run, he heard in his head, a squeaky, annoying voice. Run before they find you, stupid!

Gasping, he dragged himself to his feet, using the vines growing up the crumbling hut's wall and ran into the forest. It was dark under the leaves of the woods, and he didn't know them well. He could barely see through the tears, could barely breathe from the burning in his lungs, whether from running or from the smoke he had inhaled, he couldn't tell.

His foot caught on a root and tripped him up. Stumbling, he hit the loamy earth hard, dead leaves exploding outward where his body hit the forest floor. His nose was filled with the smells of earth and decay.

He scrambled back to his feet, running again, only to cry out as something bit into his shoulder. It hurt. Far worse than any beating his father had given him. It was sharp, and stinging, and he could smell blood, feel it running down his back. Glancing back, he saw the shaft and fletching of an arrow, and realized they had shot him.

They mean to kill me, same as the old woman, he realized.

So run, stupid. That voice again, high-pitched and giggling. He was going mad. He giggled too, at the absurdity, at what his life had become within the course of only a few hours.

They were close behind, and he couldn't get away with his shoulder feeling as though it was on fire. He couldn't think, couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus. It was all just noise and pain.

One of the hunting dogs slammed into him from behind, suddenly, from out of the dark, biting at his head and neck. He rolled, instinct taking over, and kicked out at the furry form that had brought him down. He grinned wickedly as his heel found it's mark, and the large dog yelped and whined, pulling back and wary to attack again.

But the damage was done, as the men who had followed after their beast were now close enough to see, and loud enough to hear, clearly enough for Cobb to recognize their voices. There was Gregor, the innkeeper, and Harold, the fletcher, who he no doubt had to thank for the arrow still lodged in his back.

Even drunken Braed, who was almost never seen without a tankard or a flask, and did all he could to shirk his farm work, stood close by, a pitchfork in hand. They were all so angry, all wearing the same faces his father used to, when he'd come home from the tavern, drunk and surly. Looking to make someone feel as bad as he did. The difference was, these men were sober, and terrified.

Cobb fought back. For once, he thought to himself, or maybe it was that unknown, mad voice in his head, he wasn't sure anymore.

He bit, and scratched, and kicked out, but there were too many of them, and they were all too strong, and too burly. They held him down, hit him, beat him, until he stopped fighting back, until he couldn't fight back anymore. He could only cradle his head and pray to any gods still listening that they would stop before he blacked out.

But he had been beaten too many times in his life to hold out much hope. He knew exactly what every strike would leave behind, these ugly souvenirs of rage. That one will leave a bruise, black and blue, and yellow later. And that one cracked at least two ribs, he thought as a random kick hit him in the side. The next one hit him low in the back, and he felt an even deeper pain, and he knew, deep down, they weren't going to stop.

They were taking it in turns, as more and more of the braver souls in the village found their way into the woods where the men had dropped him. One eye was already swollen shut, but the other made out his mother, and he realized she was shouting for them to stop, to spare her boy.

She moved forward slowly, her face illuminated by the dancing torchlight, inching her way up to where her son lay bleeding on the ground. “Cobby?” she asked, voice quavering. “My boy? My beautiful boy...what did she do to you?”

Cobb choked on a laugh. “Beautiful?” he heard himself sneer, almost choking on the blood. Even now he couldn't bear the falseness of her. Never once had she stood up for him against his father, never once had she spoken out to spare him. In all of his 17 years, he could not recall a single moment where she stepped in to stop his father from taking out his anger on his son.

Even this time, he was certain, she was doing it only out of fear, knowing that if she let the villagers kill him, she and her precious daughters would be alone with no man in the house to care for them. “Beautiful boy? Not so beautiful, now, mother. The Crone did nothing to me!” he choked out, and his mother recoiled, fear back in her face. “She never cursed me! She taught me how to love myself because you would never love me as I deserved!”

He was filled with loathing, and pain, and all he wanted now was for her to suffer as much as he had. He grinned then, his teeth red with his own blood. What he couldn't see was the green fire in his eyes.

His mother did.

His mother saw the fire very clearly as she died in it, screaming like her husband had, as her flesh melted away and her bones turned black. He never stopped grinning.

It was the last thing Cobb saw, before the mob rushed in around him, and then pain, and finally, darkness.

.. :: | :: ..

No one noticed the woman standing on the edge of the clearing, quietly watching the mob beat the young man to death, his one, still-open eye turning glassy and empty, even as it was focused on the pile of smoldering ash that used to be his mother's bones.

She was tall and thin, her face angular, almost gaunt, framed in curls the color of clover honey. She wore a dress of dark green velvet trimmed in gold, and a hooded cloak to match. She stared at the dead body and the villagers slowly realizing what they had done with eyes as green as emeralds and as bright as candlelight, but which held no warmth.

Her former apprentice was almost unrecognizable now, after the mob had finished taking out their fear and rage on his body. The woman sneered and turned away, walking briskly into the dark of the forest, leaving her former home behind to be burned to the ground, as she had no use for it now.

