Beckyann Short Number 26

Her blonde hair blew in the wind behind her as the skeletal gryphon carried her high above the rolling plains. Moving swiftly, Beckyann actually closed her eyes and sighed, enjoying the rush of passing over the countryside below her. Far above, the moon and stars shone down in the night upon the grasses of the Arathi Highlands, their light guiding her towards her destination.

Ahead, her goal rose up from the flat lands around it like the broken teeth of some ancient creature. Moss covered stone battlements, many of them damaged by time and warfare, thrust high up into the air and created an outer fortification around the once-proud city of Stromgarde. Within the confines of the walls Beckyann could see lights here and there where torches had been set, the ruins still occupied by men and women of the Alliance who were trying to retake them from the ogres and syndicate members who also had a grip on the once proud city.

Beckyann ignored the torches as she sped over the outer wall, her gryphon heading deep within the city, towards a patch of blackness where no torches were lit. With a smile, she pulled back on the reins, guiding her mount into a spiraling descent towards that black spot. The walls rose up, again looking like hungry jaws as they closed in around her.

She landed in a small clearing, the moonlight shining down on an overgrown and now wild garden, old flowerbeds having given way to an abundance of plant growth. As she slipped from her mount, her boots scraped across weathered patio stones, and she shifted her dress into place, fixing her hair after her long flight.

Around her the city was still and silent, no sound to mar the moment as she patted her dead gryphon once before walking away from it. A thin mist hung in the air in places, the summer's warmth having driven the moisture from the ground and plantlife and left it hanging in the garden like an eerie ghost. She glided through it, pushing her way past two overgrown pillars and heading deeper within the ruins.

Walking down a stone path, she came upon a small marble structure that lay behind the slowly decaying ruins of a church in the center of the city. She smiled when she saw it, knowing that it lead deep into crypts below the surface where the dead lay in repose. She walked slowly past the building, another goal in mind before she would spend time there. As she passed it, her gaze fell upon row after row of headstones, the foliage around them wild and untamed now, obscuring many of them. She nearly giggled with delight, hurrying into the small cemetery.

Moonlight bathed the ancient stones as she walked amongst them, stopping here and there to examine a carving or an inscription. As she pushed deeper into the small forgotten cemetery, her eyes met a particular delight; she spied two heart-shaped stones standing side by side. She walked over to them, slowly sinking down into the grass before them and reaching out. With delicate movements of her black-painted nails, she pried some of the moss from the old monuments. She carefully brushed aside the taller plants that blocked her view of them.

They were intricately carved in loving detail, each heart-shaped with a stone scroll engraved on the front. To Beckyann's delight she saw that the two stones had once been joined together by a stylized wrought iron arrow, piercing both of them through the center. She sighed happily, soaking in the beauty of the piece before reading the two inscriptions:

Mary McTabeth
Loving wife, dutiful mother, loyal citizen. Your light shone too briefly, but was as the sun to us. Without you, the world cannot go on, for you were everything to us. You will be remembered forevermore.

Joseph McTabeth
What man can live with his heart in twain? Taken too soon from us, your love and devotion will carry on into the hereafter, where you shall lie forever by the side of your beloved. We will miss you always.

Beckyann's fingers traced the delicate carvings as she read and reread them over and over, her face thoughtful and her other hand subconsciously clutched over her heart. The inscriptions, the love they represented, moved something deep within her that she barely could understand now. The beauty of that moment, of the stones that represented love eternal illuminated by the pale moonlight streaming into the small cemetery, was to her a most precious work of art. It was something to be cherished and pondered. It was a reminder of mortality, and of the depths of human love. But it was also an affirmation of human perseverance, and the will to go on even when such loveliness was lost.

The death knight sat there for some time, contemplating how wonderful it must have been for the two to have lived, loved, and died together. The dates on the stones showed that they'd had full lives, and died not even a year apart. Clearly meant, no DESTINED to be together for one entire lifetime. It was something she could never have, but something she recognized as the most beautiful and precious treasure in all the world.

Several hours later Beckyann returned to her gryphon, mounting it silently and spurring it up into the sky. If her eyes were glittery in the moonlight and tears stained her cheeks, there was no one there to see it.

She could never let anyone see past the mask after all.

Beckyann Short Number 25

Beckyann sat in her quarters, a fresh sheet of parchment laid out on the table before her and quill in her hand. She dipped the point into an inkwell on the desk and paused, the quill hovering over the page.

"What to call this.." she mused aloud. Names were important, especially for books or manuals. If they were good enough, they got copied by scribes or even put into one of those gnomish machines that printed books and then others would read them. Of course, Beckyann didn't expect too many people to be interested in the topic, just the few that had asked about it.

