Iricill

[Pyrisath]

(Still open to change, currently v.0.7.5. PM me if you see anything wrong with the backstory, I've already run my check, and I feel I need a second or third or fourth opinion. Edit; 1gahhhhhhh, messed up the name title, dammit 2Updated vers and a few things 3Updated a few things, vers change.)

Full Name: Iricillian(ee-reh-sill-ee-n) Dawnshield.
Nicknames:
Date of Birth: -42 BDP
Age: 69 at death
Race: Blood Elf(Never truly died, but he slipped into undeath)
Gender: Male
Hair: Black
Skin: Hardly ever sees the sun pale, though surprisingly little decay. Cold and brittle to the touch
Eyes: Icy blue flame is all that remains in his sockets.
Height/weight: 6' 3", ~180 lbs.
Physical Features: He is continually slouched by his own choice(Maybe your character could change this, eh?). Has a myriad of battle scars, most all of them on his front.
Armor Features: The entire flare piece of his right shoulder armor is sheared off. Many cuts can be seen across his armor. Pitch black, lined with white metal with runes engraved all over.

Place of residence: Acherus, the Ebon Hold
Place of Birth: Silvermoon City
Known Relatives: Wife(Lilyin Sunfallen, Preserved Corpse(PM me if you would like to roll her as a DK/Forsaken)) Sister(Firrian Dawnshield-mage(warlock), Alive. Reputation w/ Iricillian: Unfriendly) Parents(Mother-mage dead, Father-Paladin dead)

Religion/Philosophy: You'll all end up dead, anyways. Why fight it? Stand by me, let us kill death together. (Neutral alignment. It is quite hard for him to hold a religious opinion, but he opposed to the Light as a religion.)

Occupation: Reckless Engineer, crazed death knight
Group/Guild affiliation: Knights of the Ebon Blade
Guild Rank: Death Knight

Enemies: Alliance, Fel Horde, Scourge, Kael'Thas
Dislikes: Those Who Betray, impatient people, inferior combatants.
Likes: Those Who Do Not Betray, Argent Dawn, annoying impatient people with extremely long orders for meals and drinks that he will never consume. Equal or superior combatants. A good challenge. Solitude.
Favorite Foods: ...What, you think I eat? I'm dead for the Light's sake! What divine force gave you the providence that I would want to eat something?
Favorite Drinks: I'd prefer a smooth red wine. Not too smooth, slightly rough. My dead tongue can't feel too smooth, and too rough just messes me up inside. And I'd like my wine blood red, but not too red and not too black--I lost sight of lighter shades of red with death, t'is how I know my wine is right! Anyways, I'd like a pair of cherries floating at the top, still connected at the stems. And line the brim with salt, like that one human drink, I forgot what it's called... Oh well! You know what I mean. And I expect this to be ready by the time I get back from a bit of adventuring, I'm not thirsty right now, but I always am after killing things for an hour or two. There is an extra gold in it for you if it is perfect! (He doesn't plan on coming back)
Favorite Colors: Rusted black, red.
Weapons of Choice: (I'll upload a drawing of it eventually) 5'2" total length, 10" handle, Eversong Oak wood from the grove near his home, wrapped in enchanted dragonhawk leather. 4'1/2" blade. 1&1/2" thick, 8" wide crossguard. 2" pommel(loaded counterweight). 4" thick blade, expands to 7" thick 9 inches before the tip, then tapers quickly. Covered from pommel to tip in runes, which repeat Iricillian's mantra(Haven't come up with it yet.)
Hobbies: Hand creating explosives, putting himself full in the path of danger and death. Mastering his combat for his inevitable vengeance against Arthas.

Special Abilities: A genetic mutation caused him to tall for a high elf. This is from personal opinion, as I based this character much off of myself. Like... 6'0" white guy next to 5'5" asian guy difference. Proportionally, that is.

Alignment Neutral
Positive Personality Traits: valorous, steadfast, good fortitude, altruist, high willpower. Introverted, a loner.
Negative Personality Traits: cynical, stoic, callous, addict(magic), untrusting of strangers. Arrogant
Misc. Quirks: Never bothered to learn Orcish any more than a few battlecrys, so his allies knew his intents. Still holds to a few of the chivalrous holdings, despite his mind having long forgotten them.
Quotes: Sane quote - "It is the fate of the weak to die unknown, and the destiny of the strong to rule for eternity. I want neither. Give me glory and give me death!"
Insane quote - "There is no hope for you. You'll all end up dead before the end anyways." *laughs* "You hear that? YOU'LL ALL END LIKE ME! Dead, sad and insane. Those who matter most to you are dead at your own hand, and no matter how hard you try, those you want to become truly close to avoid you like fel. You know who the only one is you'll have left at the end of it all? Your own, damned crazy self." (Yeah... Don't ask Iricillian to give you hope or motivation)

Played by What Famous Person: Jeremy Irons
Theme Songs: Cantus Song of Tears http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJkTfZ0gLUw
Lament of the Highborne(Any female who can sing this brings the attention of him.)
Ebon Hold theme: (From about 0:30... I wish they played that over and over)http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=votCMy6SgQU&feature=related

Journal (http://wow-tng.org/showthread.php?t=14872)
History v.1.0: Its down a few posts.
Tortured Past and Soul (http://wow-tng.org/showthread.php?p=263350#post263350)

[Pyrisath]

v. 0.90

CHANGELOG:

Big story time. Mwuhahaha... Your eyes will bleed as mine have at the reading that must be done.

[Pyrisath]

Iricllian awoke to a loud rapping against his house's door, directly below his bed.

Yawning, he stretched, and looked out the window that overlooked the pathway up to his forest-home. A horse was tethered to a complimentary post, and drinking from the bucket of water set by it. "Yet another rider wants to thank me for leaving that out, I bet..." He thought, sleepily as another rapping came from below him.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" He called out the window before shutting it. Lilyain shifted in bed and moaned softly. "Just a visitor, dearest..." He whispered in her ear, kissing her head softly before heading downstairs.

Tieing the straps on his houserobe as he walked down stairs, he was greeted by an enchanted broom moving to sweep beneath the stairs, and another loud rap against the door frame, followed by, "I haven't got all day!" From the messenger.

Opening the door, Iricillian scolded the young rider. "I do not live here alone, you know! What is your business?"

Unfurling a scroll, the rider got straight to the point. "By order of High Command, your regiment is hereby repositioned to the forests of Lordaeron, to to increase border partrols to our allies newest threat. You are also called to be present within your barracks tomorrow night." Bowing and handing Iricllian the missive, the messenger returned to his horse, and rode south, to more outlying houses.

He stood for a while, reading the letters over and over again, hoping that they would crawl into a different position, and become a friendly letter from his sister. Suddenly, a small wet spot appeared on the paper, breaking his trance. The letters did not move, he was transferred. Again. Turning, his eyes were met by Lilyain's. He rubbed his eyes, threw the missive to the ground, and walked quickly to his personal armory while his wife read the letter.

* * *

"You don't have to leave." Lilyain said that night, as he prepared his horse for the ride. "I could... could make a portal, to the lands south of the Arathi lands. You would be safe."

Fixing the saddle into place, Iricllian shook his head. "Nay, I must go. If I were to flee south, I would be safe, you would not."

"Please, Iricill. Don't do this, I can make bring us both. We could start a new life." She laid her hands on his armored ones as he finished the saddle. "I sense more to these undead than a simple enemy. You might die out there." Finishing her bluff, the guilt trip that almost always got what she wanted, she looked into his eyes, which were fixed on her hands.

"I've always known I would die, Lil. Why else do you think I fight?" His eyes looked into hers. They were no longer the warm and loving eyes of her husband. He was locked away, those eyes hidden from what he would see. Now Lilyain saw the cold eyes of a warrior, his hard personality, calloused to the gruesomeness of war. "If I do not fight to live, then others will die. You may die, if I do not fight. Everything we have," He motioned his armored hands to display the beautiful moonlight forest around them, "would be lost. Would you have this all gone just so we can live together, jumping from one land to another as danger spreads?"

He should have known the answer that was going to come, but he did not hear it immediately, and assumed its absence. He adjusted his riding boots, raising the flaps to guard his inner thigh. Then it came, just as he slipped his first foot into the stirrup.