Trailing after her was a little green imp, the tip of his tail smoking faintly with felfire. He skipped after his mistress, his yellow eyes flashing in the dark.

“A pity, yes, mistress? He held promise, didn't he, mistress?” his voice was squeaky and grating, and pleading for attention.

“Silence,” she snapped, and looked over her shoulder to ensure they hadn't been followed. Once she saw there was nothing behind them, she sighed and frowned.

“Yes, Azkol. It is a shame. The boy was easy to manipulate, and he did indeed show some promise. He was willing to kill his own kin, after all, and took to my teaching so readily.”

“At least he got his revenge,” the little demon said, giggling.

“Mmmm, yes,” she replied, humming, a cold smile tugging at her lips. “He did, indeed, get that.” She pictured the look on that stupid cow's face as she burst into flames born purely from her own son's hatred of her. It had been so easy teaching the young man how to hone his skills and control the fire that had already been slowly growing inside his mind and soul. The abuses he had endured from his father were terrible enough. The fact that his mother was hesitant to shield him out of fear for herself and her daughters, and no one in the village bothered to save him from his lot in life only made matters simpler for her. If she had cared about anyone but herself, she would have found it all terribly sad. But she didn't. This had all become simply an inconvenience.

She was glad she had a soulstone prepared for such an occasion. She pulled the now dull and dark purple stone from where she had tucked it away, turning it over in her hands as she considered her next move.

There had been rumors for days of a strange cult, of people dying, of people rising from their graves to walk again and kill their former friends and family. The village had been on edge as the rumors fanned the flames of fear. This entire night's events were inevitable. It had only been a matter of time before something became the spark to light the tinder. She had hoped for a few more days to gather supplies and prepare her new apprentice. Oh, well.

But she had to be careful now. The crown prince himself had even been tasked with discovering the source of the sickness starting to make its way through the populace. Hopefully, she didn't cross paths with him on her way back to the City of Lordaeron. Running into Prince Arthas would make her job of preparing for the coming plague considerably more difficult.

“Azkol,” she gestured to her demon, “I believe the timetable is moving up a bit. We must get to the city quickly. There is still much to be done, and without an apprentice, it is going to take longer than I'd like.”

Her demon nodded vigorously in agreement. “Yes, mistress. You are so wise.”

The warlock rolled her eyes, but smirked. “Keep watch,” she ordered and began weaving her hands in intricate formations, muttering an incantation to summon another demon. Fire bloomed from the earth at her feet, and from the flames and ash rose a horse seemingly made of coal and flames. A felsteed demon stood before her.

The damp forest floor hissed wherever it stepped and plants wilted where it passed as it walked up to her, and stood still as stone, patient for her to climb upon its back. The only movement was its black tail swishing as it swatted at flies that could never hope to land on its burning back.

As she settled herself into a comfortable position, the horse-demon gave a blood-curdling whinny, and trotted forward, the felfire in its eyes burning brighter, illuminating the trees all around. The imp scampered alongside, easily keeping up.

“Come, Azkol. Our master's plan awaits us.”

The woman who had worn the face of a Crone, in a village that would soon be wiped from the face of the earth, rode off into the night, laughing, eager to aid the Cult of the Damned with killing every last man, woman, and child that walked this world and earn her place as a true servant of the Burning Legion, with power beyond her wildest dreams awaiting her.

.. :: | :: ..

He was cold.

He was cold, and broken, but the voices demanded that he get up.

He could almost hear his mother's voice calling up from the kitchen, warning him that if he didn't get up, his father would come fetch him from his bed.

That was enough to spur him awake.

It was blackness all around. His eyes were open, or so he thought. But he was blind. And it was silent.

Yet still, there were voices, or almost-voices, demanding he get up. He was called. He had to get up, and follow.

His limbs were sluggish. They didn't want to move. The darkness was heavy, pressing in all around him. He pushed back.

The relatively fresh mound of dirt covering an unmarked grave on the furthest edge of the graveyard near the village temple moved and cracked as a very bony hand burst up from underneath. A second hand followed as dark magic crept under the loose ground and compelled those buried there to rise up and join the Scourge army waiting just outside of town. As shallow as the grave was, the body inside was struggling.

Bones were already exposed in places where damaged, swollen flesh had decayed quickly. The dead thing slowly hoisted itself up into a sitting position, and rubbed dirt from out of its eye sockets. Greenish-yellow orbs of light slowly emerged from where the dirt had been, replacing eyes that were no longer there. A broken arrow could be seen sunk deep in what was left of the flesh behind the left shoulder. The body had been wrapped in the same cloak it had been wearing. It was stained with blood and dirt, and decay from being in the damp earth for many days, but it held together as the reanimated body slowly rose to its feet, swaying gently in the breeze.

