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About Matasuntha

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  • Birthday 10/25/1985

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  1. III) In-Conclusion The human saying “time marches on” hollowly tolled next to Rimesheen’s infinite soul-thirst. Riding along on her runeblade’s ceaseless death drive, Matasuntha’s similarly limitless indulgence of wrath proved time to be cyclical, progress an illusion, and change a pendulum. She had gone from hunting Forsaken near the Sepulcher of the present to decapitating one on the cliffs overlooking the Throne of Elements of the past. “Your Banshee Bitch cannot save you here,” she taunted in Draenic the severed head before kicking it off the cliff. Sheathing Rimesheen, she watched the head until the verdant landscape swallowed it from sight. Cyan eyes and black lips snarled at the headless body now twice a corpse. “Pathetic,” she hissed. “What a waste of reanimation.” She raised her hands into the air, and then immediately slammed them towards the ground. A pestilence-green rune twisted in its spot on one side of her lower back made visible by a cutout in her black armor. The grass surrounding the permanently dead Forsaken erupted in boiling decay, eating away at the already rotted matter until even the bones were fetid soot in a shallow, blackened crater. “Now that is real necromancy, you Scourge poseur.” The unholy rune, dulled from use, rotated back into an upright position, regaining its coloration until it matched its twin embedded into her other back dimple. Satisfied for the moment, Matasuntha rode Emberstone, her dark war talbuk, down the perilous roads leading to sea level where she continued slaughtering Horde–Iron and Azerothian–as the days blurred into weeks. Immorality was monotony, especially as an engine of death, but she was content. Then some news set fire to her icy vengeance: Faralos had been badly injured. “Who did this to you? Who!” she shouted in Draenic at her bedside. “I will string up by their feet and rot their flesh from the inside out, I promise you this.” She squeezed the bandaged draenei’s hand tight enough to make her squeak. Matasuntha barely noticed. She was listening to Rimesheen frost her mind with hatred. Faralos squeaked again, and Matasuntha finally loosened her grip. They stared at one another, the solution from the IV dripping into her forearm. Breaking the charged silence, the death knight asked the wounded monk once more about the identity of her attackers. After a couple sharp coughs, Faralos croaked the name of the assailants: Warsong Battalion. It was an ugly sound, even in their native language. Matasuntha bared her fangs. “Fucking Warsong pigs! We will make them pay.” She clenched her free hand into a fist. Faralos propped herself up on one elbow and mustered a smile. Matasuntha sat on the edge of the bed and hooked an arm around her shoulders. She rested her head against the hard yet smooth armor protruding over the death knight’s breasts. Looking down, Matasuntha noticed for the first time that Faralos wasn’t wearing any pants, although her legs were covered in bruises and wound dressings. She took off her heavy gloves and caressed the parts of her thighs that were exposed and unblemished. Faralos hoisted herself up using the spikes of Matasuntha’s shoulderplates and pressed her face against her cheek, her lips parting in soft moans. Quickly, though, the sounds of pleasure turned to an uncertain sigh. “Am I hurting you?” Matasuntha asked, her fingers sliding onto the hem of her blue panties. Faralos shook her head, and then buried her face in her neck tendrils. Her voice heavy with dread and medication, she asked if she was still pretty. Matasuntha pushed her back just far enough so she could study her. “Well, you look pretty fucked up right now, that is certain.” Her black lips twisted into a grimace. The other draenei looked heartbroken. Matasuntha cupped her face with one hand, her long, magically durable black nails scratching lightly at her hairline. “Worry not, for you will heal and be as luscious as ever. Plus,” she let her voice trail off as the hand slipped down to a breast, “a few scars here and there are sexy.” A call to arms wrenched apart their lips. According to the Elodor peacekeeper that sheepishly alerted the couple, Azerothian Horde forces were attacking Veil Terokk. The Alliance member leading the resistance was a draenei female shaman. “Synkaa?” Matasuntha said, her tone foolishly hopeful. Draenei were not quite as near-extinct as they were in the present since the Burning Legion had not corrupted the orcs in this timeline. Faralos coughed and struggled to the edge of the bed, and Matasuntha raised an eyebrow at her. “As Ebonthorn Coterie, we