"Yes, I would have that, Iricill. I would rather flee forever, with you, than have you die, and know that you died to defend this land and myself." She breathed out mournfully.

Taking her into his arms, he crushed her in a steel hug, and kissed her on the lips. She tasted salt, and realized it was his tears. She kissed back passionately, before he turned to resting his head on her shoulders. "Then flee, after I have left. Sell all our possesions. Take the gold, and flee south. If these undead are as you say, then we may well all die within the year."

Releasing her, he saddled quickly before she could say anything. He entered a trot, and called back, "Flee, and know that I shall flee the enemy as well, to lands unknown, so that we may continue to love each other." Speeding up, he rode the opposite way the messenger had, and did not look back to see his love holding her face in her hands, and crying.



On the morning of the second day, regiments were called together. Iricillian and his regiment stood in loose blocks while they waited for further instructions from their leaders, who were in the warroom. Allowed to await commands in casual clothing, they were all cooled by the early morning fog and ocean breeze.

Restless was just starting to set in when the doors to the command builing burst at the center, throwing two halves against the walls holding them. Out marched the centurions by twos, splitting left and right to stand in front of their regiments. Most seemed outraged, others drew their lips in tight lines to avoid outbursts that indoubtley were not in check earlier.

Last came the division commander, who looked at all the soldiers standing at attention, their medals blazing the sun that hung behind him. "You all have your orders. Return to your barracks and pack." Coughing loudly into his sleeve, the commander added, "Dismissed."

* * *

Centurion Athalin addressed his one hundred soldiers, who stood before him with loaded pack horses, and carrying their weapons and backpacks. "We are additional border guards, nothing more." Pausing a moment, searching for words, Athalin continued. "We have been positioned to Quel'Lithien lodge, to reinforce the gateway to our forests. Beside us shall be two other regiments, and we will be sharing lodgings, patrol duty and messhall duty." Seeing that nearly every soldier in his regiment was a veteran with someone waiting for them at home, he added, "Family will not be allowed to visit, but you will all be returned home by this time next year. Now get down to road and lets get this over with."

The walk was quiet and lonely for Iricillian, and strangely touching. He was lost thinking about the wives and children that watched them pass by, of what they lost to this march. He nearly cried in despair as he tried to fathom the hundreds of stories far worse than his own, but Athalin moved back to ride beside him from the next group up.

"You have a family waiting for you, don't you?" Athalin asked, seeing the halted formation of tears in Iricillian's eyes. A small breeze kicked up as they entered a space between tree walls, dancing Athalin's bangs acrossed his face.

"Just a wife." Iricillian said calmly. "And a house on the hills south west of Silvermoon City." He turned his vision to the east, watching for possible troll raids on the caravan.

"Al diel shala, soldier. You will make it back alive." Athalin said, waving his hand in a blessing to Iricillian, before slowing down to the next group.


Hours later, the caravan had finally made its way into the mountain pass between Eversong Forest and Lordaeron forest. Looking up, Iricillian worried about the reports of flying creatures assaulting armies from the cliffs. Seeing nothing threatening, he looked down to see the pass expanding into the other side of the gateway to the elven realm. Darker shades of green and brown entered his vision as he looked across the southern forests, with the occasional pocket of a river or road.

Looking west before the road dropped below the forest, he saw smoke rising from a few locations. Unable to pinpoint to source or cause, he let it pass as signs of what they guarded against.

After what seemed like minutes to Iricillian, they arrived before Quel'Lithien lodge, where they were hailed by the first two regiments that had left earlier than they had. They were shown housing and other buildings by the lodge's caretakers, then they were left within their barracks while the centurions drew up schedules for cleaning, patrols and the ilk.

[Pyrisath]

Day one of Patrol Duty,

Tonight we made camp in the mountains southwest of Quel'Lithien lodge. So far uneventful besides one neophyte's charger throwing him off. No major wounds, but he is still complaining about being sore.

The fires to the west have grown. I can now see the smoke from at least ten sources, and I heard from one refugee group that the defenders were burning corpses. "The undead can't raise 'em that way." The man had said. Light save those brave souls who fight that losing battle.

Something is moving at the edge of the watch firelight. Damn first watch! These midnight shadows make me jumpy. But I still cannot shake the feeling that something is watching m...

Iricillian looked up from his journal. He could not mistake the rustling in the bushes just to his right. Slowly placing his book and pen in his bag, he stood up in a battle-ready stance, his sword and shield naturally appearing in his hands with no effort. Creeping forward noisely, he got ready to open the bushes with his shield...

The ghoul struck first. It leapt quickly out of the growth, tackling Iricillian to the ground, with the ghoul belly down on his shield, clawing madly at metal and exposed flesh. Pain shot through Iricillian's arm as the ghoul's head went down and shook, but he managed to shove the undead thing off of him long enough to stand up.

The noise made had awoken the others in his patrol, and the nearest one pinned the ghoul to the ground with his sword, cracking one of the decayed ribs, while Iricillian removed the thing's head, hoping that it would stop moving with its head gone.

Helping the other dispose of the body, one of ther other patrol members, Horuse, spoke loudly. "Damn! We were sent to patrol for them, and they've already scouted us." Running his hands through his blonde hair, Horuse paced around, thinking.

The one who had pinned the ghoul, another blonde named Kolist, hushed Horuse and softly said, "We need to pack up and move quickly. There is no telling how many of them are closing on our position now."

Having reached an agreement, they all went about packing their sleeping rolls, and taking care of the remnants of their fire. Being the first one finished, Iricillian had a moment to dress the gnaw-wound on his shoulder.

After the group had finished, Horuse made a suggestion. "We could track this thing back to its... wherever it came from, can't we? We are supposed to gather information on enemy locations anyways."

The rest of the group nodded, with nothing else to do that night. They left the camp immediately, following the tracker, Kolist, as he lead them south, reading the ghoul's tracks by moonlight. At some points, the tracks lost purpose, as if the ghoul jumped and flailed occasionally. An hour before dawn, they broke out of the forest and came upon a road, where they could see a small group of "living humanoids", as Kolist put it. They hid in the trees near the road, as the group was headed towards them.

As the figures drew closer, Kolist quickly identified them as undead. Ribcages and skulls soon became apparent, and the group instantly knew what they were going to do. They dove quickly for tree cover, and waited.

As the undead group passed them, they silently broke cover and charged. An unholy mage and six skeletons, Iricillian counted as he closed. His experience with the ghoul having taught him that the undead died by appendage severing, he did not fear immortal foes, and picked a skeleton armed with two swords as his target.

Iricillian's opponent turned to be about just as tall as him with armor, but far more wide. The skeleton swung first, attempting a pincer-stab around Iricillian's shield and sword. Stepping back, he caught both swords with his shield, and pushed forward, knocking the skeleton off-balance. Coming forward with an undercut, he flinched as a loud crunch signified the shattering left shoulder and ribcage of the skeleton. The force pushed the teetering skeleton to the ground.

One of the other patrol memebers fell, having been forced to take two skeletons. With his death he crunched the skull of one skeleton with the hilt of his sword, killing it. The second skeleton removed his bloody sword and turned to Iricillian.

Driving his shield with his sword behind it fast and hard into the skeleton's face, Iricillian felled it in time to watch the unholy mage make another undead servant out of the fallen Elf. He was about to move forward to dispatch the two, when he heard a shout from the woods on the other side of the hill, and his attention turned.

Three skeletons came charging out of the wood, and barely stopped to join the fight, one falling from a lifted ranseur. Behind the skeletons came four elves, clad in the same armor as Iricillian and his group. Quickly recalculating his remaining opponents, Iricillian advanced upon the risen Elf.

His former comrade had already prepared to fight Iricillian. With a shield raised and sword high, they both advanced on each other slowly. Iricillian felt a rush of adrenaline as he saw his opponent's sword stance. He had practiced a counter to the most common initial strike.

The undead elf faked the expected attack, then switched into a thrust, catching Iricillian off-guard and forcing him to take the attack full in the shield, which he barely got in front of him in time. His blade snaked out over his opponents shield, landing a heavy cut on the lower neck of the undead Elf. Ichor mixed with blood poured out of the wound. Deflecting a second stab with his shield, he returned with a stab to the face. The undead Elf attempted to bring his shield up, but found his muscles unresponsive due to severance. He died quickly, his forehead cracked in from the blow.