A groan echoed out of the ghoul's mouth and it lurched forward, stumbling on legs barely attached with withered muscle and sinew. A leather back swung on a thick strap, making the newly arisen corpse's movements even more uneven. It finally settled at the dead thing's hip, and allowed for easier walking by the time the ghoul reached the cemetery gate.

Other sleepers were waking up as well, and the earth rumbled as more dead burst forth from their graves. It made the going a bit more treacherous for the newly reborn undead, as grave after grave opened to release the prisoners within, leaving holes to navigate around. Some of the dead were nothing but bones, while others still had dried muscle and sinew clinging on tightly. All were held together by the magic still coursing through the graveyard, making bones glow, and rattle in the night.

His master was waiting. The general of the army. The Death Knight.

Follow him. Kill. Feed. Obey.
Serve the Scourge.

Yes, the dead thing thought to itself, memories of mothers and fathers and kitchens and warm beds and fear slowly fading away. Yes, I will serve. And I will kill. Again.

Transformation: In which a choice is made

"You had better explain, Naaru," I said, my voice dark and threatening. "You were supposed to save her, so there is only once choice between those two."

Chromie winced at my harsh tone, glancing up at the Naaru floating serenely above us and I felt a heavy hand on my arm. Sebbat's hand, no doubt trying to keep me from doing anything rash. The chiming voice in my mind was once again calming, but I was not so easily soothed this time.

{Purah Bloodblade, as one of the undead, you know that the connection to soul and body is tenuous at best. Yrovi's soul is shattered, pieces of it already swallowed up by the Twisting Nether. I have the power to make it whole again, but if I do, the undead body will reject it. Her body will be a corpse, an empty shell, and her soul will move on.}

My face fell as I knelt by her side. Surprisingly, Chromie patted my arm, comforting me as she could. "Don't lose all hope, Purah. A'dal did have another idea..."

{Yes, which is why I called you. Though death is not a terrible end, as all things must die in time, Yrovi was not meant to find this kind of death, not now. As you said, Chronormu, Yrovi's timeline has been tampered with, and this was not supposed to be her fate. The other side of this coin, then, is to change her timeline again, to prevent this from befalling her.}

The gnome-dragon nodded. "Precisely. Yrovi was not meant to come into contact with whatever it was that sucked in her soul. There is a very good chance that I can alter her timeline to ensure this fate does not occur, it's just... well..." Chromie's face fell.

"What is it, Chromie?" asked Tyra, the worry obvious on her face. I stared down at the warrior, wanting anything except her death. "Tell us."

The dragon sighed. "I'll do another sweep of time, just to be sure of my calculations, however..." she paused again, wincing. "However, from what I can see, the only way to ensure that Yrovi never meets this fate is to go pretty far back in her timeline. Far enough that I'd be changing more things than just this unfortunate end. In fact, there's no telling what may happen if I meddle in her fate, or the repercussions it will have in all of our timelines, since Yrovi has touched us all."

So that was the choice, then, I thought to myself. Either she dies, or she is never here. But A'dal had said the choice was between... It hit me then, like a punch to the gut, just what the Naaru and the dragon were saying. "Oh, gods..." I groaned.

Sebbat and Tyra understood it too, as I heard gasps from each of them in turn behind me. Karrim grunted and turned away, seemingly disgusted with the whole affair. Cobb, on the other hand, seemed strangely still. It's so damn hard to read him, I can't even tell if that fool warlock even understands what A'dal has said.

"Let her die. The Yrovi I know wouldn't want to live again. She was a proud member of the Forsaken," Karrim said coldly over his shoulder. "I wash my hands of it. If any of you lot need me for anything, you know where to find me." He moved away and then disappeared in a flash of light, teleporting away.

"Damn him for leaving like that!" Tyra said angrily, but Sebbat gestured for her to calm herself.

"Karrim is a true Forsaken, Tyra, and cannot understand the position the rest of us are in. There is little room in his heart for compassion. Besides, I think this has hit him harder than he expected. He told me once that Yrovi had given him the willpower to be more than just a tool for vengeance. She taught him to enjoy his life after death, to explore and learn and become a better mage, not just for the glory of the Dark Lady, but for himself. I think the thought of her being gone for good frightens him a little, and he cannot bear to stay here any longer."

Tyra seemed satisfied, but I wasn't. I sat beside her and held one of her bony hands in my own, wondering if the pain in my chest would ever ease. What would I wish for her? No, that's not the question I should be asking... What would Yrovi want for herself? I thought of the days we would ride through the plaguelands, where she would tell me stories of her youth in Lordaeron. I thought of the days that we would fight, side-by-side, slaughtering Scourge, reveling in our power and skill. Of the stories we traded over the campfire of our experiences with the Lich King and how we escaped his power to be free again... Free again.

"There are worse things than death, you know," Tyra finally said, quiet. "I have seen terrible things, and terrible fates for men and women who fight the wars of this world. As a healer, I often must try to save them from their own foolishness, pull them back from the brink of death, even revive those who have passed beyond the reach of simple healing or the skilled touch of a field medic... and I've come to realize that death is probably pretty peaceful." I saw a single tear on her cheek before she wiped it away. "Yrovi was strong, and brave, and bold. She didn't fear death, or undeath. I think she'd want to go out fighting, like any good warrior, but I also think she'd enjoy peace."