are obligated to respond, but you are too injured to fight.” She looked on with strained concern as she tried to ignore Rimesheen’s whispers for reprisal. Faralos wheezed but told her she would be fine if they fought together. She slid off the bed and into her leather pants. Matasuntha blinked at her with disbelief, but Fralos smiled with half her face and quaffed a potion. — “For the Ebonthorn Coterie!” Matasuntha shouted, her hooves atop the corpse of an inexperienced blood elf huntress. The leader of the war party glared at her. “Do not kill their weak warriors. We are only after their champions.” Matasuntha sliced Rimesheen through the air, blood flying off the blade and splattering on the shaman’s face, which was disappointingly not as pretty as Synkaa’s. “I will kill all the Horde. They have tortured our people for too long. The hands on the clock of retribution will never stop spinning. Death to them all!” The shaman sighed but led their party towards Southport. A couple skirmishes and some Horde casualties later, the threat was neutralized. The effects of her potion fading, Faralos collapsed against Matasuntha and begged her to take her back to Elodor. They safely returned to the inn. Matasuntha took off her plate gloves so she could better assist Faralos out of her clothes and redress her wounds. She showed her gratitude by shoving her tongue down her throat. Matasuntha lost her tongue in her mouth and her hand in her underwear, but claws clicking on the floor brought her back to the room. Her lips still moving with Faralos’s, she looked sideways and saw a familiar worgen approaching the bed. Sighing, Matasuntha shifted parallel to Faralos. “This is a rather inconvenient time to ask for the favor I owe you.” Fauxpaw said that favor repayment was inherently inconvenient and leaned her back on the door frame. She cast her eyes away from the couple as she and Matasuntha discussed the latter’s waning interest in Pax Umbris. Faralos watched, her eyes wide with curiosity. Fauxpaw, gladdened by the news, offered to recruit Matasuntha into her Blackwald Syndicate as a mercenary. “I think I would like that,” she said, nodding and squeezing Faralos, “but I would like a few days to think about it.” Fauxpaw nodded and told her that she would be in the area, but sooner was better than later. “Very well. Now, if you do not wish to join us, I will have to ask you to leave.” Fauxpaw studied them for a moment but declined. Faralos said through a yawn that she was sleepy anyway. The three parted ways, Matasuntha returning to the Shadowmoon Valley fortress where she served as knight-lieutenant She thought about joining the Blackwald Syndicate while she patrolled the grounds. Not requiring sleep meant she was almost always assigned to night watch. It reminded her a bit of her caravan escorting on Outland. History had an odd way of repeating itself. (( Hosted on Rise of the Ice Phoenix. Cross-posted to RH RP Sanctum. ))
  2. Frozen in Time II) Rude Awakening Matasuntha bolted upright in bed, darting a hand for Rimesheen before the shadoweave sheet fell past her buxom chest and settled under her toned abdomen at the same instant her long-nailed fingers wrapped around the runeblade’s hilt. “What the fuck was that?” she hissed. Squinting into the darkness, her view distance limited by the canopy so light blue it almost glowed like Rimesheen’s blade and her equally sharp eyes, she gripped the sword until enough time passed for her to realize it had just been a dream. Or was it a vision? She rubbed her forehead plate with her free hand. Whatever it was had overloaded her senses and, in the wake of the sudden anxiety, sent twitches of hot fear through her icy body. Rimesheen jeered at the rising fever. She snapped back her hand and shifted towards the middle of the bed, away from the poster on which the weapon was loosely lashed, but not away from its insults. Settling into the blankets, she tried to close her mind to everything but the haunting remnants of the dream. A few flickers of red lit an otherwise empty blackness before she realized the sheets were damp. She felt the left side of the mattress where she had been sleeping. Her fingers skimmed through moisture no warmer Lake Indu’le, yet it was tepid to her touch. Sweat, she concluded, frowning as she rubbed the liquid between her thumb and forefinger. If she still had her olfactory senses, she would have smelled snowplum brandy. Having taken full advantage of her night on the Aldor Rise, she had removed her armor, peeled off her leather bralette with netherweave lining, closed the canopy out of respect of any fellow patrons, and uncapped her flask full of booze, drinking in bed until sleepiness soothed her mind with its rare embrace. The slumber initially featured splintered recollections