He turned quickly, and saw that only two skeletons and the necromancer remained. Hissing, the necromancer began to cast a spell, but was caught mid-ritual by an arrow from the back of his throat.

Another elf and skeleton fell, and the skeleton with one arm returned to Iricillian. Baresarking, he removed the head of the last skeleton in return for a flat-edged hit to the wound in his left shoulder.

Wounds were dressed, and the self-proclaimed leader of the second patrol group approached Iricillian. They saluted each other.

"We found this group traveling south, so we gave them a chase on our way back to Que--" The leader was interrupted by Kolist approaching Iricillian.

"Smoke far to the north, in the mountains." Kolist whispered in his ear before leaving.

"On our way back to Quel'Danil lodge..." finished the leader. He looked questioningly at Iricillian.

"We are returning back to the lodge with you. If this place is plagued this greatly and suddenly by the undead threat, it would be best if we returned quickly to warn High Command." The leader nodded, and informed his group.

"This road leads directly back to Quel'Thalas, with a small off-road to Quel'Danil. We can take it back and avoid covert undead troops, or we can risk being in the open and take the road." Kolist said, looking at the map, as Iricillian returned to address Horuse and Kolist, the only surviving members of his group.

"We will take the road, Kolist. Make sure the other group knows. Horuse, lets take care of the corpses." Iricillian dismissed them, and set about piling the necromancer and the two dead elves in a pile, while the other gathered sticks to set the corpses ablaze with.

The troop was soon walking quickly down the road, with the prediction of returning to the Lodge before nightfall. At noon, they stopped quickly to eat trail rations, and were off again. Dusk was starting to set in, when a wounded elf came from the trees that blocked them from Quel'Danil.

Athalin held his shield arm with a bloodied right arm, neither hand carrying anything. Several cuts lined his legs and arms, and blood was a given acrossed his body. He limped forward to the crowd of elves running towards him, each preparing to heal him. Each took different parts of his body. Iricillian spoke to him.

"Athalin... What happened?" He asked, holding his Centurion's head up.

"Scourge... Undead overran..." Athalin coughed up blood. "Overran Lodge. Everyone dead, they... they... We have failed to protect Quel'Thalas..." He hacked up a gob of blood, and pushed the paladins that surronded him away. "Al diel shala, soldier... Make it home... For me..." The head went limp in Iricillian's hands.

That moment scarred Iricillian. He would later realize that Athalin's will to live was not as great as his will to fight and protect, and that was his downfall. He soon saw himself as the same, unstoppable against numerous foes, but each foe he fought was one he hoped would finish him.

They camped moderately deep into the forest that night, with no fire. Two of them stayed up per watch, with three watches. The night was unbearable, and they could feel the pain of the trees within Quel'Thalas as they burned before the might of the Scourge. Not even Iricillian was given sleep during his break, and was glad when third watch came, and he was relieved of lieing down.

[Pyrisath]

The morning brought cold, dew-covered fruit and salty rations. Kolist, Iricillian's watch partner, dropped out of a nearby tree and joined in the small meal.

"So much smoke..." He had muttered in between bites. He looked at Iricillian with dark-ringed eyes. "Have you ever seen this much smoke...? There is no hope for us..."

"What do you mean?" Asked Iricillian, taking a small bite out of an apple.

"What do I mean? WHAT DO I MEAN!?!" Kolist stood, and grabbed Iricillian's armored shoulders. "Quel'Thalas BURNS! Our homes are GONE! The promises of a raise... EVERYTHING!" He let go and paced away. "High command is no more, our Centurion-- Nay, every blood elf captain and legionaire is DEAD!"

Iricillian's eyes widened. "Quel'thalas... Burns? Completely? Are you sure?" His heartbeat quickened.

"Yes, the smoke... I have seen it as far as the northern Amani camps." Kolist said, then ripped a large chunk of fruit out.

'No...' thought Iricillian, 'No, Lilyain cannot be dead. She must have fled.' Iricillian made a quick prayer to the long unanswering Light, hoping for all that he was that his wife had escaped, while Kolist awoke the others and delivered his terrifying sermon. There were soft sobs from the bedrolls, and some moans of sorrow.

The survivors sat on the ground, waiting for one of them to come up with an idea, to direct the flames of their hatred and sorrow. Horuse stood.

"We need food." Horuse stated, breaking the silence, "These rations and fruit will not last us forever. And there must be survivors. There always are." He rubbed his chin contemplatively. "I say we gather as much fruit as we can, and head through these mountains to lend what help we can to whoever lives."

"No one lives, you fool! NO ONE!" screamed, Kolist, shaking madly. "We cannot take the mountains... The flying beasts will get us! They will not expect us from the pass!"

"Kolist--" Horuse started, trying to quiet the madman.

"NO! I will not be lead to my death with this group!" Kolist yelled, then ran through the trees, yelling along the way.

Iricillian stood, and began grabbing fruit, having packed earlier. "Lets get out of here..." He grumbled, annoyed that Kolist had thrown what little cover they had by screaming.

They could still hear Kolist's rambling yells for a while, and then just before they entered a steep mountain pass, before they ended with a high-pitched screech and a beg for mercy. One of the elves behind Iricillian muttered something rude about Kolist's end.


They made it through the mountains relatively unbothered. They saw the occasional gargoyle patrolling the skies, and were forced to duck into bushes. During one of these quick descents, Iricillian's left shoulder strap snapped, and his pauldron tumbled down the cliff. The noise caused by the tumbling metal forced them to hurry down below tree cover.


The smell of death instantly assaulted the group's noses. They found the occasional still-burning fire, which only added to the layer of ash they walked on and the smoke they breathed. They traveled north east for a while, before finally reaching a massive stretch of dead land.

The group of elves stood before the scar, breathless. Scourge mindlessly wandered forward from behind corrupted walls, down this dead road that lead due north, directly to the gates of Silvermoon. They silently returned back the way they came, as larger constructs had begun leaving the Scourge base.

Halfway back to the road, something happened. The earth shook, and the clouds in the sky cried upon the burned limbs of trees. The shaking stopped in a few seconds, but the rain continued. Suddenly, there was a remnant explosive sound. Iricillian and his group had already dove for cover, but the sound caught them off guard. As they stood, they looked at each other. They were each as scared and as dirty as the next, but something had changed, something they could not quite place.

They returned to a burning tree for warmth, taking some untouched branches and burning them near the ground. Two nights without sleep had taken their toll on all of them, and they wanted to rest, but could not find it. Going only off of their slowly growing hunger pains, they judged that it was around time for last meal, and they munched on previously harvested fruit.

[Pyrisath]

Iricillian sat amongst ashes, sharpening his blade, which has dulled against the brittle skeletons. His hands shoke with the sorrow for what he believed to be his dead wife, and his face was streaked from tears.

Horuse, who had been scouting their relatively lonesome position, came running. He made silent motions for them to pack up and move.

Out of militiant reflex, he sheathed his twisted sword and scattered the logs of the fire while his companions packed up everything else before sprinting to the nearby hill cover to see what Horuse had moved them for.

Thousands of Scourge marched through the place they had sat, taking a direct shortcut from the dead road to the mountain pass they had taken out so long ago. Almost no noise was made by the massive army. No victory cries, no rallying shouts, only the stamping of feet and the occasional grunt as a small undead was crushed by a large one.

After the threat has passed, Iricillian turned to the rest of the group. [/COLOR="Red"]"The occupying force is gone. I will be leaving for the capital, to help whatever resistance remains."[/COLOR] He waited while the false braveness of his shaky voice set in. "Whoever still wishes to help what is left of our home, come with me."

There was a pause, and no one stood up. "What about the rest of us?" Horuse asked.

"Tend to your homes, go renegade and kill undead, whatever you want." Iricillian said, then added in a growl. "But get out of my sight."

The last the doomed group of elves ever saw of Iricillian was his armored back. He walked away as if they all followed him, powerful and assertive. It was the last they saw of him-- not because he died, but because gargoyles soon descended upon them as they discussed their next move.

* * *

Iricillian continued his march towards the capital, pausing only to slay undead foolish enough to fight him alone, and stopping only once to look to where he thought his home had been, and in its stead a large plume of smoke rose over the hills. Wiping away a tear and scratching his face because of it, he faced north and continued.

