Celessiel's boots
thudded on the soft soil as she ran through Ashenvale forest. Her breath
came out in gasps and a smile played over her face as the sounds of a
dozen Kaldorei sentinels running behind her could be heard faintly.
Although not her original mission in the forest, her plan was working
perfectly so far. With her light gray skin and white hair, and aided by
the makeup she had applied to her face, Celessiel looked much like a
very short Kaldorei, perhaps a child. The sentinels behind her had
spotted her at once and given chase, but they were not shooting arrows
at her yet, since they didn't understand why one of their children would
be running through the forest towards such a dangerous location.
Yes, it was going exactly as planned!
The smile again played over the death knight's features. A hundred more yards and she would encounter the Forsaken encampment from yesterday. The sentinels would fall on the Forsaken, and she could begin her real work. She grinned with triumph as her rapid pace ate up the last few feet and she burst into the clearing where there was...
Nothing.
No Forsaken. No alchemy tables. No tents or guards or anything else. Just the gaping opening of the barrow den a few feet away, and some refuse from the original encampment. The Forsaken had moved their equipment overnight. Celessiel skidded to a halt in confusion, and the sentinels running behind her piled into the clearing, reaching out to grab her. It was in that moment of confusion, when all of the runners were most out of breath, that the Forsaken assassins struck.
There was no warning. One minute there were only breathless sentinels and Celessiel, the next there were dark, shrouded figures with blades slashing everywhere. Unfortunately for Celessiel, since she was dressed as a Kaldorei herself, she was one of the first targetted by the rotted creatures. A figure seemed to almost materialize from nothing directly in front of her, punching forward with two blades. The first impacted on her breastplate and bounced off with the shriek of metal and a spark. The second blade plunged into her side, just above her hip where her breastplate met her belt.
Right where she had been stabbed on the day she fell to the scourge.
The wound wasn't fatal, but as Celessiel looked down at the rusty metal sticking from her flesh and up to the undead, partially rotted creature that held the blade, her mind snapped. She wasn't a death knight, she wasn't in Ashenvale. She was a young Quel'dorei girl, fighting for her life at the East Sanctum. She was dying to the scourge invaders, who would make her rise in undeath. She began to scream, her mind wracked with confusion and the horrible memories of her near-death and enslavement. She flailed helplessly while her foe attacked again.
His second dagger again failed to penetrate her armor, the tip of the blade shearing off as it connected with the curved plate over her heart. The impact staggered her slightly, and her natural reflexes came into play. No matter the state of her mind, her body was trained from years of combat, used to working under enthrallment and without will of her own. Instictually she reacted, a gauntleted fist slamming the Forsaken in the throat and pushing him back. Her other hand drew a runeblade and drove it through his chest. As he died, her mind regained focus; she remembered where she was, who she was and WHAT she was. Clarity poured through her like a clean bath sloughing away dirt and grime. She blinked back her tears and took stock of the situation.
Forsaken and Sentinels were embroiled in a fearsome fight around her. She was wounded, and her plans would quickly unravel unless she acted immediately. She reached down to her belt and pulled out a sphere with a goblin detonator cap on it. Pressing the button on it, she hurled the sphere into the opening of the barrow den, hearing it clink against the stone with some degree of satisfaction. Moments later a loud <crump> could be heard as the device detonated, sending horrificly modified toxins through the barrow den. The mixture was powerful enough to unravel the bindings that kept the enslaved spirits of the druids in their wakeful undeath, sending them to the peace of the afterlife. A small cloud of green smoke hung around the entrance to the barrow and the final shrieks of released spirits echoed through the forest.</crump>
Celessiel smiled and turned. The Forsaken had to believe the Sentinels did this, and the Sentinels had to believe that the Fosaken had attacked them. She pulled a second sphere from her belt and pressed a button. Unfortunately, as she did so, she noticed two alarming things. The first was that the detonator cap had a compartment on top, which opened to reveal 'bonus' explosives. The second was that the detonator's maker had installed the timing clock wrong. Rather than 55 seconds to throw the device and run, Celessiel had 5 seconds...4 as she realized the danger.
"Titan's balls!" she cursed and hurled the device into the middle of the bitter combat. She turned away from it and shouted a word in the language of death. A shield of anti-magic runes shrouded her, just as the sphere detonated. The 'bonus' explosives made the blast so strong that she was picked up and hurled ten feet away, her back pierced in four placed by metal shrapnel, despite her plate armor. A toxic cloud of green mist settled over the fighting, held at bay only by her anti-magic shell and her own hardiness against disease due to her condition. Outside of her shell, she could hear the choking gasps as sentinel and forsaken alike were overcome by the weapon, their flesh rotting off. She grit her teeth and tried to block out the noises; they were horrible deaths, but at the same time clean. None of these people would rise in undeath, and there would be nothing left to enslave to an afterlife of torment.
