Turning and Turning In...

[Acherontia]

The tiny warlock threaded her way through the crowded Dalaran streets, her felguard towering over her as he followed obediently behind his mistress. Her heavy, fur-lined robes dragged on the cobblestones behind her and she clutched them tightly around her small form. Acherontia had discovered in Northrend a cold as she had never felt before, and it worked its way into her mangled body, into her bones and the very core of her. What Forsaken could create enough warmth of her own to combat it?

She turned down the lane toward the Filthy Animal, the crowd melting to one side or the other as she stalked through them. In spite of her diminutive form, she always moved with purpose, and Haaroon's massive bulk would surely be enough to push the crowd aside if her arrow-straight, determined pace ever failed to. It was unusual, then, for the warlock to see a man come forth from the crowd and step close to her, falling into step beside her and leaning down to whisper something in her ear. Acherontia nodded once and altered her course, moving out of the flow of traffic and coming to stand against a wall. The stranger followed.

He wore no livery, no garb that would identify him to be in the service of one master or another. He reached into an inner pocket of his dark vest and handed the warlock a folded parchment. After removing one of her gloves, Acherontia ran her fingertips over the seal to ensure that it was still intact, then broke it. She unfolded the parchment and whispered lowly - at the command, the hollows of her eyes began to glow softly with an eldritch light - fel-fire. She had not the luxury to be able to read in any other way at that moment.

The man waited patiently as the Forsaken read the note. He knew that it contained only a few short words, and that the time she was spending on it meant that she was reading it a third time, now, possibly even a fourth. After a few moments, he snuck a glance at the woman's face, looking for any bit of reaction, no matter how small. He swallowed hard as he tried to look past the bite marks, the chunks of flesh that had been eaten away, the ragged edges of where her mouth had once been, the dark hollows of her eyes that were ringed with cracked and blackened flesh. Every muscle that remained, though, was still. Nothing betrayed her interest in the note beyond the time she was spending on reading it over and over again. When he had first come to her, he had remarked to the rest of his men - in private, of course - that surely their new employer must never have been human, that she was a flesh creature with a soul of stone. Now, he knew that he had been mistaken. Even stones had more soul to them than she did.

Tiny fingers folded the note again and the fel-fire dissipated from the warlock's eyes. "When?"

"Three days ago, ma'am."

She did not acknowledge his response, but stared ahead into the middle distance for long minutes. Finally, she gave a minute shake of her head; her man nodded once and melted back into the crowd. Acherontia stood against the wall long after he had gone, though, sifting her thoughts, looking through each one as thoroughly as if she had been able to physically turn them over and inspect them. Organizing. Discarding. Compiling. Planning.

The warlock turned her head slightly to one side. The only thing visible to Haaroon as he looked at his mistress was her ruined mouth; everything else was concealed by her heavy cowl she wore. "Ashj'raka kir, mul'dar - mordan kir'sul," she commanded softly. The felguard gave no sign of outward acknowledgment; Acherontia had already begun walking, needing none - only action. The air around the demon thickened and became choking as he returned to the Nether.

He had work to do.

[Acherontia]

...the widening gyre...

In the quiet darkness of her room, the warlock swung her feet over the edge of her bed and gripped the mattress with gloved hands. The constant gnashing and gnawing within her set her soul to endless devouring, her ragged edges consuming and digesting and vomiting her back into place in a never-ending cycle. But souls should not have edges.

Forsaken and half-souled, a twice unnatural creature, but she had grown accustomed to both and neither of these existences had roused her from her rest. It was the strange, slight pull at the jagged teeth of the maw inside her that had sat her upright. It gently tugged her from her bed and through the door of her room, allowing her to pause to slip her tiny feet into her slippers only because they were on the way. It guided her steps down stairs and through the streets of Dalaran that were still busy, even in these early morning hours. Clutching her quilt about her diminutive form, Acherontia emerged from the great stone archway onto Krasus' landing, ignoring the curious stares of the stable keepers and passers-by as she walked blindly to the far edge of the platform.

[Tía]

In the quiet darkness of her room, the paladin swung her feet over the edge of her bed and gripped the mattress with bare hands. The constant gnashing and gnawing within her set her soul to endless devouring, her ragged edges consuming and digesting and vomiting her back into place in a never-ending cycle. But souls should not have edges.