He walked over the next hill, and looked down over the gates. Splintered logs and sheets of metal hung loosely and lay across the ground, while underarmed skeletons came pouring out of the breach, facing off against a weak line of rangers and mages that attempted to push them back, while workers stood behind them, ready with logs to put a stopper in the place from which the undead poured.

He stood weakly for a second, starting to feel the pains of his lack of sleep. His eyelids felt suddenly heavy, and the sound and image of his wife soothing him to sleep gripped him.He ran his hand along the bloodied hilt of his sword, drawing from the hunger for vengeance he now felt. His feet walked him down the hill, and he was drawn out of his near-sleep by the cold water seeping through his leggings as he waded across a small river. He continued forward under his own power, drawing his sword and shield, until he reached the center point of the fighting, the point that the assembled rangers were attempting to close.

Bashing a skeleton in front of him with his shield, he brought his sword to bear as well. Mindlessly, he stopped the movement of the dead in front of him. For a second, he felt his hunger saited. Then as suddenly as it had first come, it was back. But there was more to this new hunger. His head pounded, and his hands shook. His sword fell from his hands as ranger's managed to close the gap, and workers moved to barricade the breach. Calming, Iricillian looked around him, and for the first time, he noticed something... different about the elves.

The elves that walked to him to thank him for his timely arrively, even those who spat on him for his representation of the Light immediately after, they all had green eyes. Erie, strange, alien. They all had something he needed.

"What... Is happening to me?" He asked aloud, his eyes bulging to near popping out as he kneeled to the ground. One female mage looked at him knowingly, and kneeled in front of him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"You feel the hunger now, too, Brother." She said, "These damn undead destroyed the Sunwell, and that has brought this... hunger--" Another elf called out, 'A thirst! An unbearable thirst!' "--err, Yes, we all feel it differently."

Iricillian looked into her glowing eyes. He thought he saw a reflection of his own eyes, or was it just that his were the same? He shook his head, and looked down. "How can I make it go away? I feel as if I will die if I go any longer."

The mage pulled him to his feet, and held out a piece of bread. "Here." She said, "Eat this. Most of the food that was made before the destruction is lightly imbued with ambient magics. We've had to last almost a day now on just this."Iricillian snatched the bread hungrily, and gobbled it like a child. He thought about what she had said. swallowing, he called out to her back as she walked away.

"Where do you sleep? If it has been a day since the destruction, I know not how long I have gone without rest."

The mage stopped, turned around, and regarded Iricillian and his bloodied armor, knowing easily that most of it was his own. "There is no time for beauty sleep now. Your a soldier. Roll out your sleeping pad, sleep near here." She motioned about to the now-safe walls. "We'll wake you if things get any uglier."

Iricillian bowed, and prepared himself a makeshift bed near the blackened walls, moving and covering small rocks to act as pillows. As he worked, a healer came near and offered his services. Removing his armor, Iricillian slept calmly as the priest soothed his muscles and sealed his wounds.

[Pyrisath]

Iricillian awoke to a foot in his ribs. He grunted softly before moving his hand to the hilt of his sword, which he had lain with the hilt facing his feet, so he could easily draw it in the same motion of bringing it above him. Still the feet kicked him gently, and he opened his eyes to see a green-eyed elven face and a night sky staring down on him.

"We can no longer stay here." The elf said. "We are moving." Having awoken and delivered the message to him, the elf walked to a ranger who slept near Iricillian, producing much the same action and reaction.

Rolling on to his back, Iricillian muttered, "Where would we go? The Light clearly knows we are here. Why should we leave?"

Iricillian yawned and stood up, unsure of his current physical state. His muscles felt sore from over-use, but broken skin did not pain him. Inspecting his bare chest, he found next to now evidence of the life-force spitting wounds there had once been. He only felt slight relief when he saw the absence of opened skin.

Rubbing his eyes to remove whatever might have made home there while he slept, he took a short, circular walk before returning to his armor. His greaves and leggings had been cleaned by his short wade through the river, leaving a bloody mark along his belt line.

Having put his lower armor on first, he tested the straps for their strength. Satisfied, he picked up his breastplate and held it before his eyes.

Blood and dented metal had taken the position of the Dawnshield insignia, and the leather shoulder strap that connected to the backpiece was at a breaking point. Thanking the Light it had not broken in combat, he cut a small piece of leather from his backpack and replaced the strap, then called a nearby range to help him don it. That elf walked up and spat on him before cursing him for the Light's abandonment of them, but the elf that had helped him the day before walked forward and offered her help.

"You really should get new armor. Most all of the elves here feel abandoned by the Light, and you are only a living representation of it, so they take their hatred out on you." She said, setting the side straps into a tight position. Stepping back to see it from afar, she added, "On top of that, this armor is nearly busted..."

Iricllian put his remaing pauldron into place. "What else could I wear? My estate is gone, I have no money... I don't even think I'll find a smith who can openly work armor anywhere." Kneeling down to grab his sword belt, Iricillian wondered how long he had slept. Dismissing the thought from his mind, he thought about the events that had transpired over the last few, uncounted days as he took a few small bites of his remaining rations and rolled up his sleeping pad.

Every elf he had trained with in the military was dead or lost now. Iricillian had no money, no friends, no estate, and possibly no wife. The last thought brought him a pause before he finished stuffing his remaining belongings into his pack. He sniffled, and a tear welled in his eye. Rubbing it off against his unarmored shoulder, he continued packing.

The thought that the Prince was returning to Quel'Thalas made him wonder. Why would the Prince return to a dead land? Only death and ash awaited him. Did he hope to re-establish the kingdom, or did he hope to lead them all to their death? So many questions with so few answers boggled Iricillian's mind, and he set himself to preparing his muscles for the march to the border.


An hour later, Iricillian stood amongst a group of elves who all awaited the word of their leaving. Looking at the brightening sky, Iricillian soon recgonized the tactic. The leader was hoping to raise their spirits by leaving with a new dawn, a new day, and new hopes and dreams. Judging by the vibrating mass of inqusitive voices around him, it was working. A single, blonde-headed long-haired male stood up on a piece of rubble before the rubble.

"Everyone!" shouted the leader. He looked around at the undulating mass of bloodied green-eyed elves before him. Satisfied that he had their attention, he continued, "Everyone! Today, we march with a new dawn. Our scouts have confirmed that Kael'thas does indeed ride upon Quel'Thalas this day! He brings an army of our people with him!"

There was a soft murmur, but it died quickly. "What these undead bastards have done here is only a shadow of what we will do to them!" The leader thrust his fist into the air for effect. The crowd cheered, and the blonde-haired leader stepped down from the rock.

"Sir," one of the attendants asked, "Our scouts did not come back from attempting to find Kael'Thas. Is this wise?"

The leader turned, and regarded the attendant as his make-shift army moved south. "If the Prince is not there by the time we get there, we will have more problems than no Prince, my friend. The Scourge will descend on us, and we will all die."

[Pyrisath]

Iricillian walked. The ground before him was trampled by the many people before him, and he never had any chance to fight and undead, as they were merely dust in the few seconds it took for him to get to them. Resigning himself to daydreaming as he walked unconciously with the flow of bloody elves, he barely noticed as his sister began walking next to him.

A nearby elf began blathering on about something, but Iricillian nevered payed attention to exactly what. The scenery around him began to change, and the whole crowd walked more cautiously as they entered to dead land south of a slightly larger river. Shivering slightly as he waded, barely staying above the cold water, Iricillian looked around, and listened carefully.

Only the flow of the water, and the occasional crack of a dead branch under foot gave any sound. He slipped his shield off his back and had his other hand ready to draw his sword. He sensed danger, and the feeling tugged at his ears, and even the slightest noise drew his attention. Searching the sky, he saw no sign of airborn gargoyles.

Instantly the smell hit. Iricillian knew that they were walking right into a minor Scourge force before he had even gotten near the first building of the small town. He noticed a few of the more trained paladins sensed this as well, and they all began to move about the group, taking strategic positions along the edges.

"Elves! Elves!" Shrieked a voice to the right of the group, and every head turned that way. A necromancer pointed at them with one hand, and held his unholy stave with the other. Ghouls dropped from broken windows of nearby buildings all around the group, and more undead came from around the town.

Iricillian pushed his way through the mass of untrained soldiers trying to expand their shield-circle. He neared an edge, and was soon fighting on the outside. An occasional fireball flew from their crowd to the outside, but otherwise only the sound of steel against steel and bone rung throughtout the burned-out village.