It had been earlier in the day, when she'd returned to Acherus to file some paperwork for the General's requisitions for the Stormwind headquarters that the request had been given to her. She'd been in Stormwind all day, walking amongst the populace and placing orders or obtaining receipts so that General Glou didn't get upset about any missed details. It also gave her a good opportunity to make herself intimately familiar with the ongoing projects and memorandums that were being issued from the Stormwind office; it was an opportunity that she wouldn't pass up.

Since she'd been amongst the living, she had donned one of her nicer dresses and applied her makeup, as she always did when entering Stormwind. She didn't want the breathers to harass her while she was working, and it made business transactions go more smoothly if the person on the other side of the counter wasn't quaking in fear or staring hatefully at you. With her tasks complete, Beckyann had opened a death gate (discreetly) and returned to Acherus, still wearing her black dress with silver thread-work. As she'd been heading towards her quarters, a group of death knights approached. Three in number, two of them were Kaldorei and one was actually a Sin'dorei.

Much to Beckyann's surprise, the elves had begun asking her questions about her attire, her make-up, her perfume, and even the magic that she'd developed to regenerate her flesh at night. The conversation had gone on at length, and each of the elves had wanted to copy some aspect of what Beckyann was doing. She suspected that each of them had different motives for their request. One of the Kaldorei certainly had wanted to slip back into Darnassus to visit living members of her family. The other seemed like she was out for revenge and simply wanted to surprise her enemy by appearing to be other than what she was. The Sin'dorei, from what little Beckyann could understand of her, apparently wanted to conduct espionage of some sort within her own home city.

Regardless of their reasons, each of them had apparently noticed Beckyann's careful attention to her appearance and believed that the human could give them the results they desired. It had been somewhat flattering to think that the three believed her to be an expert in such disguises, and she had happily agreed to write a small manual with instructions on how to accomplish the goal, complete with the magic spells needed for nightly regenerations of the external flesh.

"But what to call the thing?" Beckyann mused again, smiling at her writer's block. If she was stuck on a title, this was going to take way longer than she'd anticipated.

As her quickly drying quill hung over the page, Beckyann's thoughts wandered to WHY she was good at disguising herself in such a fashion. When one looked at her life experiences quickly, one would see no immediate reason why such a woman would develop a devious mind set on deceiving people she met. So what had brought her to this point?A wry smile played across Beckyann's black lips as she thought about it. If one delved deeper, there was more than enough evidence as to why she was good at this; she'd been wearing a mask her entire life, hadn't she?

She'd pretended in her childhood to be satisfied with the meager possessions and wealth that her parents had, never saying a word about it even though she longed to free herself from poverty and have the nice things that others had. After her parents had passed, she'd been the dutiful apprentice in Dalaran, learning the arts of magic and upholding the edicts and teachings of the Kirin Tor, even though she didn't care a wit about such things and merely wanted the education in magic that would allow her to seek a higher station for herself. When she worked for House Woodbury, she'd been the ever-attentive servant, a teacher for their children and a valuable asset to them even though beneath her mask of servility her hunger for power of her own lingered like venom within her. And now, under General Glou she was the dutiful, loyal soldier, eager to ensure that his operation ran as smoothly as possible, even though she believed that he was endangering her own agenda by reducing the value that the 1113th could bring to the Alliance and therefore putting all of them at risk for additional discrimination and hate.

She was a dead woman who looked as if she were alive. A soldier that plotted against her superiors. A magic user who was trained to use her powers for good, but commanded all of the forces of darkness. Every single thing she did was a mask, a veneer that could be peeled away to reveal....what?

She bit her lip, thinking about it. What was beneath it? Was there ever a time when there was no mask? Perhaps when she had loved Frederick. Maybe when she had believed in something outside of herself. Now though? Now there was nothing but the drive to ensure she existed and prospered. What came beyond that was meaningful only in how it affected her.

Even as she thought these things, nagging doubts nibbled at the edge of her mind. She shook her head to clear the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand. "It matters little what is beneath it all, as no one will ever discover it," she mused again. "Now let me put my skills to good use."

Her eyes sparkled for a moment as the perfect title came to her. With a smile on her lips once more the quill dipped down, scrawling the first line on the page.

Drop Dead Gorgeous: A primer for looking like the living

Beckyann Short Number 24

She always hated Elwynn Forest. Maybe it was the way the trees grew so closely together, or perhaps it was the fact that the brothel houses of Goldshire always attracted the worst dregs of humanity and every other race of the Alliance, but Beckyann always found herself cringing when she had to go anywhere within the confines of the trees.

It was not like the forests of Lordaeron where she had once lived. She took no joy in escaping the crowds of people within the city of Stormwind, and she felt as if nature itself abhorred her whenever she walked beneath the branches of the trees far above. Squirrels would stop their chatter at her passing, and birds would call in alarm, but nevertheless she pressed on.