With that she looked up to A'dal and nodded, and I knew she had told the glowing being to make her soul whole again and let her pass on. I found myself hating her for it. Sebbat and Cobb still hadn't made their choices for Yrovi. It suddenly seemed so wrong that this was how her final fate was determined, by us and not her.

Sebbat shook his head. "While Yrovi would no doubt like peace, I think she would like life better. Yrovi was always curious to me. I found her fascinating, her interest in life, in protecting others. As a Druid, I wanted to nurture that in her, and she spoke to me of her life and how she sometimes missed it." He turned to Chromie and continued, "If you can alter her history so that she does not die in the first place, I think she would be pleased."

The tauren's words echoed in my own heart. To live again... what I wouldn't give to feel my heart beating, and the air in my lungs, and the sun on my face. "I agree," I found myself saying. "Yrovi wasn't afraid of anything. And she'll find peace. One way or another. As you said, A'dal, all things must die, and humans in particular have such short lives. Let her live hers as she was meant to." I realized, then, that I would never meet her if she lived, and part of me regretted my words, but I didn't say anything more. I would rather she live and be happy having never met me, than have her die like this, in the darkness of that evil, her soul shredded and marred, even if A'dal can make her whole again. I would rather have never met her, than have her die like this.

I realized that it was Cobb's decision that would determine her fate. He realized it, too, it seemed, as his eyes were shut tightly. His imp minion tugged lightly on his tattered robes in concern, his squeaky voice uttering words I couldn't make out.

{He would have you hear his words, Purah. Will you listen?} Surprised, I turned to look at the warlock, and for the first time I saw the undead man as more than just a rotted, walking corpse. There was emotion in his eyes, one I knew was echoed in my own, and one that I was shocked to find there: Love. Love for Yrovi. Love that ran so deep that it was beyond the reach of the numbness that came with undeath. There was fear there, too, though, and I was afraid of what he'd say.

{I don't know what to do, Purah.} The voice wasn't the chiming of the Naaru. It sounded young, and scared, and... almost fragile. It was nothing like what I expected. {I know that you love her. I do, too, though she would never have... well. It doesn't matter now, does it? Karrim and Tyra say to let her die, to find everlasting peace, and I want to. I want her to feel happy again, but...} the voice in my mind trailed off as Cobb looked away, his yellow eyes glazing over, his hand clutching the soulstone he had used in the failed attempt at saving Yrovi.

"But you fear what will happen if she dies... If you know that her light, her energy, is gone from the world forever."

He nodded. {The thought of Yrovi not existing in the world makes it a much darker place. She was meant to help others, to protect others, just as she has helped and protected each of us. How many will die if she's not in the world in some capacity or another? I would have fallen in to madness without her guidance.} He turned to the Naaru and the gnome, his voice silent again. I looked at him with a new respect, not realizing just what kind of mind he had, the thoughts and emotions locked inside a body long past repair.

{It is decided, then.} A'dal's chiming voice finally said. Cobb and I looked at one another, and I could tell we both hoped we made the right choice. Tyra turned away, unable to watch, and Sebbat did his best to comfort her.

A little fearful, I moved back as Chromie reached out and touched Yrovi's pale face. The gnome-dragon shimmered and Yrovi seemed to fade in and out as the time-traveler adjusted the timeline: pale bones were suddenly covered with flesh that changed from deathly pale to rosy and lively, and her golden eyes, almost dark, flared with life again, changing to a hazel hue that fluttered open and blinked, seeing me. She smiled, though it seemed sad.

{You had better say your goodbye. The timeline is changing and all of you will be changed with it.}

I leaned down and looked her in the eyes. She seemed confused, and suddenly very fragile. "I love you, Yrovi Greenfield of Lordaeron. Remember that, always." I brushed my cold lips against hers, now red and full of life. I was surprised and pleased to feel her return the gesture and whisper "I'll remember."

Cobb shuffled closer as she sat up, my hand supporting her as she stood, still fading in and out as the time-stream started to take her back. She stared down at hands that were whole, then looked up to A'dal. "Thank you." She whispered, and turned back to us. "Thanks to all of you." She looked at Cobb as she said it, and reached her hand out to him, which he took gently. "Don't ever be afraid of who you are, Cobb."

Sebbat and Tyra nodded to her in farewell, and she turned to me one last time, her eyes shining with tears. "Where I go, you can't follow, death knight, but it doesn't matter. Part of me will be with you, always." She placed a warm hand on my chest, over my heart. "Remember that you are not the Lich King's and never will be again. Remember that undeath is just another way of saying a second chance. Remember..."

