Old Haunts

The sun had set a little over an hour ago, the last light fading in the gathering gloom of the Eastern Plaguelands. The night was only contested by the flickering flames of the bonfire in the center of the Argent encampment, the light glinting off of the armor and weapons of the men who were tending to the camp and keeping watch. Although parts of the Plaguelands had been reclaimed by the living, the undead still roamed the lands, especially during the nighttime hours. It was cruical that the crusaders maintained their guard whenever they stopped to make camp.

As the last of the tents were pitched and the horses were being tended to, several of the men sat by the fire, preparing their evening meal and quietly discussing the advances they had made against the undead during the day. They spoke in hushed tones, trying not to draw more attention to the camp given the nature of the wildlife in the region.

Just as the last of the horses had been given water and the camp's night guards were getting into position, the sound of a horse's hooves could be heard echoing in the night. They came on at a slow but steady pace, growing louder as they drew nearer to the camp. Given that they were in the Plaguelands, the sound immediately caused alarm and several of the men by the fire grabbed their weapons and rose slowly, facing the source of the noise.

In the gloom of night the approaching rider pulled up on their reins, the horse pausing just outside of the light of the campfire. The Argent Crusaders could see the glint of light reflecting from deep purple plate armor, and the rider appeared to be sitting atop an armored warhorse.

“Who goes there? Identify yourself!” one of the crusaders shouted.

The rider paused for a moment, the night's silence surrounding the camp and indistinct figure. After a moment, a voice echoed with a hollow tone from the chain cowl that covered her head, “I am merely a traveler who is passing through,” an eerie female voice responded. “My saddle has a tear in one of the straps, and I thought I would ask if you had any supplies that I could use to mend it. It will only take a few minutes and then I will be on my way.”

The Crusaders exchanged glances with each other, their weapons lowering slightly but not being put back in sheaths. Finally the crusader that had spoken initially responded, “Aye lass, you can mend it here, although it's not often that we encounter travelers at night in these parts. The roads aren't safe, and I'd recommend you continue your journey in the morning.”

In the gloom the rider dismounted, her heavy plate boots thudding in the dead soil of the plaguelands. She didn't respond, and instead merely patted the side of her horse's neck and then walked into the camp, a crown-like helmet and chain cowl concealing her features. One of the crusaders pointed to a nearby stack of crates and the woman wordlessly walked in that direction, seeking the leather needed to repair her damaged saddle. Behind her, the crusaders near the fire again exchanged glances, and the one that had originally addressed her stepped towards her, even as she reached up and removed her helm to get a better look at the supplies. Her golden blonde hair spilled down to her shoulders, and she knelt down as he walked closer.

"Lass, did you hear what I said? It's not safe here at night. You should consider making camp here with us and continuing on in the morning," the crusader said, laying a hand on her shoulder.

Her head snapped around with an almost unnatural motion, and balefully glowing blue eyes regarded the man that had dared to touch her. Almost instantly the man retracted his hand, his breath escaping in a hiss through his teeth. Behind him, the crusaders near the fire gripped their weapons tightly again.

Beckyann offered the man a grim smile before rising and turning to face the man, a strip of leather in her hand. She shook her head, her golden locks bouncing and then falling still to frame her face. She would have been beautiful, had she been a living woman. Her voice echoed out, hollow and dead, the sound not having changed since the removal of her helm, "I think...that you would all be more comfortable if I did NOT remain in your camp."

She began walking towards her horse, which remained outside of the fire's light. She paused halfway there, giving the crusaders another appraising look that was met with dour grimaces and white knuckles on weapons, "Besides, I'm so close to home. There is nothing here that will harm me. Not now. Have a good evening gentleman. As my kind say, suffer well."

With that the woman walked back into the gloom towards her mount, her armor glinting dull purple one last time in the fire's light before she was lost from sight. In the darkness outside of the camp, her mount hissed at her in a very un-horse like manner that was met by a muffled curse.

The men looked at each other and shrugged, slowly relaxing as the sound of hooves drifted over the camp five minutes later. They settled down near the fire, none of them in the mood to sleep now.