A false human - or perhaps she had been re-settled into truth, and the long years before this new rebirth had been the falsehood - half-souled, a twice unnatural creature, but she had grown accustomed to both and neither of these existences had roused her from her rest. It was the strange, slight pull at the jagged teeth of the maw inside her that had sat her upright. It gently tugged her from her bed, half-asleep, and she tiptoed carefully through the room, not knowing why. She did not know why she eased the lock back carefully, so as not to make even a whisper of sound, and slipped through the door, closing it behind her. The tugging guided her steps downstairs and out the front door of the building, her bare feet slapping softly on the wet stones as they carried her toward the Aldor rise. The guards peered at her as she approached, perplexed at the appearance of the small human woman clad only in a nightgown, but Tía was known to the Aldor and they did not hinder her passing. Once atop the rise, she was walked to the far edge overlooking Terokkar where she was finally stopped, and the strange gravity tipped her chin back and turned her face toward the night sky.

The storm had passed and the clouds were scudding away from the city, revealing the stars nestled there in the blackness. She fixed her eyes on one of them, not seeing it, and felt the tugging raise her up on her tiptoes. The quiet, curious brushing of A'dal at the edge of her mind went unnoticed, because her mind was still dormant in sleep. It was her soul that brought her here, reaching across the vastness to pull at its twin, the vortex between them widening until both would be caught up in it and dragged inexorably toward the churning center.

[Acherontia]

The cold that howled down out of Icecrown went unnoticed as the warlock continued to stare up into the night sky. The gentle pull stung the frayed edges of her soul as she tried to draw her other half closer, and her to her other half.

Caught up on opposite sides of the widening gyre, the soul trembled as the maelstrom slowly began to spin.

[Tía]

Dimly, through the fog in her mind, Tia heard Aquizit's clarion voice sound the call for the Grim to rally in Undercity, and as the trolless - Xarja, she thought her name was - began to conjure a portal, she groped for her weapon and used it to heave herself upright. Her feet scrabbled for purchase on a floor slick with blue blood, and she felt buoyed up by O'ros' ever-present, gentle chiming - such an out-of-place melody for the carnage that had been wrought in the Exodar tonight. Hot blood dripped into her eyes from a gash across her forehead that slowly began as she managed to cough out the words of a healing spell. One by one, the remaining Horde forces began to disappear through the portal, and she turned away from them to help tend to her friends.

Trysteza was there, ready to charge back into battle as always even before her old wounds had been fully mended. Sir Cavanaugh gripped Aesir's Edge with broken fingers and slid across the floor to cut the Grim down even as they retreated, their mission complete. The two moved in tandem with one another, each familiar with the other's movements, twinned together in vengeful bloodshed. And Ignas - Tia breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the Draenei struggle upright, leaning on his mace for support. She whispered a prayer of mending and saw him begin to breathe easier, stand straighter as his strength returned to him, aided by the powers of the Holy Light.

It had been a terrible battle. The streets of Stormwind ran red with blood as their defense of King Wrynn was crushed between two armies of Horde. Darnassus and Ironforge had both been beseiged, and the Alliance forces had retreated to Azuremyst Isle and the Exodar - making their final stand on the steps before the Prophet Velen. Wave after wave of Horde crashed into them and rolled back like the tide, but they were soon overwhelmed - as the battle-cries of "Peace through annihilation" began to sound down the tunnel, her heart dropped into her boots. The Grim were coming. The Grim were here.

She saw many faces she knew, and many she did not know - behind masks of blood and war paint, masks of cloth, masks of leather and of steel, she saw the eyes of her former friends and the eyes of those who would always keep the Mandate long after those who first breathed it were gone. Of all of them, she saw none who recognized her, none who knew the truth about her - or perhaps the blood-lust of battle kept them blind to anything but her pink skin and prayers shouted in the Common tongue. Like the keen edge of a knife-blade, they carved their way through the remaining Alliance forces before turning to the hum of arcane magic in the center of the chamber as Xarja rent the air before her with a word, and the distance between the Exodar and the Undercity disappeared.