Moving corpes mashed themselves upon the steel border of the group, being cut down to form meatwalls, trapping the defenders in. Iricillian and a few others saw what was happening, and began kicking down sections of the meatwall to give cover to those behind them. Soon, the small group of elves was entrenched against the flow of unending dead.

Iricillian stood and fought for the longest time, before finally a group of abominations, under the direction of the nearby necromancer, hurled themselves upon the defenders meatwalls, causing the line to break, and a chaotic melee followed.

A cry rose up above the sounds of death. "Bring those beasts down! Even they have limits, elves! Fight on! Fight on!" Turning, Iricillian left his post at the meatwalls on the opposite side of the breach to another, newer soldier. Ghouls and skeletons poured in to crush the living, pushing against the force from two sides.

Iricillian gouged the twin tips of his sword into a skull, one in each eye socket. Bringing his shield up to block an incoming attack, he swung his sword horizontally to his right as a ghoul leapt upon another elf and began to rip him apart as he stood. The ghoul fell, but so did the elf. Returning to what lay before him, he cut down a few more skeletons before he cursed loudly as an abomination barreled towards him.

Dropping to his knees as the abomination swung its chain towards his chest, Iricillian swept his sword out before him, slicing rotten flesh at what looked like knees. Ichor leaked from the wound, and the abomination grunted loudly in pain. Standing, Iricillian shoved his shield forward into the monster's exposed ribcage. Bones crunched and snapped, and intestines spilled out as he pulled back, and slammed again. The abomination, getting used to the beating, brought down his large cleaver, and Iricillian barely fell to the side, while the large axe removed a chunk of metal from his remaining pauldron.

Seeing an opporunity, he took his sword and began hacking quickly at the hand that held the axe, which had lodged itself in the ground. The abomination's arm disconnected, and a fireball slammed into the thing's face, killing it. Glancing left and right, Iricillian saw that his victory was for his life alone. The line had crumbled as he fought, and only a stray fireball had aided him. Turning forward to face the next set of thundering steps, he turned just in time to see the next abomination that hit him with the tip of his chain whip, sending Iricillian flying into a nearby building, and landing amongst a heap of corpses unconcious. His sword and shield left his hands, landing nearby.

[Pyrisath]

Iricillian awoke to a dark-clouded sky and many bumps. Lifting his head, he saw he was in a cart along with many dead elves. Sniffing, he smelled death and magic. His hunger gripped him, and his hands lead the way to a magic pendant that one elf had been in possesion of.

Slipping it around his neck, Iricillian sat up, and looked around him. Galloping hooves came from what seemed to be the front of the cart, where a single, seemingly living in the dark light, elf sat, urging the horses... south, Iricillian guessed, randomly. Seeing that a few dead elves still had weapons, unlike him, he slipped his hand around different hilts, testing weight and size.

His final choice was a large, two-handed sword, with a blade that reached from his belly to his feet, and a footlong handle. As he inspected the point, he found that it would be used similarly to an axe, with a bulge of metal giving extra weight to the tip. Gripping the blade tightly and moving to a kneeling position, he felt that his ruined armor still clung to him. He edged to the back of the cart, and waited for any sign of a populated civilization.

It was near dawn before he finally found a place to fall off the cart, and he landed heavily as the sudden weight upon the legs nearly made him collapse. Steadying himself, he walked back the road a little ways, were he thought he had seen a sign. Eventually reaching it, he looked at the sign. Silverpine, it told him. Another sign pointed to something of a city, and he set off in that direction, trailing his new sword behind him.

A stray ghoul leapt from a nearby tree, and Iricillian practiced against it, leading the unintelligent creature into maneuvers he remembered from his initial weapons training.

Before midday, the thing finally succumbed to its many wounds, and Iricillian felt more confident in his abilities with the new sword. Shouldering the weapon, he continued down the road.


Noontime echoed in Iricillian's stomach, forcing him to scavenge bushes close to the road for fruit. Finding a mild meal, he consumed it eagerly. The sweetness of the blue-colored berries refreshed him greatly. Returning to the road, the silence he had grown used to was broken by shouts of steel and warriors. Moving quickly towards what he recognized as elven battle cries, Iricillian hoped that the dead did not outnumber the living.

Rounding a corner of mountains, Iricillian quickly saw a large elven force engaging an undead force, near directly south of what appeared to be the ruind city of Dalaran. He limped to the battle as fast as he could, but he was only able to be greeted by the remaining force as it marched north to Dalaran, along with a few wagons.

"Greetings, fellow elf. From where do you hail?" Asked one spellbreaker, who saw his lame approach.

"House Dawnshield..." Iricillian breathed out, and he realized he badly injured his body really was. "House Dawnshield, ..." He said again, slowly giving the spellbreaker his full military information.

"Ah, one of those poor fools sent to Quel'Lithien, eh?" Commented the spellbreaker. Iricillian nodded to him, and mouthed something about a healer. "A healer? Oh yes, we have plenty of those. Stay near the rear wagon, I'll tell one to meet you there."

Glad of the slow pace the caravan took, Iricillian felt his leg get slowly better as the time passed. eventually the group stopped for an evening meal, and the long-expected healer finally found Iricillian.

Removing the left greave, the healer looked at the wound "By the Light!" He said, looking at the bleeding, infected mass. "How did you ever get from Quel'Lithien to here in this condition?" Asked the healer, as he set about cleansing and sealing the wound. Iricillian felt his other pains dissipate, and he relaxed.

He felt better as he walked with the rearguard a few hours later, chatting with other elves, exchanging stories. Very few of the othe elves seemed to believe the things he saw, and the ones that did appear to believe only seemed to be trying to humor him. His only proof that he had ever done anything he said he had done was his word, his cleaved pauldron, and his beaten armor.

Other than that, he learned that this group he had joined was the army of Prince Kael'thas. 'So he wasn't coming to Quel'Thalas...' thought Iricillian sadly, thinking of all the other sacrifices made under the belief that he was.

Soon he stood in a burned out room in Dalaran, where the quartermaster had assigned different groups simply by counting off. With him in his makeshift quarters were a female archer, and two footmen. None of them ever truly talked, as they had already exchanged stories during the long march.

Sleep claimed him, and he was awoken by the two footmen in the room clanging into their armor, leaving the room. The ranger had left silently long before hand, and Iricillian assumed that schedule was different than he was used to in this army. Having slept in most of his armor, he took what remained of his backpack and made a weak sling to carry his sword in. Reattching his right pauldron, he set about finding where everyone was.

He soon found a mess hall, and ate as much as he could. He received two waterskins, which he tied to his sword sling, and set out to the same direction as everyone else. The crowd milled about, and he saw three orbs swirling above a finely-dressed mage's head, who gave out orders to a set of officers. The officers stood as a screen near an exit to the compound, and filed everyone through, with different orders.

"Go with the worker who just passed the far-right officer, protect whatever location he leaves to." Iricillian nodded to the officers commands, and walked forward. "And don't interfere. They have their own duties to take care of." The officer called after him.


Following the worker proved an easy task. Other soldiers had already been along the path that he followed, so only bloodied demonic corpses remained. Seeing a demon whose arms were about the same size as his, Iricillian slipped off his current gauntlets and tried on the black ones of the demon. They slipped on his hands roughly, but they curved to the muscles of his arms near instantly. Curling and uncurling his new fingers, he returned to his path.

The worker he was assigned to stopped, and huffed when he reached an empty shore. Many other workers stood around, as if waiting for something, while other elven soldiers stood nearby. Soon the Prince himself arrived with his retinue of officers, to find held his objectives up.

Iricillian watched loosely under the rising sun, his vision blurred by heat and evaporating water. He saw humanoid-snakes rise out of the water, and two boats sailed to the shore from the horizon. He was boarded to one boat, and sent across to an island with a large observatory on it, where his worker entered. Joining the permieter guard around the observatory, his day became uneventful.

As dawn approached the first day, the first few gargoyles swooped down. Unable to reach them with sword and fist, he left the felling of the flying creatures to archers, while he retreated into the repaired observatory. He found rest behind those doors, until an elf yelled into the halls that they were leaving. Passing the word to the head of a worker that popped out from around a corner, Iricillian began returning to the shore, and the boats.

