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Wrath and Tears

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To never tire on the battlefield was any soldiers dream. To be strong enough to easily dispatch any number of foes, effortlessly, quickly and without feeling any pity, sorrow or remorse. To that end, some trained for their entire lives, some turned to the light for strength while some made deals with nature and others still to darker forces.

He sat motionless amid the corpses of the bombardment, the stench of death burning his nostrils and his claymore resting across his knees. Peritous reflected upon his life. He had served in the army, training as a paladin in order to temper himself, earning the respect and admiration of his fellow soldiers.

Then he died and his mind was taken by the scourge. Perhaps his faith was lacking, or the light simply forgot about it's champion, he didn't really know or care either way, but when the final moment came, no deliverance, no salvation, only death for him and his soldiers.

If in life his strength had been great, it was only enhanced by his ruthless efficiency in death. He was monstrous, destroying recklessly, without pity, without sorrow and without remorse. He had become the perfect soldier in a sense... and only death had been able to make him realize it. So of course it would be ironic that he would be cut down by a man he had spent years training beside, invoking the name of the light as he did so. Ironic, that it would be in a place he had called home for the entirety of his life. Ironic, but not without justice.

But of course, when the call of the Lich King came... when he was pulled back from death's sweet embrace once again he could not deny the fire which stirred within him. A chance to do battle again? An opportunity for even greater power? His body had reacted without any commands of his own. It knew what it wanted- no, needed to be doing. He was taken by the Lich King and his body repaired- no, restored to nearly it's original form. It was a beautiful thing... to be reunited with his former body, purged of flaw and enhanced magnificently.

He killed scarlets for the Lich King, he killed them happily and with pleasure. He killed some fool who thought to have known him. It was amusing listening to them beg as he slowly dismembered them. Nothing fast, nothing clean. Screaming. Bloody. Agony.

Then came the battle at Lights Hope. Then came the champions of the Light, and the incredible, overwhelming helplessness he felt on the sanctified ground. His mind screamed for him to swing, to cleave them down by the dozens... but his arms would not move. His legs locked and he toppled to the ground. He witnessed the face off between the Lich King and Tirion Fordring, Frostmourne and the Ashbringer... from his stomach. Weak and defenseless as a child, and when Mograine had told them they were free of the Lich King's service... free to seek vengeance he felt... lost.

The Light had crippled him. Paralyzed him and left him for dead... then spared him and set him free. A bizarre thought crept into his mind and he rose to his knees. His eyes raised to the Holy Chapel before him and he... he prayed.

He prayed to the light for strength. For understanding, for redemption and vindication. He prayed for a means to atone for his sins, blasphemes and murders. He prayed for a swift and brutal end at the hands of divinity itself, and as he prayed he felt his gaze being drawn to his sword, laying on the ground, sheathed in an almost imperceptible aura of light. He knew then his punishment. His method of atonement.

His vindication would come at the edge of a sword.

His mind cleared as he rose to his feet... again to fight as the smell of ancient death meshed with the new weapons of the alliance and the horde to create a disturbingly pungent aroma. One slow step forward after another he marched alone towards the citadel of the Lich King, cleaving down anything that would attempt to hinder his passage. Live or dead. As as he marched, a single tear froze on his cheek, mourning for all that he had done, and would yet do.

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The elf sat in high backed chair in Cut Throat Alley, shuffling through papers that littered the table. The sun had set on the Veiled Council, and it was time to send out letters letting her children know that it was time to set their tabards aside. She smiled faintly as she scratched words into the parchment. Time to set aside the tabards, but never the masks.

An old friend had come back into town and Nel had decided to join back up with the Raven's Wing. She had written many of the members, even those she hadn't seen in weeks, but one name stuck out to her. Peritous. The man had been her second in command, her confidant, and her friend. Her hand stopped in mid sentence as her mind wandered. Where was he now? She hadn't spoken to him in almost a month, and try as she may to not care for anyone, the death knight had found a soft spot in her heart. Not that of a lover, more of a brother. Someone she could count on to always have her back.

Her icy blue eyes looked the paper over, the words, the sentences. She frowned then. Too much to read, too much to process. Crumpling the half-written letter, she slid over a blank piece of parchment and began to write swiftly and precisely. The man was smart. He would eventually get word of the dispersal of the Council, and whether or not he agreed, she knew that he would stand by her decision. Her smile was grim as she wrote a few lines, then looked them over again once more. It was everything he needed to hear, and everything she could give to him.

Trystanel folded the letter up and dripped blood red wax onto the back of the letter. Pressing a mask seal into the rapidly cooling wax, she let herself smile. In time they would meet again, and only he would be able to tell her if it would be the last. She had made a promise, one that she intended on following through on.

Later, when the Knight received the letter, very few words would he read.


My promise stands. I’ll send you to the Nether the only way I know you’d want to go. Just say the words, and my blade is yours. Take care of yourself, my friend.

-Trystanel Terkerinor '

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