She was gone, as was Chromie. I stood under A'dal, the Naaru's light cascading down all around me, and felt the sorrow wash over me. I embraced it, letting it fill me, knowing that it was an emotion I shouldn't be able to feel, and loved the fact that I still could, no matter how painful it may be.

{The only gift I can give you now, is a memory of her to keep. Because she never became one of the undead, when you leave my light, you will forget you met her, forget she was once your ally. Think of how you want to remember her, and go with my blessings.}

Sebbat and Tyra left first, sad, but content. I thought of all the moments we had shared together, all the times we found peace in each other's company, and I found it impossible to choose only one. I realized that I didn't want to remember her as I had known her, that it would be an insult to consolidate our friendship into a single moment.

"Let me remember her as she left, as a living, breathing woman, rather than the Forsaken I knew. Let me remember her parting words." I felt the chiming song in my mind, and closed my eyes to see her living face imprinted on my mind as clear as if she stood there now. If I was still capable of tears, I would have shed them.

Cobb nodded as well and we turned to go. I glanced at him, wondering what memory he chose.

"None of 'ya business, what the Master chose, elfy," his minion said, voice high-pitched and grating. I considered kicking the little demon, but simply shrugged and nodded to the warlock. He summoned his fel charger and rode slowly away towards the lower city, his eyes blank, his hand still clutched around the soulstone. As I watched him go, I felt tired and worn.

I glanced back one more time to the glowing chamber of the Naaru. A'dal hung there, serenely, the swirl of light the Naaru created illuminating the city. It felt so strange to be standing here... I was supposed to be in Northrend, wasn't I? I had tasks to complete...

I shrugged it off, the feeling slowly passing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chromie entering A'dal's chamber, and wondered what she was up to, and if she was the reason I felt befuddled. Damn bronze dragons, always meddling in the affairs of the mortals. As I lifted off into the night sky, I stared up at the stars and thought they were beautiful, and wondered why my lips felt so warm, and the echo of a woman's voice sounded in my mind.

...Remember.

((And that's that! Yrovi will get a few new stories that deal with her human self and Purah and gang will get different stories, too, now that Yrovi doesn't exist in the same way as before. That's not to say that they'll never meet again. I mean, Dalaran is neutral, you know!))

Transformation: In which a Naaru calls a Gnome

The chiming voice was soothing, calming, and warm. It filled my mind, and pushed back the dark thoughts and feelings that had nearly overwhelmed me... feelings that I thought I had completely overcome. It seems that the Lich King had trained me too well.

{Bring her to me} it chimed again, a little louder, as though to drown out my dark thoughts of death and blood.

I obeyed, leaning over her to gently scoop Yrovi up. Sebbat, Tyra, Karrim, and the still slightly shaken Cobb followed close behind me to the central chamber in Shattrath. There, hovering above the dais, in bright, shining glory, was A'dal. It was A'dal's chiming voice that urged me forward with Yrovi in my arms. The Naaru's voice was more obvious here, and yet not overwhelming. A little spark of hope flared in my cold heart.

I placed her beneath the great Naaru and bowed my head low. "Please," I said, quiet, pleading. "Please. Save her. If you can, save her. She deserves your mercy."

The light from the floating being of Light pulsed a bit and radiated down onto Yrovi's prone form.

{Mercy? An interesting word to use, Death Knight. Interesting, but fitting, perhaps, for one such as you. Yrovi had mercy, too. She, unlike so many of the Forsaken, clung to old memories of love, kindness, and hope. Through her strong will, she did not dispair, did not turn fully to the darkness of vengeance and hatred so common amongst the undead.} The song-voice turned a little sour, slightly off key, as though sad. {And she will need all her willpower now, as her soul has been shredded and pulled into the Nether by some old power.}

I clenched my fists and shut my eyes tightly. No wonder Cobb could not pull her soul into his crystal... it is beyond the reach of any mortal, now.

"Please!" I pleaded again, more urgently, knowing every minute that passed could be her last. "If there is anything you can do, great Naaru, do it! She means a great deal to us. To me."

I hadn't wanted to admit the truth about my feelings for her. I hadn't wanted to admit that she made me feel alive, and whole, and truly free. I hadn't wanted to admit that she made me feel love again. It shouldn't have been possible. I shouldn't have wanted it so badly. Yet... here I was, practically on my knees before a being that should make me cower in shame, begging for aid. Me, a Death Knight, a former member of the Scourge, an undead killing machine, begging...

{Let us see what can be done, then, Purah Bloodblade, though you may not like the choice that must be made, and it will not be you alone who will make it.}

The chiming in my mind grew louder then and seemed to spread out, into the world and beyond. The air grew still, then almost warm, and then hot. I closed my eyes, feeling the pressure build and wondering what the Naaru had done, when I heard a tiny pop and the heat and pressure vanished.

A high-pitched, bubbly voice spoke out, "Goodness, A'dal. If you needed to see me so badly, I wish you'd find another way to call on me. That was a bit uncomfortable." I spun around quickly, my runeblade finding its way to my hand automatically, before I realized just who it was.