of her night on the eastern Colossal with three of her racial sisters. Each fragment pricked the erogenous nerves of her dreamself. Then the scene faded to black and, in place of naked skin and scattered undergarments, a towering doorway of primitive architecture appeared between equally crude scaffolding. Unlike the images before it, the structure dominated her mind in crystal clarity. It sang a battle hymn, red light pulsing from its center. The incandescence swirled to all edges of the frame. Accompanied by a feeling of unbridled rage, the crimson spilled beyond the doorway and lapped at the borders of the vision. Fear had pounded inside her with each beat of the writhing glare, and that is when she had realized her mind’s eye was looking at the Dark Portal. But it wasn’t the same portal that had become a metonym for demonic conquest. The wrath spiking straight into her subconscious had been absent from the fervent corruption of fel energy. It was pure, she remembered, staring off into the middle distance. It was the self-originating anger of a warmachine determined to conquer for the sake of conquering. And that had caused her to perspire puddles of snowplum brandy onto the sheets. At least I will not have get up and piss it out in unkempt facilities like everyone else, she thought, trying to shake the dread that crept back into her flesh. She reached under her pillow for what permitted her undead form to metabolize alcohol: the enchanted obsidium flask emblazoned with the sigil of the Ebon Blade. Finding it empty, she returned it with a grunt. She got comfortable again, evenly spreading her dreadlocks around her head as to not lie on them. After some more thought, she determined the dream was nothing but a reaction to the cautionary words spoken by a paladin trainee. She had to be careful or she would make that permanently fatal mistake and be buried under a blanket of angry greenskin solidarity. That the Dark Portal symbolized this lesson was merely a coincidence sparked by the rumors of strange activity surrounding the gateway. Satisfied with her explanation, Matasuntha started to relax. She was glad she had given up her room at the Scarlet Raven Inn. The roving Horde warbands would have made her rest even more fitful. Now she needed serenity and satiny sheets against her bare skin. Usually she did not sleep alone, but she welcomed the break. She had been quite busy since her return from Silverpine Forest and Tirisfal Glades. The faces and spread limbs of her partners, ranging from old friends to new acquaintances, sashayed through her mix of fantasies and memories. Succumbing to the pull of her loins, one hand slipped into the waistband of her netherweave boyshorts; the other hand tugged at the obsidium piercing her nipples and navel. Her fingertips slid down her smooth mons but stopped when a green-eyed visage with curled horns grinned her way into the imagery. No longer smirking, her countenance tightened with perplexion. This…eredar, this man’ari, was one of her favorites. How could she call for the execution of the Horde for their vile nature, their desecration of her people, when she routinely fornicated with a corrupted draenei? Her hands falling to her sides, she felt like a hypocrite. Tilting her head sideways, she gazed at Rimesheen. She knew why she liked Eaorcia so much: They were a lot alike. Now both death knights, they had also once suffered from fel corruption. Matasuntha had never completely surrendered to it. In this light, she had not injured her own people the way Eaorcia had done. But in the name of retribution, she had committed acts so violent against the orcs that even the draenei would have tried her for war crimes if a court case had been feasible in the midst of the chaos engulfing Draenor. As a Knight of the Ebon Blade, she continued to indiscriminately slaughter all races of the Horde. From fel-touched to undead, she had never existed in a pure state. Folding her hands across her abdomen, she wondered if she would have been such a bloodthirsty Vindicator without the corruption. Maybe she would have never had that fight with Niala in the Blue Recluse a few days ago. She chewed on her black lip as her thoughts drifted to another kaldorei. The loss of friendship with Niala bothered her little. The huntress was much closer to Ryoka–that is, until Matasuntha’s fellow Umbrian had vanished once again. She was worried that this other night elf would think less of her if rumors spread. After some more chewing on her lip, her tongue swirling over her lip rings, she shrugged. There was bound to be tension regardless since the kaldorei had rejoined the Twilight Empire. What was Raven’s Wing thinking? The Horde are striking close to the heart of the Alliance, and the powerful Sentinel reenlists