The Grim began to converge on the portal, almost casually, as several began engaging the military reinforcements that arrived too late to stop the assault on the Prophet. Tia felt the holy energy fill her as she fought to lend strength to their forces, staunched wound after wound as quickly as new ones were opened. In a few short moments, most of the Grim were gone, those who still remained engaged in fierce combat with the few Order still well enough to offer resistance. She saw the High Count fall under a flurry of blades and a torrent of shadowy power, saw Syreena's daggers slip between the plates of Ignas' armor and emerge again, coated with thick cobalt liquid as the already-weakened Draenei fell to his knees. The tiny rogue grinned wickedly and called something out in Orcish before sprinting away for the portal, but before Tia could focus her energy on healing him, she felt an icy touch reach into her and grope around blindly for a few moments before curling shadowy fingers around the jagged, broken lip of her soul.

She knew before she even began to turn around, before she felt his other magic start to eat away at her. She knew. Her gaze followed the thin tendrils of fel energy back to where he was half-concealed behind pillar, his hand outstretched toward her and his taloned fingers gripping something only the two of them knew was there. His face twisted in concentration as he strained, she felt the pull inside her become unbearable, then there was a sudden give and she began rushing out of herself, into his waiting palm.

Greebo knew exactly where to find purchase on what would normally be a very slippery commodity. He knew where he had torn her apart from herself, knew where he would be able to find the weak spots, knew how to grasp her, how to wrench her away from herself, how to drain her. He'd known ever since he'd created the jagged break that night in Halaa. He'd been preparing for this moment for months, and he would not waste it.

The paladin lifted her hand and a shock of holy energy coursed through him, but she had been weakened by the battle and her effort was a mere nuisance to the Forsaken. He waved his felhunter forward and as Tia opened her mouth to cry out, the demon snapped its jaws in a spray of thick saliva and her words caught in her throat. It continued to devour the holy power she tried to call forth even before she was able to form a coherent thought around it. The more she tried to clutch at her soul as he tore it from her, the more she felt it slip through her fingers. Her legs began to tremble and she took a staggering step toward the warlock, shaking her head at him, pleading, begging, "No. Please, no." He shook his head in return, even though the words her mouth had formed were empty of sound. He was now, as he had been then, resolute. He was going to make her whole again.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, then stop altogether as she tried to grasp the few remaining fragments of herself. The ever-present loose strands of her hair, darkened further with sweat and blood, whipped around her face as she looked frantically over her shoulder for Ignas. She saw him leaning on Zhor for support, frowning grimly around the chamber at the carnage the Horde had wrought. Tia sucked in a final breath to call out to him without even knowing what the words would be - his gaze fell on her terrified face, her eyes filled with dread and panic as she sought him out in her last moments. The soft glow of his eyes brightened and he made a move toward her - then, as the last tendrils of her soul were torn out, her face went blank. Like a puppet whose strings had just been cut, her mouth slackened and her gaze unfocused as her body crumpled to the ground amid the other corpses there. Beyond her, Ignas saw the warlock close his bony fingers around a softly glowing gem and meet his eyes for a brief moment before scrambling for the portal.

[Angaroth]

Chaos stormed about him, the vanquished prophet slumped at the top of the stairs, the pooled blood begining to flow down. Howls of orcish rage, tauren bellows, the cutting silvery laugh of a sin'dorei skewering a gnome swirled around the still, gaunt figure. She was frantic, praying for more strength, throwing every glimmer of light in her empty soul into her falling brothers and sisters. Greebo watched as Tia tried and failed to keep her new Fabled Order friends up and he smiled, slightly, as they fell, one by one under the unstoppable horde.