As he crossed, he stared back across the water. He was heading southwest of where he had originally set sail from, and the town he had been in trailed smoke above it. Soon, the boat landed, and Iricillian was forced off the boat. The sun was setting, and he was assigned a position near the western border of the small outpost. Occasionally, undead would come running in small packs from across the small river that lay before him, but they were cut down with the other soldiers who stood with him.

Near dawn, the snake people arose out of the water as a boat landed, and orders, directly from the Prince, urged them to attack the nearby undead settlement. Alongside naga and elves, Iricillian ran quickly across the water, where they engaged the undead.

Killing and dodging spirit blasts from nearby ziggurats, Iricillian slowly made his way forward across the dead ground. One by one, the mighty, strange buildings fell to the ground from the fire of siege weapons, till only a floating citadel remained. With nothing else to do but wait for it to fall, Iricillian rested by a ballistae.

The floating fortress shot off harder and colder blasts than the land-based tower, but they never hit dead on. Soon, however, an arrow flew from a balcony on the now-spinning fortress, and took out a member of the team that manned the ballistae Iricillian stood by.

Driving the point of his sword into the ground nearby the unermanned siege weapon, Iricillian asked the rest of the team for orders. His size and muscles were soon used to transport large arrows from a pile to the weapon, loading them into the locked position, while another elf aimed. Soon, the building fell, gushing large amounts of ichor across the dead ground and the surronding army. Little respite was given, as another set of naga and boats landed, with new orders. They were to push north, to perform a pincer assault on the main base.

Iricillian pushed forward with his line. Skeleton and ghoul fell before him, and his large sword felt more and more comfortable as he fought. His range was greatly increased, and he could focus more on killing fast rather than defending. He took a couple of hits to his arms and wanted to stop, but his lust for vengeance and magic pushed him forward. With one skeleton mage, he snapped its bones with his bare hands, sucking in its magic sustenance as he slowly killed it.

At the end of the battle, they rested. Eating a few rations that were transported from the main base, Iricillian calmed his trembling muscles, and drank the cool water of the nearby lake. Finally feeling safe, after such a long time of wariness and fatigue, Iricillian began sleeping.

[Pyrisath]

((Wow, I failed miserably, and left out two whole chapters of what I had typed for Iricillian. Editting and posting...))

He was awoken by naga slithering quickly and loudly passed him, soon followed by human soldiers. They surronded Iricillian, who picked up his sword.

"We are not here to kill you." One footmen said, who had not drawn his sword. "Put down your sword."

Lowering his sword from a fighting stance, Iricillian shoved the heavy end into the ground. "If you are not here for a fight, why do yo--" He was cut off as one human behind him hit him hard on the back of the head. He blacked out off and on, barely registering the humans who took his sword, and chained him up, and another hit knocked him out completely.


When he finally awoke, Iricillian found cold stone beaneath him, and bare feet before him. Moving his hands beneath him, a pair of feet knelt down, and aided him in getting up. A black-haired face smiled at him.

"Good to see you are up, fellow Blood Elf." The elf said, patting Iricillian's shoulder. Seeing his questioning look, he went in to explanation. "Prince Kael'Thas has issued a new name for our people. We are the Blood Elves, for the blood of those who fell defending Quel'Thalas and her beauty."

Iricillian nodded, and looked around through the bars of his cage. Human footmen stood ready, facing a single direction with their swords drawn. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, so he waited a bit, and questioned the elf near him about their current situation.

"I have heard a few of these humans talking about other elves who broke free from their prisons in the lower dungeons-- The Dalaran dungeons, that is. That bastard Garithos had us arrested for accepting the aid of the naga," The elf sneered at his own use of the word. "Damned snake people. Nothing but trouble."

His eyes adjusted, Iricillian paid more attention to his physical state. A few of his cuts had fully healed, and more scars lined his body. His head pained him, but he attempted to ignore this, and looked for any sign of his equipment. Nearby, on a rack, sat his battleworn arm, only recognizable by the cleaved shoulderpad. It had taken on a blood red hue, and Iricillian's recently acquired demonic gaunlets sat nearby, seemingly disguised with the rest of the armor. Along the ground lay his large sword, caked in blood.

He shared his story with the elf whom he had met, who once again did not believe a word he said. Iricillian sighed, telling him that the elf's voice was an echo of the others he had told his story to. He talked with that elf for a bit longer in Thalassian, so the guards could not understand what they discussed.

Soon, however, Iricillian and the elf grew bored of each other, and he began listening to conversations in other cells. He heard an elven couple chatting softly to the point of indistinguishable words, but Iricillian could only barely make out the two elves as they spoke quietly in the dark corners of his vision.

Iricillian strained to listen, but the shuffling of bare flesh against stone and heavy breathing kept him from listening in. Suddenly, a door on the other side of the room from the speaking couple burst open, and a guard came screaming something in common, which caused the other footmen to rush from their post to stand in front of the door.

A fireball brought the door down, and a storm of arrows closely followed it. Shields were barely raised in time, and flashes of red and gold were all that Iricillian could see as escaped prisoners crushed the room's defenders. The snake witch and the Prince came into the room, as one of the red and gold blurs broke the lock on Iricillians cell.

Iricillian and the other elves dashed for their armor, quickly donning it and aiding others with the task. His vision adjusted under the sight of his helm, Iricillian saw that the red and gold blurs were spellbreakers, and that the entire imprisoned blood elven army had almost been rescued. Looking through the haze of bodies, he saw the elven couple bid each other good luck, and return to separate positions.

A ranger and a spellbreaker, Iricillian noted, They have happiness. Marking the face of the spellbreaker who would be in the front lines, he made a note to keep her alive, should the need come. This thought stayed on his mind for a moment, as the head jailor entered the room with a large retinue of guards.

The Prince and the Jailor spoke, and soon fighting broke out. Iricillian crushed a knight's horse's skull with the pommel of his sword, dropping his blade on the head of the rider, killing both of them in a bloody mess. Another arrow storm, and the Jailor and his retinue were dead.

(I don't feel like power-RPing someone else's character conversation, so insert random conversations between Iricillian and Saphiara/her husband here. Oh, and then he learns about the portal. Skip the tower mission from WC3, I'm a lazy writer.)

[Pyrisath]

Coming out into the light from the long travel underground, Iricillian finally saw Dalaran's inside. Though destroyed, its beauty was still great and awesome to behold. He walked quickly alongside other civilians who were going straight for a much talked-about dimensional portal, which held freedom on the other side. Fully armed and armored, Iricillian wondered for the first time if he would ever see Quel'Thalas again.

He thought about his wife as he rounded a corner, about the sacrifices made by those he knew, and that all those he had trained and grown with were now dead. Dawn rose as he finally saw supposed salvation, bathing his vision in light. Before him stood a great portal, through which elves poured quickly through.

Iricillian paused, and watched the swirling magics of the portal. Explosions ripped the air from the other side of the portal, and the ground beneath Iricillian's feet shook. Sensing a rush, the other Blood Elves began to quicken their pace for the portal. Iricillian was forced to move, and only by luck was he able to look back before plunging through the portal.


His skin crawling, Iricillian glanced around the new world. Red rocks, seemingly disconnected from the mass Iricillian stood on, floated around aimlessly, held up by and unseen force. Waves of Nether pulsed across the sky. "This place is no haven..." Iricillian said, as one elf stepped too close to a cliff, and fell to his death. Beginning to doubt those he had followed, he stepped forward uncertainly.

Iricillian heard a gasp behind him, and a scream. "By all that is holy! The Light has forsaken this place!" Assuming that the elf had experienced the same feeling as him, Iricillian moved towards a recently established camp. Passing by someone who was unpacking their gear on a makeshift table, he snatched a mana crytal, and held it against his skin. The addiction was becoming bearable, as long as he kept a supply of mana close by.

But as he sat on a rock, sucking on the crystal like a piece of candy, he thought about the Light. It had been years since he had forsaken the god-like force from his life, for it had never blessed him as it had the others. He felt oddly at fault for Quel'Thalas' destruction, as if his lack of faith had brought about the punishment. But what loving force would do that? His mind circled as it entered the endless cycle of questions that had brought about his unfaithfullness.

A scowl crossed his face. If his unfaithfullness had brought the Scourge to Quel'Thalas, then he killed his wife, his sister, and so many other elves. But if the Light did exist, would it let that happen? No, Iricillian thought. It wouldn't. He came to the same conclusion he had come to before: The Light did not believe in him, so he did not believe in it.