in an organization promoting its own self-absorption under the equally decadent veneer that peace could truly exist between the factions. She narrowed her eyes, thinking about how far the Empire had fallen since the last times she had served the Imperial Military. The Empress had disbanded the Senate for one reason or another. Matasuntha no longer trusted the woman. There was something odd about how she watched people with her head tilted, her eyes seeming to concomitantly look into and look through a person. The there was the matter of the stuffy nobility in the upper echelon’s of the Citizen Branch. She clenched her fists against the mattress, regretting not punching the sourpuss sisters in their lemon-lipped mouths. There had only been an exchange of caustic words with the stagnant twats, as well as with the once proud soldier that seemed to have been turned to putty by the aristocratic harlotry of the priestess sisters. “Did you just think the phrase ‘aristocratic harlotry?’ You fool.” Rimesheen lacerated her mind. “You have piles of gold, the nicest possessions of any death knight, and an army consorts. You rent a luxurious bed and can bathe anytime you please. How are you any different?” “I am not a self-righteous poseur.” She glared at her runeblade. “Narcissistic? Yes. Vengeful? Absolutely. Obsessed with death and sex?” She sat up to run her hand down its hilt. “No question. But I am not afraid to get my hands wet in Horde blood, nor am I so delusional that I think such bloodshed unnecessary. Rimesheen prodded her mind. It was thinking. “Yes, you are a death knight. It would be ridiculous to think any peace possible for you. At best, there is a tentative collaboration between the factions of the Ebon Blade beyond the battlefield. Imperial Ebon Knights are only lying to themselves.” She shook her head, dreadlocks snapping. “No. The officership is lying to them. They only want peace so they can perpetuate their own self-importance, even in the vile ranks of the Horde.” The runeblade sneered and she collapsed against the bed. On the surface, she wanted to annihilate the Horde, but underneath the icy wrath twinged a hint of remorse. She remembered how she had enjoyed protecting Yurei’s caravan with Vonmar, although he had not technically been Horde. This made her think about what made one a member of the Horde, but she buried such philosophizing with the recent Scions of Draenor memorial for one of their exarchs murdered by greenskin scumbags. She would help her people exact revenge. The runeblade cackled its approval. Her mind settling on another draenei female death knight she had met at the mournful celebration, she decided the military campaigns would have to wait. With a disgusted sigh, Rimesheen withdrew from her mind, leaving her fingers to wander through her lecherous desires. (( Hosted on Rise of the Ice Phoenix. )) (( Also posted on the Sanctum. ))
  3. Frozen in Time I) Diplomacy of Sorts The shabby figure in the elegant robes approached. Still not trusting the agreement, Matasuntha had Rimesheen drawn. Its blade was angled towards the ground. A ghoul stood at her left, as alert as such a pathetic creature could be. As she narrowed her eyes at the approaching mage, she inwardly cursed about her own lack of skeletal magi. At least she had her gargoyle waiting in stoneform to her right in case her suspicions proved true. Behind her floated Nyx. With contempt in its big eyes, the shadeling watched the Forsaken walk nearer. Snowplum hovered above them all. She was ready extricate the death knight. Though her fingers and hooves twitched, Matasuntha did her best to remain calm. She didn’t want to be responsible for failed negotiations. Even Rimesheen remained passive, its incessant thirst for souls only a dull ache at the back of her mind. There was too much at risk to make an aggressive move, unless she was forced to defend herself. That would change the encounter. The possibility curled her black lips into a smirk. Thinking of several more months of dull patrols should she succumb to violence wiped away the sneer. Her reports on Forsaken military actions contained nothing outside the normal hostilities. With Siouxsie the Banshee irritated by the uneventful writeups and Highlord Darion Mograine bored with them, the intensive reconnaissance missions were slated to be reduced back to their less frequent scheduling–that is, if the information in the bony hand of the agent was not merely a ruse. When the mage had shuffled within a couple yards, Matasuntha pointed the tip of the blade to his chest. “That is far enough.” Once again, her black lips dropped into a scowl, and her eyes glowed an icy cyan. The Forsaken straightened from his slouch as much as his once rotting spine allowed and look at her. His eye sockets