The cry rang out and the trolless Xarja began to twitch and dance as the frost loa coalesced in front of her and a crystal portal grew and opened. He slid to one side, to a spray of gems thrusting from the floor and began to focus on the tired, weeping paladin. One long thin arm stretched out and rested in the crook of two glowing branches. Talons curled into a familiar shape and purple streamers leapt out across the room and plunged into her soul. She spasmed and turned slowly to face him. The threads began to glow, pulsing in time with her heart, gleaming brighter and thicker as they sucked at her marrow. Time slowed to a crawl as he grasped and pulled the quintessence of her from the shell it was trapped in. Slivers and tastes of her crystallized into the pulsing shard in his hand as his talons twitched, plucking this, discarding that. Her edges had softened in the last year, a few small wounds healing but he needed exactly what he had driven into her, no more and no less. Her hammer rose, trembling and dropped as she tried to push him away, cleanse his blight with her holy energy but even as his wizened flesh steamed and withered their eyes met and she knew that, this once, he was too strong. Another weary hand tried to lift but was held down by a stabbing bite and his Felhunter happily devoured her spell. She watched helpless as his fingers twitched and wove - a memory of his hands, precise and delicate pulling a black thread through a black cloth, textures exquisite under her fingers. The pulsing light was fading now as there was less and less of her to absorb and the last shimmers settled into place on the thumb-sized gem in his hand. One last bright spark was swallowed by the Drain Soul and he stared as her anguished face turned away from him, watched as her body settled to the floor, crumpling like a puppet cut from its strings.

Greebo nodded, once. A look of grim satisfaction crossed his face as he held tight to the shard and began to lope to the portal. A mistake had been corrected, a wrong righted this night. He stood next to Xarja's door and turned back for one last sweeping gaze across the room. Devastation and wails of dispair echoed around the lanky body as it turned away from the battle and stepped toward freedom.

[Acherontia]

Acherontia stood silently in the mage quarter, her gloved hands clasped behind her back as she stared blindly out over the lethargic flow of the sludge through the canals. Her posture was, as always, ramrod straight, balanced lightly and equally on both feet. She neither slumped nor shifted her weight. The tiny warlock could have been a statue but for the fetid currents of air that teased at a few errant strands of hair, the only movement about her.

The Horde had begun their assault on the Alliance over an hour ago, and Acherontia had assured the Shadowblade that she would remain in the Undercity, prepared to summon their forces to Sylvanas' defense at a moment's notice should their mage be slain. She had taken up her post as the heavy bells of Lordaeron tolled eight, along with two other fairly new members of the Grim, her ears listening for the only thing that would move her from her duty - Syreena's voice. While the two other Forsaken paced and whiled away the moments with practice duels and idle chatter, Acherontia merely waited, focused and immovable. There was no boredom, there were no seconds ticking by, there was no discomfort for her. There was nothing else but her task at hand. Her duty to the Mandate.

"Lady," the warrior muttered under his breath. Acherontia turned her head delicately toward his voice and caught the faint glimmer of arcane magic in her darkened sight. A heartbeat later, the air on the platform shuddered and was torn asunder as the other end of Xarja's portal materialized in front of the waiting trio. They stepped back to allow their comrades passage as one by one the battle-worn and bloodstained Grim began pouring through from the Exodar, their voices exulting their victory. The warlock marked each as they emerged - Leyujin, Kharzak, Gurthoira, here were Aquizit and Yemana, Mohan, Duranor, Araun. On they came, until Syreena herself came through and nodded once to Acherontia. "They have all fallen. We will defend the Undercity, until we are certain any threat of a retaliatory assault has passed."

The warlock nodded in response and waited as the flow of Grim through the portal slowed, then stopped altogether. So... she observed as the last one passed her, he fell behind. Good. There was no mourning of a fallen comrade for her - especially not one as troublesome as this one had been. And only she remains, now. Or perhaps she does not. We shall see.

Acherontia turned away from the portal and began descending the steps, following the triumphant cries of victory, when she felt the air behind her shiver once more. She heard the thud of a body hit the stones and his cry of agony at the impact - her fel-sight caught the disappearance of the portal as she turned around and stared at the other warlock who had escaped just in time. She had not the capacity for disappointment nor surprise, only a curious interest as her gaze fell upon him writhing there on the platform, curling and convulsing in on himself like a dying spider. With a whispered word, tiny tongues of green fel-fire sprang to life in the hollows of her eyes and she ascended the stone steps lightly as she looked down at him.

The entire left side of his body, from hip to shoulder, had been caved in under the force of a tremendous blow. His arm was crushed and lifeless and had done nothing to cushion his ribcage from the impact - it too had buckled under the assault. His lanky body bowed to the side, curved around the new crater in his torso, his robes stained with old blood and ichor and fragments of bone tearing holes through the fabric.