As the noises of the dying quieted, and stillness overcame the clearing, Celessiel bagan to crawl away from the scene. With her side wounded and the painful shrapnel in her back, her hands and knees would have to do as a means of escape until she could get a healing potion. She painfully made her way through the brush, finally getting out of sight of the devastating battle when a rough hand grabbed her and threw her on her back.
Celessiel looked up in horror to see the Forsaken named Roland glaring down at her. One of his arms had disolved from the toxic cloud in the clearning nearby, but his other was still functioning. He glared at her and fell on top of her, his own strength not much more than her own.
"Going somewhere lovely?" He hissed. "I think it's time we made good on my promise." The Forsaken drew a dagger with his remaining arm, and rammed it into the space between Celessiel's shoulder armor and breastplate. The point bit deep into her underarm, immobilizing her right arm and causing blood to leak between the plates. She shrieked in pain.
"Now we're more even lovely," Roland gloated. "I think I'll make you die slow. Maybe you can help fix up my arm when you do. A bit of your flesh should help to mend my hurts since you think you're so much more alive than us. Unfortunately for you, you'll be alive while I dine."
He squirmed up on her, keeping her pinned to the ground with his weight, his teeth nearing her throat. Wounded, bleeding, and immobilized with one arm, there was little fight Celessiel could put up. She had just one option left. Gently, almost lovingly, she brought her left hand up, pressing two fingers to Roland's withered lips.
"Hush now," she murmured. Her icy touch immediately set Frost Fever into his flesh, and his decaying skin began to frost over with rime in places as the ice formed. "The fever will be cold, but it is a good cold. It will cleanse you of the unlife that was so unjustly thrust upon you. I give you freedom and peace."
His eyes widened, but the fever had already begun to run its course and his jaw already refused to work. Slowly he stiffened as ice formed in his veins, burning and chilling at the same time. He gave one last gasp and collapsed, the fever claiming him as a victim. Celessiel sighed and pushed the corpse off herself with her good arm.
"I envy you that peace," she whispered.
With a shaking hand she reached for a healing potion at her belt, feeling her many bleeding wounds keenly now that the fighting was over. As she brought it to her lips, her vision began to blacken, the blue sky overhead whirling in confusion. As unconsciousness took her, an amusing stray thought flitted through her mind.
You were wrong about one thing Sydeirs. There are things more important than your own life, and sometimes you have to do them even knowing that might be the price you pay...
Yes, it was going exactly as planned!
The smile again played over the death knight's features. A hundred more yards and she would encounter the Forsaken encampment from yesterday. The sentinels would fall on the Forsaken, and she could begin her real work. She grinned with triumph as her rapid pace ate up the last few feet and she burst into the clearing where there was...
Nothing.
No Forsaken. No alchemy tables. No tents or guards or anything else. Just the gaping opening of the barrow den a few feet away, and some refuse from the original encampment. The Forsaken had moved their equipment overnight. Celessiel skidded to a halt in confusion, and the sentinels running behind her piled into the clearing, reaching out to grab her. It was in that moment of confusion, when all of the runners were most out of breath, that the Forsaken assassins struck.
There was no warning. One minute there were only breathless sentinels and Celessiel, the next there were dark, shrouded figures with blades slashing everywhere. Unfortunately for Celessiel, since she was dressed as a Kaldorei herself, she was one of the first targetted by the rotted creatures. A figure seemed to almost materialize from nothing directly in front of her, punching forward with two blades. The first impacted on her breastplate and bounced off with the shriek of metal and a spark. The second blade plunged into her side, just above her hip where her breastplate met her belt.
Right where she had been stabbed on the day she fell to the scourge.
The wound wasn't fatal, but as Celessiel looked down at the rusty metal sticking from her flesh and up to the undead, partially rotted creature that held the blade, her mind snapped. She wasn't a death knight, she wasn't in Ashenvale. She was a young Quel'dorei girl, fighting for her life at the East Sanctum. She was dying to the scourge invaders, who would make her rise in undeath. She began to scream, her mind wracked with confusion and the horrible memories of her near-death and enslavement. She flailed helplessly while her foe attacked again.
His second dagger again failed to penetrate her armor, the tip of the blade shearing off as it connected with the curved plate over her heart. The impact staggered her slightly, and her natural reflexes came into play. No matter the state of her mind, her body was trained from years of combat, used to working under enthrallment and without will of her own. Instictually she reacted, a gauntleted fist slamming the Forsaken in the throat and pushing him back. Her other hand drew a runeblade and drove it through his chest. As he died, her mind regained focus; she remembered where she was, who she was and WHAT she was. Clarity poured through her like a clean bath sloughing away dirt and grime. She blinked back her tears and took stock of the situation.