"Chronormu," Sebbat said, his voice deep and full of respect. He nodded a greeting to the tiny gnome dressed in white and bronze. My eyes grew wide, as I had only heard stories of the well-known dragon of the bronze flight. Somehow, I had expected someone taller... and more... male.

The little gnome giggled quietly and returned the greeting, then turned to each of my comrades in turn. "Tyralina, hello again! And Karrim and Cobb still together, I see... huh, strange. Or is it not? Sorry, I do lose track of timelines now and again." The two undead glanced at each other, obviously wondering if the dragon-gnome was speaking of the past before they met, or of a future event yet to come. She turned to me then, a small smile on her face. "Oh. Purah Bloodblade. We meet at last. Or, have we met before?"

I shook my head, wary of the dragon. "No, we have not, though I am hoping that if A'dal brought you here, it is to help Yrovi." At the mention of the undead warrior's name, Chromie glanced past my legs to see the comatose Forsaken. "Oh, dear... what happened? This doesn't seem familiar to me at all..."

She pushed past me and knelt by Yrovi's side. "This wasn't meant to be in her timeline, A'dal. Someone or something has meddled with her." Chromie was silent, then, her head tilted up slightly as though listening to something. A'dal's voice, no doubt, speaking words mere mortals aren't meant to hear. My eyes narrowed in distrust as my inner voice grew bitter. I knew, deep in my heart, that I had no right to ask grand favors of creatures like the Naaru or the dragons. I had done horrific things in service of the Lich King, and I had not been a brave soul in life, either. I had a great deal of blood on my hands. Still, Yrovi had done heroic things, great things, in service of the Argent Dawn and the Horde...

{Listen now all friends of Yrovi. You who are her closest friends and allies must make a choice and it must not be made lightly.}

The chiming seemed a little off key to me, as though unsure. I turned to stare up at the Naaru's glittering form, my mind set and prepared.

"What choice, great one?" asked Sebbat.

A pause as the chiming nearly stopped entirely. {You much choose if Yrovi lives... or truly dies again.}

((Fail for me. Not only did I initially use the triangular-shaped brackets for A'dal's voice (which cause the text to dissapear, since it's used for HTML code) but I didn't save the Naaru's speech, so I had to write it again. Also, I totally realized that the first part of Transformation was written in third person perspective instead of first, so I'll have to go back and fix that, too. The story is nearly finished, and I'm really pleased with it, surprisingly. Most of the stuff I write I end up disliking at some point (like Brothers, which I'm actually in the process of reworking entirely), but I'm really digging this one.))

Transformation: In which healing fails

Sebbat, changed into a living tree, swayed back and forth, chanting quietly, his amber, bark-covered limbs glowing brightly with the power of his healing magics. Yrovi lay on the ground at his roots, bathed in the green light. Tyra, a Sin'dorei paladin, had joined the druid in his work, and the golden power of the Light flowed and intertwined with the power of nature.

I watched, silent, worried. Though I could tell that both of them were pouring all their power and knowledge into helping her, she didn't awaken... she didn't even move. I sat quietly, unmoving, my gaze unwavering, with the patience that only the dead have. I didn't even stir when I was joined on each side by familiar Forsaken.

"No change, then?" asked the one on my right, his voice gravelly. I said nothing. He shrugged a bit, and watched our leader and the paladin work. His companion glanced my way, but said nothing... though this was not unusual, since he was missing his jaw. Karrim and Cobb, a mage and warlock, one rarely seen without the other. The warlock's imp minion opened his mouth to speak, but, thankfully, Cobb silenced him with a kick. The last thing I wanted to hear was that screeching voice, no matter what it was meaning to say.

Slowly, the glow from Sebbat and Tyra faded, and I could see sweat beading on the lady's face. Even Sebbat appeared ashen, his usually golden leaves almost grey in the starlight. Yrovi still hadn't moved.

The paladin approached me, her face wary. "Purah," she began, and my gaze shifted from the comatose warrior to her green eyes. She winced and took a half step back, but continued, "We don't understand... Everything we do, every spell we use, all the power we pour into her body and soul is simply absorbed. Nothing we do seems to work. I'm... I'm so sorry."

She moved to lay a hand gently on my arm, but Karrim blocked her, shaking his head. He knew me well, and knew that the last thing I wanted was a comforting touch. I felt cold inside... empty and dark, and I could feel my eyes unfocus as her words set in. "Nothing?" I stood slowly, feeling a dangerous strength build inside, and though Tyra was tall, I still stood over her. "Nothing?" My voice was nearly a whisper, but it hit her with force, and she took another step back, her expression worried. My fingers twitched near my runeblade's hilt.

"Enough, 'Rah," the undead mage said, quickly moving to block my path. "We'll find something that will help, some way to bring her back, pull her out of this..."