A female elf slightly younger than him sat next to him on his rock. Broken from his reverie, Iricillian looked at her. She had brown hair that thinned as it passed her neck, and almond shaped green eyes. She smiled gently at him, but Iricillian had already turned to look out over the barren landscape before him. After a few minutes, he heard a sigh from the unmoved girl next to him, and looked at her. "What?" He asked, simply and hard.

Unnerved by his sudden directness, the young elf's voice failed her at first. She coughed, and continued. "You saved my life in the prison..." She said softly, avoiding eye contact with him, blushing slightly. "I just wanted to say... to say..." She flushed and drew her head closer to her body, despite Iricillian's patient lack of reaction. The woman looked up at his eyes, finally having gathered her strength. "Thank you?"

Iricillian studied her blankly for a moment, causing the same nervous reaction. Slowly, a smirk crossed his face. He laid a hand lightly on her leather-covered shoulder. "Good," he said, half-smiling. "I am doing something right, then." He patted her shoulder, and removed his hand. Cutting the conversation akwardly, he turned his attention back to the red landscape, fixing his eyes on a rock floating nearby. The woman sighed, resigning from the first conversation, and walked back towards the camp.

An hour later, the camp was repacked and the blood elven army was marching aimlessly towards the shattered horizon. Iricillian walked calmly the whole march, having left his horse far, far behind, and not wanting to bother any other elf with his burden. His sword began to tug at his shoulder, so he unslung it and dragged the blade behind him.

Two elves, one of them the young woman from earlier, stood on either side of him. Feigning ignorance to the two shorter elves next to him, he marched slower as not to afront them by out pacing them. The newer elf leaned in front of him as he marched, and motioned to the other elf, whispering, "Go on, talk to him!" Which was responded to with a quick, "No, you!" from the brown-haired one. "Fine, but this was your idea." Hissed the one on his left.

"Hullo." Announced the taller of two women walking beside Iricillian, who answered with a nod in her direction. Tilting her head towards him curiously, she asked, "My name is Evranthir. What's yours?"

"Iricillian Dawnshield." He said, suddenly aware of the deepness of his voice. He held his composure and kept his forward glance.

"Hers is Eonyis." Continued Evranthir, gaining momentum. "She's been telling me about how gallant you were when you saved her in the prison. Y'know? From that one knight?" She looked for recognition in Iricillian, who rubbed his thumb over the pommel that had killed the horse. Glancing down quickly and seeing this, Evranthir kept talking. "She's been looking for you for a while, som--"

Eonyis had taken a quick step behind Iricillian, and grabbed Evranthir, pulling her to a halt and reprimending her behind Iricillian, who had taken a quick pause to look over his bare left shoulder. Shaking his head with a sigh, he shouldered his sword and sped up. Eonyis quickly caught up with him.

"Hi Iricillian..." She said shyly, looking at the black-armored hand that held a large sword. "I wanted to, uh, say thank you again." Eonyis looked down at the ineffective sword at her side. "Evranthir has the wrong idea of why I seek you out, Iricillian." She said, trying to gather the courage to ask a question. "I want you to... to teach me how to use a sword like you do."

Iricillian stopped in his steps. Eonyis took a faltered, and another elf crashed into Iricillian and grunted, shoving past. His eyes narrowed, and he glared at the girl before him. "Everyone uses a sword like me." He began, walking again. "They kill. I use a larger sword than most, and I do the same thing as them. I kill those who fight me. Very few who have fought me live."

He returned his sword to the strap, choosing his next words carefully. "There is more behind killing with a sword than simple skill and strength and speed. Tell me, do you have anyone to live for, to fight for, woman?"

Eonyis followed quickly behind Iricillian's marching pace, scowling at his latest words. "How dare you! My family was killed, there is no one for me to fight for. Why do I still live? Because of people like you, saving me." She turned her head quickly towards him. "Just people! Saving me. They do not ask if I want to live, they just kill my would-be murderer."

Iricillian smiled crookedly as he walked, going as fast as he could. Eonyis puffed beside him, ready to blow up in anger. "There is your answer, Eonyis, was it?" The woman seemed shocked. What answer? "Your anger. Rage. You have no one to fight for besides yourself, and your foe. Pour your rage into your sword, and it will carry itself to your enemies hearts. Now leave me."


The elven caravan passed under strange, mushroom like trees, and set up a base alongside their naga allies, having received word that a Lord Illidan had been found, and was in need of rescue. Once again, Iricillian was kept behind lines, working menial jobs around their base. He spent the entire battle aiding in the arming of footmen, and saw no combat.

His anger was beginning to grow past that which he had used during his recent fights. A few times, a soldier would adjust his arm straps as he left, as they were too tight from Iricillian's arming them. For all the battles he had fought and survived, this was one he felt he could not. His hunger for magic consumed him, and stress overwhelmed him. During one of his few breaks, he took a moment to review himself. He saw what was happening to himself, and calmed himself, burying his rage and bloodlust.


The next day, the group had left. Iricillian walked near the vanguard, hoping that he could be part of the next round of fighting. He snagged himself yet another mana crystal, and sated his growing hunger. Soon, however, an elf caught him with the crystal, and commented on his hunger.

"Come, brother Knight." The elf said, motioning to where a large crowd of elves stood on a hill. "We go to receive the blessings of Lord Illidan." Iricillian followed suit, and listened on the conversation between Illidan and Kael'thas.

He heard Kael'Thas pledge the Blood Elves to Illidan, and the standing crowd moved in, kneeling. Iricillian, lost in the crowd, bent down as well, and felt his hunger sated by new, strange energies. He heard the relief in the breath of those around him, and knew that he was free from his addiction... for now.

They all talked around him. The elves, they jabbered, about what had happened to them, what was happening to them, and what they wanted to happen to them. They spoke of glorious war stories, of sorrow, of death and loss, of happiness in the days to come under Kael'Thas and Illidan. They had something Iricillian envied greatly. Each other.

He did not know why they avoided him. Iricillian made for a great conversationalist when talked to, but no one ever spoke to him. Was it his size? He knew his defective size scared some people away, but none of these people seemed even interested in him. Even as he cleaned the dust from his war-torn armor, and sharpened his sword, none asked for his story. The only one who spoke to him was a officer, telling him to report to the front lines.

Finally, something Iricillian was truly good at, where he was appreciated. Why did they only appreciate him here? Surely his fighting prowess would last him into the social world as well. It mattered not. He would make sure that what ever he fought was not currently engaged, so that none would only talk to him for his saving them.


The strange wooden structures under which Iricillian fought red orcs amazed him. They seemed sturdy, yet ready to fall at any moment. They did fall, under rounds of ballistae and stone from the dragon turtles the naga lead alongside them. New, blue creatures fought beside Iricillian as well, except they were far mor humanoid than the naga. The 'Fel Orc', as on elf called it, camp fell under fire, and Iricillian felt good that he had fought, and drew pain and blood.

Another Fel Orc camp soon fell, and the only thing left for Iricillian to fight were demons from a near closed gate. As the finally closing magics finished, the magic gate snapped shut, slicing a half-crossed demon in two. Wiping his sword on a fallen felguard corpse, Iricillian followed the rest of the force back to their base camp.

(Blah blah blah, more laziness. I'm tired and bloody. I don't feel like typing out more akward conversations between Iricillian and Eonyis/Evranthir, and the given 'non-power conversationalist'. Alright, so they take BT. Iricill sits in the back and rage-lol'z all over the place, and then follows Kael to Northrend, where he has guard duty for THE ENTIRE "Symphony of Frost and Flame" Mission, and then the BE base gets destroyed, blah blah blah, he hides in a cave, and nearly goes insane from the whispers of the Lich King. Okay, so now I'm up-to-date on his SL, I'll probably end up typing out the rest of the stuff I just skipped around the same time I type his death.)

[Pyrisath]

((I realize its a little long for one post. This is all of Iricillian's written backstory up until Wrath. I may type up a few of his Northrend adventures, but those will be later. After this story, he adventures around for a little bit more(I'm typing that right now), then he is drawn back into a Necropolis(See "The Dead March On".), then the expansion. NSFW. This goes along with the Pick of Destiny finale))

Illidan’s call to Northrend was answered by Iricillian among many others. They traveled back to Azeroth, and quickly sailed north to intercept Arthas before he could reunite with the Lich King. While an outpost was set up on the island fringes of Northrend, Iricillian journeyed deep into Icecrown alongside the naga and other elves were they prepared to assault the Citadel.