The sight of Greebo's broken body was merely information to the other warlock. Something for her to catalogue and file out of the way for now. What interested her more were the emotions roiling within him as he writhed on the floor in agony. Underneath and behind the pain, she saw not the bright flash of victory that all her other comrades had shared as they emerged from the portal, triumphant. No, there was none of that - only a dark, rippling stain that spread through him like a blight. The blind woman stared down at him and saw disappointment and failure, anger and regret. She saw doubt and what-if, she saw not-quick-enough, she saw fury, she saw a promise, she saw the thick desire for vengeance. She caught a glimmer of recognition as she stood over him and his eyes fell on her as she plucked a soul shard from her pouch and whispered a few words in Demonic. She saw him withdraw from her as she knelt beside him and gently, methodically crammed the newly-created healthstone between his teeth and held his jaw shut as he swallowed.

The tiny warlock leaned down over him and spoke softly and curiously as one might question a disobedient child, and finally, as she knew she would, she saw a soft sinking of fear.

"What have you done?"

[Ignas]

The offensive forces of the Alliance had failed. A failed assault upon the city of Silvermoon left them scattered and confused. Petty in-fighting broke out amongst the ranks, officers and soldiers alike. It was not going well. The entire evening was filled with the mind-numbing banter of disheartened soldiers as a final call was made. A call to defend Prophet Velen at the Exodar.

The battle was long and harsh. A grueling endeavor. The Vault of Lights, echoing with the battle cries and anguished wails of Alliance and Horde alike, was filled with death. Sword and shield. Fire and ice. Light and Shadow. Thunder and lightening. All manner of spell and weapon met their target or were silenced as the battle raged on. Until, that is, when the Prophet fell. Spirited away by the power of O'ros, the Prophet could stand no more and was forced to retreat. The spirit of the defenders broken and the numbers of the Horde swelling, it was only a matter of time until the end came.

The Draenei stood, fighting off the marauders as best he could. A blade sank deep within his side, the wind taken from his lungs. He crumpled as the blade was removed, though there was no glimpse of the assailant. A quick mending spell and the wound was partially closed, allowing him the strength to stand as the forces of the Horde moved through a portal. It was not long until a brother within the Order, Zhor, gripped him by the arm and hefted him to his hooves. "Thank you, comrade." he said, wincing at the wound in his side. Glowing blue eyes scanned the battlefield. They fell upon the small figure of another Paladin. Tia, though she was not looking at him. Relief washed over his weary frame as he saw that she was safe. But, something was off. She turned and locked eyes with him. And, just for a second, he could see the complete terror upon her face. The fel energies surrounding her broke as he lunged for her, her body falling and her face going blank and lifeless.

It was as if he were running in mud. He could not move quick enough. Leaping over bodies, slipping and stumbling in pools of blood, he was finally at her side. A cry caught his attention. A familiar voice. That of Trysteza as she pulled a figure closer to her. The Draenei narrowed his eyes at the other, trying his best to recall where he had seen the Forsaken before. It struck him, like a smith's hammer upon the anvil. Greebo. Tia had identified him once before; told him that he was the one responsible for what had happened. It all fell into place. A scowl spread across his face. He gripped the mace of a fallen Orc and stood, the leather in his gauntlets straining under the grip on the weapon. His mind was set on breaking the walking corpse, grinding it into powder until he found the vessel that held Tia's soul.

His feet encased in ice, he took the opportunity to charge. Hooves stomping against the solid floors. At one point, crushing the arm of a fallen Blood Elf at the elbow as he closed the distance between himself and Greebo. It was as if time itself was playing games with him. Before he knew it, he was there. Raising the mace, turning at the waist as he came to a halt, he used every ounce of strength he could muster for the blow. It connected, at the Warlock's side, sending him into a tumbling spin, but not bringing him down. Trysteza faltered, and he saw her innards begin to spill from her stomach. This moment of hesitation allowed for Greebo to make his way to the portal, gaining distance between himself and the Draenei. Ignas swore under his breath as he prepared to stop the Warlock, but Trysteza's shrill cry and frantic motions pointed him in a new direction. A small, glowing shard was on the floor. Knowing, without a doubt, that this was the gem that housed Tia's soul, he relaxed visibly. The portal faded into nothing as he turned back to the Death Knight.