I didn't notice that Cobb had pushed past us, his tattered robes sweeping the stone as he shuffled quickly over to Yrovi. His imp cowered a bit, but followed obediently after. The jaw-less warlock pulled out a ceremonial dagger, one that had seen a great deal of use, from the looks of it, and used it to cut open Yrovi's arm. I wanted to stop him, but if Sebbat and Tyra couldn't save her, then I'd let him try, no matter how terrible the magic.

She had no blood to bleed, but the athame didn't seem to need actual blood for whatever spell the warlock was hatching, as a stream of dark magic pulsed between him and Yrovi as soon as the cut was made. His yellow eyes glazed over and flickered, and what was left of his face contorted into a grimace of what appeared to be pain. I knew something was wrong when even his imp began to keen. He shuddered, then, and collapsed to his knees, but still the spell continued, unwavering, through his sheer force of will.

I moved to stand at his side, and though I wasn't fond of Cobb, or his magic, I placed a hand on his bony shoulder to steady him. He seemed lost in his spell, whatever it was, and reached into his robe to pull out a light-purple crystal, a soul shard, I realized. The magical bind that linked him to our warrior pulsed and brightened, swirling up and into the crystal. It filled it with light... and then vanished, the spell broken. Yrovi remained still, and Cobb seemed exhausted with the effort. The soulstone was dark.

His imp coughed and sputtered, clutching at its neck, "It... it was too powerful... the thing, the blackness that has her. I couldn't pull her out. I couldn't..." The voice was forced, and less grating than usual, and I guessed that Cobb had spoken through the little demon. I squeezed his shoulder in silent thanks, though the demon looked irritated.

"You tried, at least. For that, I thank you," I said quietly, so that the warlock alone could hear. I felt as I had when I had died. I could feel nothing but pain, and my mind was clouded with grief. Cold gripped my heart and turned it to stone, just as it had when I had been raised from the dead to serve the Lich King... and then, I heard a gentle chiming in my head, and a warm light that melted my frozen heart again, pushing back the cold.

{Bring her to me.}

Transformation: In which there is a hasty flight

I could feel her leaving, feel the energy behind her golden-glowing eyes fading faster with every moment, and my still heart was aching at the thought of losing her. I can't bear to think of whatever fate awaits her if that light slips away.

My skeletal gryphon shifted and twitched as I laid her quickly, but gently, over the saddle, praying silently that whatever was wrong, whatever had harmed her would release it's hold, that she would blink and sit up and scold me in her echoing voice for worrying about her as she so often did. But she didn't, and her eyes remained dim.

Not a sound, no movement at all and I had to fight the urge to yell or strike her, anything to get a response of some kind...

"Yrovi, I swear to the gods, if you don't come back from this, I will hunt your soul down and drag you back myself," I whispered, my voice strangely hoarse and angry and raw. It shouldn't even be possible to feel this way, to have this ache in my chest where my once-beating heart rests, feel the constriction around lungs that no longer need breath, but I do feel it... and it was more painful than the lashes from the Succubus demons they had been fighting, more painful than the fel-fire burns I bore, so painful, in fact, that I wanted to trade places with her, just to escape the alien emotions that were clouding my mind.

The rush of the wind as the undead gryphon took to the sky on bony wings calmed me. It was cooler in the air above the fiery peninsula, the wind less heavy with fire, and ash, and sand. Already a call had gone out to the others, a plea for aid, and they were coming. "Meet in Shattrath," Sebbat had said, his voice strong and sure over the communication stone they all carried. "Tyra and I shall meet you there to heal Yrovi of whatever is harming her."

***

Shattrath was quiet, the night sky overhead clear. It would be almost beautiful under any other circumstances, but I didn't notice as we glided in to land in the upper ring of the city. A large, horned cat stepped out of shadows and transformed into an even larger, horned tauren. He nodded a silent greeting, but I cared little for formalities when Yrovi was this ill. I pulled her down from the saddle and cradled her in my arms, armor and all.

"She's dying, Sebbat. She's dying again, and I can't stop it from happening."

((A quick explanation for this story: I server and faction switched Yrovi some time ago in order to have a level 80 character on the same server that my RL friend was on for access to gold, heirloom items, run throughs, etc. Because of this, I of course imagined how it would be explained in terms of RP or a story that fit the Warcraft universe, and Transformation started coming about. I'll be borrowing some famous NPCs from WoW, including A'dal and the one and only Chronormu (aka Chromie) of the Bronze flight, along with my interpretations of some old characters that belong to previous guildies of mine. Enjoy.))

Bloodsword: 13 - Massacres

With the added prestige of a deathcharger, especially one as beautiful and deadly as the one he had earned, Purah continued moving up the ranks quickly. He raised ghouls for the Harvester, and dealt with the Scarlet Crusade as it prepared supplies for ships sailing for Northrend. Not wanting to allow those ships to make it out of the harbor, he found himself hiding in a mine cart to get past the multitude of soldiers at Light's Point.