Forsaken and Sentinels were embroiled in a fearsome fight around her. She was wounded, and her plans would quickly unravel unless she acted immediately. She reached down to her belt and pulled out a sphere with a goblin detonator cap on it. Pressing the button on it, she hurled the sphere into the opening of the barrow den, hearing it clink against the stone with some degree of satisfaction. Moments later a loud <crump> could be heard as the device detonated, sending horrificly modified toxins through the barrow den. The mixture was powerful enough to unravel the bindings that kept the enslaved spirits of the druids in their wakeful undeath, sending them to the peace of the afterlife. A small cloud of green smoke hung around the entrance to the barrow and the final shrieks of released spirits echoed through the forest.</crump>
Celessiel smiled and turned. The Forsaken had to believe the Sentinels did this, and the Sentinels had to believe that the Fosaken had attacked them. She pulled a second sphere from her belt and pressed a button. Unfortunately, as she did so, she noticed two alarming things. The first was that the detonator cap had a compartment on top, which opened to reveal 'bonus' explosives. The second was that the detonator's maker had installed the timing clock wrong. Rather than 55 seconds to throw the device and run, Celessiel had 5 seconds...4 as she realized the danger.
"Titan's balls!" she cursed and hurled the device into the middle of the bitter combat. She turned away from it and shouted a word in the language of death. A shield of anti-magic runes shrouded her, just as the sphere detonated. The 'bonus' explosives made the blast so strong that she was picked up and hurled ten feet away, her back pierced in four placed by metal shrapnel, despite her plate armor. A toxic cloud of green mist settled over the fighting, held at bay only by her anti-magic shell and her own hardiness against disease due to her condition. Outside of her shell, she could hear the choking gasps as sentinel and forsaken alike were overcome by the weapon, their flesh rotting off. She grit her teeth and tried to block out the noises; they were horrible deaths, but at the same time clean. None of these people would rise in undeath, and there would be nothing left to enslave to an afterlife of torment.
As the noises of the dying quieted, and stillness overcame the clearing, Celessiel bagan to crawl away from the scene. With her side wounded and the painful shrapnel in her back, her hands and knees would have to do as a means of escape until she could get a healing potion. She painfully made her way through the brush, finally getting out of sight of the devastating battle when a rough hand grabbed her and threw her on her back.
Celessiel looked up in horror to see the Forsaken named Roland glaring down at her. One of his arms had disolved from the toxic cloud in the clearning nearby, but his other was still functioning. He glared at her and fell on top of her, his own strength not much more than her own.
"Going somewhere lovely?" He hissed. "I think it's time we made good on my promise." The Forsaken drew a dagger with his remaining arm, and rammed it into the space between Celessiel's shoulder armor and breastplate. The point bit deep into her underarm, immobilizing her right arm and causing blood to leak between the plates. She shrieked in pain.
"Now we're more even lovely," Roland gloated. "I think I'll make you die slow. Maybe you can help fix up my arm when you do. A bit of your flesh should help to mend my hurts since you think you're so much more alive than us. Unfortunately for you, you'll be alive while I dine."
He squirmed up on her, keeping her pinned to the ground with his weight, his teeth nearing her throat. Wounded, bleeding, and immobilized with one arm, there was little fight Celessiel could put up. She had just one option left. Gently, almost lovingly, she brought her left hand up, pressing two fingers to Roland's withered lips.
"Hush now," she murmured. Her icy touch immediately set Frost Fever into his flesh, and his decaying skin began to frost over with rime in places as the ice formed. "The fever will be cold, but it is a good cold. It will cleanse you of the unlife that was so unjustly thrust upon you. I give you freedom and peace."
His eyes widened, but the fever had already begun to run its course and his jaw already refused to work. Slowly he stiffened as ice formed in his veins, burning and chilling at the same time. He gave one last gasp and collapsed, the fever claiming him as a victim. Celessiel sighed and pushed the corpse off herself with her good arm.
"I envy you that peace," she whispered.
With a shaking hand she reached for a healing potion at her belt, feeling her many bleeding wounds keenly now that the fighting was over. As she brought it to her lips, her vision began to blacken, the blue sky overhead whirling in confusion. As unconsciousness took her, an amusing stray thought flitted through her mind.
You were wrong about one thing Sydeirs. There are things more important than your own life, and sometimes you have to do them even knowing that might be the price you pay...
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