She insisted that he go help Tia first, despite her grievous wounds. He nodded, though he swore to mend her abdomen later. The mace was dropped as he made his way back to Tia's body. It was an eerie sight, her lifeless body laying there while he held her soul in the palm of his hand. The tiny shard appeared so fragile, though he knew it was quite resilient and could not be destroyed easily. Tucking it safely inside a pouch on his belt, he knelt down. The pain in his side struck him once again, causing him to groan and clutch at the wound. After a moment, he scooped the body into his arms and stood, though somewhat shakily. Seeing Trysteza move towards him, he nodded and began walking. Shattrath, a place of refuge for the time being so that he may ponder and rectify the situation, was their planned destination.

[Ignas]

Though stranger sights have been seen in Shattrath than that of a Draenei carrying the limp form of a bundled human with an injured Death Knight in tow, a few curious glances are given as the trio makes their way out of the central seat of the Terrace of Light. The familiar chiming of A’dal can be heard throughout the city, a comforting song of the reassurance that this is a city of refuge. “She will be safe here.” the Draenei murmurs, shifting Tia’s weight in his arms. He makes a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure that Trysteza is keeping up with him. He notices the long stream of black ichor down the front of her armor, the horrible gash in her abdomen barely hidden under her own arms and clothing. Once they were hidden away at their destination, he could tend to her wound, knowing that the power of the Naaru protected them.

A pathway carved into his memory, one that he has taken so many times before. Across the Terrace to the wall of the Aldor rise, near the bank, to where a small arch gives way to a complex of living chambers. Under the arch, up the stairs, down the hallway on the third landing, several doors into it, he turns and faces one door in particular, no different than any of the others. He leans in and tries the knob with a free hand, her legs bent at the knee over his arm. It is locked. “Trysteza,” he speaks, loud enough for it to echo throughout the dimly lit hallway. She is at his side, bent at the waist and wincing in pain, the journey being far more tiring on her body than what would be normal. Looking up to him, she waits for him to speak. “Search her belt pouches. Her key is in one of them. Can you do that?” he asks, somewhat hesitantly, not wishing to strain her too much. “Yes,” she says, nodding, and begins sifting through the pouches. After a moment, she finds a small key ring, and she begins searching for the proper key to unlock the bolt. After several tries, the latch gives with a loud clicking noise and the door is swung inwards, allowing entrance into the small apartment.

The room is dark, save for the soft blue glows of two pairs of eyes and the dim light filtered from behind the window curtain. He lays her down on her side of the bed and kneels down beside her. Turning to look over his shoulder, he notices Trysteza in the small living area. The death knight has already begun to remove her armor, though her attempts to maintain the integrity of her innards were failing. Grunts and sighs of weary exasperation sound from the woman as she negotiates the broken plate armor. “Once I am finished here, I will mend your wound,” he says over his shoulder, speaking in a comforting tone. She gives a quick nod in the darkness as she drops the heavy breastplate to the floor.

Lighting a candle on the table near the bed, he removes the cloak and his breath catches in his throat. Her head lolls to the side and her eyes are open, blank, staring, and devoid of any life. He reaches swiftly for a pouch at his side, feeling for the lump of the shard which housed her soul. Swallowing, he gently closes the lids and looks down her still body, heaving a short sigh. Pale, cold, and unmoving, the body lays there as if awaiting its pyre. Fear crept into his mind. The fear of her being forever trapped in this state. The fear of no longer speaking with her, seeing her move, seeing her smile, seeing her eyes full of life and light. His hands tremble as he unbuckles the clasps of her breastplate and pauldrons, taking a heavy, shaky sigh as he removes the armor with care. He lays piece after piece on the floor as he works to remove the protective coverings. It feels as though time had begun to drag on and on, each piece requiring years to remove. Once every segment had been removed, the body laying there motionless, he takes one the hands in his and grips it tightly. There is no pulse, no sensation of muscles tensing, but slight warmth does remain. He gives it a reassuring squeeze, as if she can feel it, and stands, replacing her hand where it was. Recomposing himself, he turns to Trysteza and speaks in a soft and direct tone. “Come, let me inspect that wound. It needs to be mended.”