The snow whipped Iricillian’s new cloak about his body. He faced south, away from the winds which seemed to be from the Lich King himself, trying to push them back. Turning to head deeper north into the forbidding land, Iricllian caught words on the wind.

Come… to me…

Surprised, Iricllian dismissed the strange call as nothing more than his imagination, or his captain calling him away from his meditation.

When they made camp for another cold Northrend night, Iricillian sat by himself. He was glad that his heavy armor kept his body heat well, as he saw the more thinly clad rangers and mages chattering their teeth around small fires. While he himself had his own fire going, he did speak to anyone. His jaw seemed frozen in the cold, and Iricillian suddenly regretted leaving the old helmet in Outlands.

The voice came again in the wind as Iricillian’s black hair blew in his face. He could have sworn the glow around Icecrown only grew as the wind blew…

Closer… Let the darkness… embrace….

Iricllian looked around. No other elves acted as if they had heard that cold voice. It seemed so inviting to his darkening heart, especially as his thoughts went back to dwell on his days in Silvermoon, and all the times he had been used and betrayed. “No.” He said aloud, startling none, for none could hear him against the wind. The icy blast seemed to howl in laughter at his defiance. Iricillian soon blacked out, lying around near his small fire.

Upon awakening, Iricllian found his daily rations in his face, and the sun shining above him. Slightly cheered, and having forgotten last night’s dark thoughts, he ate the bread and prepared for another day of marching.

The clear sky did not hold for long. The winds blew, the snows fell, and the morale of the elven company plummeted. They had only two weeks of rations left, and most felt that this journey would take their life. Iricillian, however, wondered on the returning shadow in his heart. He thought he had banished that darkness when he learned that their was still goodness in the elven race, mostly through his few conversations with Malethia in Outlands. He wondered how she and her husband were doing.

“Probably dead.” Iricillian unconsciously whispered. The wind’s voice seemed to answer; Yes. You have no hope.

Iricillian shivered. That voice seemed sound and talk so much like his own. He thought of his dead family, and dead friends, and realized that their loss to him was nothing in the long run. The most he could do with his regrets was use them to fuel his will and initiative in the present.

“We are here!” Came a cry from farther up the road, and soon Iricillian stood nearly face to face with Icecrown Glacier. Our enemy lies so close, thought Iricillian, yet so far away.

Not enemy, the voice whispered, you and I are too much of kin to be enemies…

Iricillian sighed, and stood guard while the elven base was built. Soon after, the call-to-arms went up, and the first of the Scourge attacks came. Many fell before the unending undead assaults, and many of the Scourge fell beneath Iricllian’s boot and blade. The wind howled its approval of his kills.

You are so worthy! It whispered, Yes… That one was too weak! Thin my ranks!

The waves paused as the entire Scourge force took over the Naga base. The wind whispered to him again. Retreat, to the rear. Find a deep cave, and hide. I shall protect you.

Confused, Iricillian stood still. In response, hundreds of abominations and thousands of ghouls and gargoyles came charging over a nearby hill. Realizing that this voice was indeed more friend than foe, Iricillian ran, and found the cave he had been told about easily. There he hid, a coward as the last of the blood elves he knew were slaughtered by the undead.

As he listened to the screams of the dying elves, something bothered a finger on his right hand. Slipping off the heaving gauntlet, he looked at his marriage ring. He realized now, he was married to death. The gem on the ring morphed black, and Iricillian grinned. Perhaps this voice was power…

Soon, a ghoul lumbered into the cave and looked at him. Iricillian, on the verge of insanity, did not question his new alignment, and walked out into the snow. Looking across the battle field, he saw that all who had once been corpses now walked for the Lich King, and the glacier around Icecrown was gone, its ice having turned to the snow that now formed a blizzard across Northrend.

Iricillian wandered across the frozen landscape, always with his back to the wind. Not once after leaving Icecrown did he encounter another undead, but he felt he had a purpose in his movements across the barren snowscape. The incline of the snow he walked upon rose and fell, until it went to a 40 degree incline, and the weight of his black armor weighed upon him. Still the wind pushed him forward, until he fell face first, and slid down the hill.

Wearily, Iricillian raised his head and looked up the indentation in the snow where he had slid. The necklace he had acquired such a long while back now glowed, as an armored foot came from the blizzard’s mask, then another. Soon a death knight garbed in full black saronite plate kneeled, and picked up the glowing amulet.

As Iricillian stood, the amulet quickly changed into a weapon identical to his own, but covered in runes. The knight stood on higher ground, and had an aura of blackness as the wind seemed to push from behind him now.

“I am complete!” The knight yelled at Iricillian.

“Fuuuuuuuuck!” Iricillian exaggerated, bending his head up to look into the now blue-flaming eyes.

“Yes you are fucked, shit out of luck. Now I’m complete and my steal you shall eat!” The black knight took a step towards Iricillian. “His favor will be mine, and your first in line, you brought me my weapon and now you must die!”

“Wait, wait, wait, you mother fucker!” Iricillian cried against the wind. “I challenge you to a duel! Give me one chance to become more powerful!”

The knight stomped suddenly. “Fuck!” He stomped again, turning. “Fuck!” He turned his helmet back to look at Iricillian. “Fuuck! The Death Knight code prevents me, from declining a dueling challenge.” He turned full on to him. “What are your terms, what’s the ca-a-atch?”

“If I win,” Iricillian started, gaining confidence. “You must take your sorry ass back to th’ gra-ave! And also, you will have to give me your armor!”

“And what if I win?” The knight asked.

Iricillian thought for a moment, and the Lich King’s voice called aloud to him in the wind. Then he can take you back to hell! To be his little bitch!

The black knight seemed to hear this, and grinned. “Fine!” He exclaimed. “Let the challenge, begin!” The knight laughed maniacally. Charging, he left himself clearly open to a hit from Iricillian, who took the bait, setting his sword swiftly to impale the knight as he closed.

The knight laughed again, saying, “Check this counter, it would do you well!” just before slapping Iricillian’s sword away, and slapping him hard with the flat of his identical weapon, unbalancing him.

Iricillian rolled in the snow, and his weapon escaped his hands. As he ended on his back, he looked up to the black knight, advancing quickly towards him. “I am a Death Knight I can do what I want, there’s never been a challenge I haven’t won!”

The Death Knight begin flaunting over Iricillian’s weapon, pretending to end the battle, but only to withdraw his blade at the last second as his opponent rose. Standing now, Iricillian screamed, completely redirecting the wind. “No!” The knight was off balance.

“I’ve been through too much shit, I’ve brought demons, with my hands! Now its time to blow you, fucker, down!” Iricillian howled with the wind. He was suddenly glad that he had helped that orc warlock instead of killing it, for when he said the enchanted words, “Come on, Serrar, now it’s time to blow foes down!”

The blade flew to his hand, and he heard the now-deceased warlock’s voice repond to him. “I hear your voice, now it’s time to blow foes down!” He threw the enchanted blade to the sky, letting it catch snow and wind. “Watch now, King, cause it’s time for your showdown! Once this blade falls, your time has ended, Death Knight!”

“I own the storm now, and blow you down!” Iricillian said as he advanced, drawing his blade down, and ready to strike. The wind blew hard, and began pushing the Death Knight slowly over balance. “I will defeat you, with all my might! You hold my weapon, I hold your death! You are a Death Knight, I WILL BE SOON!” Drawing forward, his last words echoed on the wind as he slammed his hilt into the knight’s stomach, forcing him to the ground, then drove his blade through his chest, killing him.

The blizzard cut off suddenly, allowing Iricillian to don his new armor. Slamming his old sword into the ground and drawing up his new, identical runed one, he set off into the cold once again in black armor, though still his old right spaulder remained.


And so the body of Iricillian Dawnshield, first born and lone heir of his lost family, died. His body died, but his twisted will for vengeance and his mind lived on, pushing armored body forward.


((Aaand the posts I inserted should clear up any misconception as to why he went from sleeping near Lake Lordraemere to being insane in Northrend. Wow, I still can't believe I forgot about those two chapters...))