**************************************

Beckyann Eastberg grinned as the wind howled through her hair, her deathcharger's hooves pounding away at the soft soil beneath her. With a cruel grin, she dug her heels into the undead beast's flanks, urging it on to ever greater speeds as she headed towards the faint outlines of dilapidated buildings in the distance up ahead.

The town was ruined, and what was worse, it was filled with Scourge and Cult of the Damned members. She had known that before she set out though, and it didn't bother her beyond the passing thought that such creatures now inhabited her former home. Corin's Crossing had not been a place she had lived for many years, and the girl who had once lived there was very much passed from the world.

Just before she reached the outskirts of town, Beckyann pulled sharply on the reins and urged her steed off the path and into the nearby hills, her glowing eyes scanning the foggy night for specific signs. It was a trail she had not used in a long time, and one that she hadn't thought of before her interview with Commander Nis. The other death knight had asked her how her memory was, and Beckyann had responded that she remembered everything, but remembering and actually consciously recalling events and places were two different things, and after giving it some thought, memories had been stirred that she had not thought of it what seemed like forever. Certainly not in THIS life at least.

As the diseased trees of the plaguelands drew all around her, Beckyann brought her mount to a halt and slid from the saddle. The undead beast immediately attempted to snap at her, and she cracked it across the muzzle with the back of her gauntlet, glaring at it until it backed away from her. She grinned, tilting her head to crack her neck before turning and striding into the foliage, looking for something.

In the distant night, howls erupted as one of the plague hounds that now inhabited the former beautiful forest around Corin's Crossing began hunting prey. Beckyann ignored the unnatural nighttime sounds, her eyes searching the trees for a specific mark. After a time she found what she sought; a heart carved into a tree. With a smile, she walked towards it, her fingers tracing the outline of the carving before she moved past the tree to the side of a small rocky hill that rose above the forest. She pressed her hands to the stones and whispered words of magic. The rock before her glittered and then faded, revealing the opening to a very shallow cave.

Beckyann smiled, ducking her head down to step into the opening and looking around. Within were several tables and chairs, bookshelves with a few books on them, and a mirror on the wall. Sconces on the walls were unlit, but the death knight no longer required the light of day to see as she moved towards one of the bookshelves.

She had once been a young woman who studied magic and lived in Corin's Crossing. In an effort to find a quiet place to study what pitiful magic a poor girl from the village could find, she had created the sanctuary in the cave many years ago, only abandoning it when she left to travel to Dalaran for formal training. It was the last little bit of her past, the last remnant of who she had once been. It had only come up in her thoughts after her interview when applying to the Knights of Menethil.

Beckyann reached out, taking one of the spellbooks in her hand. It had been there for all these years; all of her research into magic, a copy of everything she had learned and hoped to accomplish. A record of who and what she was before she passed from life and took a different path. With a sigh, the death knight took the object to a table, opening it and looking at the neat script contained on the pages. She looked up, her baleful eyes meeting her own reflection in the mirror over the table.

A dead woman stared back at her.

There was no denying it, no matter how she much she might remember, and despite what others might say, Beckyann was dead. The girl who had hoped and dreamed within the cave was dead. With a dull thud she shut the book, slipping it into a pouch at her waist. She looked around the room one last time before heading for the exit.

Just before she stepped out of the cave, she paused, looking back at the space where she had had such happy dreams years ago. She shook her head, whispering to no one, "Perhaps one day, when I truly rest, I will return here and dream again. For now though, the dead do not dream; we only exist. It is enough to know that I have found a new place in the world amongst brothers and sisters who understand who and what I am. Farewell."

She muttered in the language of death, and a howling gale of deadly necromantic magic flowed through the room, shredding the remaining furniture and books and destroying the sanctuary utterly. As the last papers fluttered to the ground, the death knight stepped from the opening, heading back towards her steed.

As she rode back towards Acherus, a single thought played through her mind.

Is existence enough, or is there more to this?  Is there truly a place for us in this world? Perhaps time will tell, but at least I will not linger on alone in my restless death. Perhaps then that is a start.