were bright green under his hood. In the time it took her to quirk an eyebrow at him, something with long horns, big breasts, and a flicking tail faded out of and back into a cloak of invisibility. “Just try and touch me,” the succubus taunted. The warlock laughed at this, and Matasuntha shot him a fanged grin. She had misidentified the undead. “Come forward a bit more and give me the papers,” she hissed, holding out her left hand. “I’m surprised you aren’t asking to see more of Mirtai,” he said, stepping closer and extending his arm. “Deathstalkers have eyes everywhere. Your indulgences are no secret in the Undercity. Quite surprising for an undead.” She snatched the papers and glared at him. “Yeah, well, my parts are still intact whereas yours were gone before you were reanimated.” The Forsaken laughed. “Physicality is irrlevent when it can be replaced by magic.” She snorted and, though it made her nervous, drove Rimesheen into the ground so she could hold the paperwork with both hands while she glanced over it. As she flipped through the pages, she sensed her ghoul was distracted by the warlock’s glowing eyes. She really didn’t want to spend anymore time Silverpine Forest. “Okay, these look good,” she snapped, tucking the scrolls into a black leather bag slung from her shoulder. “You’ll receive a response from my superiors soon.” She reached for Rimesheen’s hilt. “Your superiors, huh?” The fel-green eyes seemed to squint. “Tell Highlord Mograine that he can suck my fel–” “Do not finish that sentence!” She thrust the tip of Rimesheen against his throat. Before the Forsaken could answer, a whip coiled around her wrist and drew taut. Mirtai dropped her occlusion. She was gripping the whip handle in raised hand. “Tell your bitch to let go, and I will not cut off her tits and fuck her while she bleeds back into the Twisting Nether.” What remained of the warlock’s mouth grimaced. “Like you would have sex with anything without breasts.” “Do it,” she growled. The runic aura around Rimesheen’s blade turned an even darker shade of blue. “Now.” “Fine, fine.” He shook his head at her. “Mirtai, release her wrist.” The succubus pouted at her master. “Oh, you never let me have any fun.” “We can have fun as soon as we’ve returned. Promise.” She disappeared back into invisibility, jubilating. “I hope we can play ‘Where in the Nether are my Nethers?’ tonight.” The warlock was about to respond, but Matasuntha interrupted: “Are we done here?” “Yes, we are done here, Alliance harlot.” “Thanks for the compliment. Now get out of my sight.” She lowered Rimesheen, but waited until the warlock (and no doubt his succubus) had withdrawn into the distance to sheath the runeblade to her back. Sighing, she conjured a portal to Ebon Hold. The gargoyle burst out of stoneform and flew back to headquarters while Matasuntha called down Snowplum. Once the circling hippogryph landed with a hesitant squawk, the beast having never fully adjusted with the macabre nature of her rider, they filed one-by-one into the death gate. (( Hosted on Rise of the Ice Phoenix. )) (( Also posted on the Sanctum. ))
  4. Rise of the Ice Phoenix Characteristics Full Name: Matasuntha Nicknames: Mata Other names: Vyerillexya (aka Vyer) Level: 90 Class: Death Knight Race: Draenei Gender: Female Current Age: 10,000 Hair Color: Black Skin Color: Opalescent Eye Color: Glowing Cyan Height: 7’ Weight: 250 lbs. Biographical Place of Residence: Lion’s Landing Place of Birth: The Genedar Relatives: Iophia (mother), Glulin (father--deceased) Enemies: The Horde Allies: The Alliance Occupation: Knight of the Ebon Blade Tradeskill: Herbalism, Alchemy Appearance: Fashion of Choice: Saronite War Battleplate of Insubordination Armor of Choice: Prideful Gladiator’s Battlegear Weapons of Choice: Rimesheen the Halaani Runeblade Special Abilities: Runic Necromancy History/Biography: Personality Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Motivations: Crushing the Horde, Exceling at Necromancy, Fighting the Burning Legion Disposition: Pragmatism Outlook: Militarism Religion/Philosophy: Veneration of the Naaru Sexuality: Mostly Homosexual Positive Personality Traits: Charismatic, Determined, Protective Negative Personality Traits: Aggressiveness, Narcissism, Sardonicism Misc. Quirks: Her fascination with death is excessive for even a death knight. Affiliations Guild: Pax Umbris Guild Rank: Domina Umbris Other Affiliations: Knights of the Ebon Blade Interests Likes: Death, Female Draenei and Kaldorei, Necromancy Dislikes: Orcs, Sin’dorei, Unbound Demons Favorite Foods: Nutrient Paste Favorite Drinks: Bourbon, Snowplum Brandy Favorite Colors: Black, Blue, Purple, White Hobbies: Drinking, Fornicating, Killing, Socializing (( This thread was originally posted on the Ravenholdt RP Sanctum. ))