That day was a glorious one for the Scourge, as he turned the cannons on the ships against the very soldiers who built them. At least a hundred Scarlet soldiers died by his hand alone that day, in glorious fire and destruction. The chaos and confusion he caused only made the cold indifference within him grow, that small part of him that still clung to the light nearly blotted out entirely.

Silea. What have I become? Does it even matter anymore? Does what I do in my death have any bearing on who I once was?

He was lost in these thoughts when Prince Valanar sent him back to the Ebon hold with the reports of the slaughter at the coast. He was going before the Highlord Morgraine himself. He couldn't afford to show weakness. Besides, he thought. It probably doesn't matter anymore. I've become a monster. Silea... he closed his eyes for a moment, that lone, warm place in his heart fluttering feebly. Silea would run screaming from me as those Scarlet fools do. My life is done. My death, on the other hand, could be so much more.

He could feel a cold forming deep within his soul as he approached the Highlord Darion Mograine. He wasn't sure what it meant, but had decided it wasn't any of his concern. His body and his mind were not his own, not anymore. He knelt in respect, holding out the report of the victory at Death's Breach for the Highlord's acceptance. He stood as Mograine took it, immediately breaking the seal and reading through Prince Valanar's words.

"The entire fleet?" the Highlord said, more to himself than to the death knight waiting patiently. Purah took little else in as the Highlord praised him, though Mograine's mind appeared to wander elsewhere, to his father. Nevertheless, he gave Purah new armor and a commendation, moving the dead elf further up the ranks of the Scourge army.

It was days later that he found himself in the middle of what was left of Havenshire, surrounded by ghouls and tossing human skulls into the newest plague cauldron of the Scourge. Noth the Plaguebringer stood nearby, talking mostly to himself, no doubt bored as his work was more or less complete. Purah had been in New Avalon, the town south of Havenshire, also full of the Scarlet Crusade. The skulls that now rested at the bottom of the bubbling cauldron had come from the town's inhabitants, both citizens and soldiers alike.

He was a shell of his former self, he knew. He rarely showed any emotion anymore, and when he did it was usually through a cold smile of triumph or frown of frustration. As he stepped back from the cauldron, his dreadsteed waiting patiently nearby, he looked back over the dead fields of Havenshire. The inhabitants were long gone, fled or dead. He rode slowly through the town, dead plague-hounds occasionally looking up from their pacing, but otherwise ignoring his passing. The lumber mill was still now. The paddock where he had once stolen his black stallion was now filled with other Death Knight's steeds.

Purah tied his stallion to a nearby post and walked up to a nearby tree. Its trunk was covered in deep gouges from swords and ghoul's claws. He touched it, running his gauntleted hand over the rough bark. The tree was trying to survive, but the plague and blight that covered the land was already starting to take over. He sat under it's branches, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was naked, standing hip-deep in the snow. Well, this is something I never expected to see again, he thought to himself. Instead of being surrounded by impenetrable darkness, though, he could see for miles and miles. Snow and ice as far as he could see. He wasn't shivering, as the cold didn't seem to bother him. He turned around and nearly jumped back, reaching for a runeblade that wasn't there. A cloaked figure had appeared, just on the horizon. He said nothing, wary of this new development. I'm dreaming, of course. This is all just in my head.

The figure gestured, beckoning him to follow. He hesitated. He noticed how gracefully the figure moved and he wondered if it was a woman, or another elf. Perhaps it's... her. He moved, then, slowly towards the unknown person. Every step he took, the figure took, too. After what seemed like hours of walking through the snow, he grew frustrated and threw up his hands.

"End this foolishness! I'm done. Let me wake, so I can continue my work!" The dark and mysterious figure gestured again for him to follow, but then pointed towards the horizon. There, small and nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the snow, was a small crystal dome. At least, that's what it looked like. It seemed to shine and sparkle without any light, a small star on the ground.

With a goal in sight, Purah continued, patient and constant in his trek through the snow. He rarely looked to the figure anymore, instead his eyes fixed on that dome. It was important. He didn't know why, but it was, and he had to get there. It came ever closer, but he was tiring. It was as if the snow was freezing him in place, or trying to. His legs were dragging, catching in the frozen landscape. The figure was gone now, nowhere to be seen. Only the dome on the horizon, beckoning to him, kept him going.

Finally, after fighting for every little movement, he made it. The dome rose up out of the snow before him, glowing from within. He staggered closer and touched the shining surface. It was ice, distorted enough to keep him from seeing what was inside, from seeing whatever it was causing the glow. He walked all around it, searching for a way inside. It was solid and impenetrable.

Purah, come inside.

He wanted to laugh, as he had been trying to do exactly that, but there was no energy left anymore. He reached out to the ice again, touching it, his bare hand slipping against its shining surface. He felt nothing. He closed his eyes in frustration.

And awoke, his back against the blighted tree, his deathcharger standing patiently nearby, standing watch over him. Whatever dream had gripped him, it was gone, and he rose, slowly. I can almost see the snow, even now. It is no normal dream, that is certain, he thought as he mounted again, turning his mount once again towards the crypt.

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.