It had taken her several minutes to walk down the narrow path through the forest towards the neglected cemetery deep beneath the trees. Normally she would not visit such a place, but on this particular occasion Beckyann had a specific objective in mind rather than her normal hobby of visiting graves. There were several supplies that she was low on which would be needed to further some of her research, and the plant known as gravemoss was amongst them. The cemetery within the city's confines was carefully tended, and such plants were not allowed to grow on or around the stones there. It was only here, within the quiet forest with its neglected resting places that she would locate some.

Dressed as a common woman of Stormwind and wearing her darkly tinted glasses, Beckyann might have looked like a living person as she strolled along the forest path. Her dress was black, matching her painted lips and nails but beside her rather morbid fascination with dark colors one might be able to mistake her for a mourner heading towards the small cemetery at the end of the path. As she proceeded on her way, voices filtered through the foliage, the sound interrupting Beckyann's quiet thoughts.

“This is all you've got? Ain't no way you gave us all of it!” a gruff voice said.

“I say we just kill all of em and throw em in the lake. S'not like it don't happen all the time anyways,” another voice replied.

“Bah, let's make some use out of em before we do that. No sense in having wasted all this time if we ain't gonna get some first.” a third said. This was followed by some rough laughter from what sounded to be quite the gathering of men.

Curious despite herself, Beckyann turned from the path, her boots making little sound as she pushed into the dense underbrush. Within a moment or two she had come upon a clearing where a dozen men dressed in rough leathers had surrounded several women. It took Beckyann only a moment to understand that they were likely prostitutes or some other undesirables from the nearby town of Goldshire given their distinct lack of appropriate attire. Clearly the men had picked some of the local women up with the promise of coin, taken them into the forest and then decided to rob them. It appeared they would likely now also be raped and killed.

It was none of the death knight's business. And yet...

Why do I feel sorry for them? Is it because they likely are too poor to do anything more with their lives than this? Or maybe it's because they are too weak to defend themselves, as I once was. I was once powerless and captive myself. No one stood by me. There was no one strong enough or brave enough. The world is not full of heroes and happy endings and fairy tales, but death and hardship and misery.

The thought rankled for some reason, and without really understanding her own emotions, Beckyann found herself stepping into the clearing. She cleared her throat, and twelve pairs of eyes looked up and over at her.

“Well well, what do we have here?” one of the men said. He was slightly larger than the others, and a vicious scar passed from his forehead down his right cheek, likely the result of some knife-work. “And here I was thinking that we'd have to triple up, and then we get the gift of an extra. Looks like we'll only have to double up on em now boys.”

The men around him laughed as they began to circle around Beckyann. She ignored them, striding into the middle of the clearing and pausing, surveying the scene more closely. As she had suspected, the captive women were whores at best; they likely hadn't even been drugged to get them out into the woods. They were just trying to scrape a living from nothing.

“That will be enough gentlemen. This ends here,” Beckyann said, her tone cool.

The men laughed, and their leader stepped forward, coming within inches of Beckyann. He grinned as he leered at her, taking in her form beneath her dress and trying in vain to see past her glasses. “I don't think so lass. It's only just begun. Me and the lads are gonna have a bit of fun since there ain't enough coin here, and then this lot'll be dead. And you're gonna be with em, cause you decided to mind someone else's business.”

As he spoke, he stepped forward and roughly grabbed Beckyann's arm. His other hand came up and lewdly tore at the top of her dress, as if to undo it. For a moment, she played along, even pretending to breathe quickly. Her voice came out softly, hiding the echoing tone somewhat. It whispered in his ear as he bent closer, “You have one last chance to step away from me before you die in the most horrific manner you can possibly imagine.”

The man barked out another laugh, a hand actually coming up to caress the front of her dress as he grabbed Beckyann by the waist. He leaned forward, whispering back, “You ain't nothin but a woman honey. You talk a nice talk, but that's all you are. Ain't nothing you can do bout it. You shoulda learned your place before you came into our forest. We'll get that spunk out of you before we cut ya though lass.”

With that, he leaned forward, intending to lick Beckyann's neck against her will. With almost a grin of delight, she tilted her head, as if he had overpowered her. As he leaned in, she leaned towards him, her teeth coming down on his neck. Her jaws opened quite wide as she jammed his flesh into her mouth, tearing a huge chunk out of it. A normal person likely would have choked, but she didn't need to breathe so it didn't matter.

The man screamed, pinwheeling away as blood gushed from him. Beckyann merely smirked, spitting the chunk of flesh from her mouth and watching him closely. The flesh around the wound she'd made had already started to blacken, disease setting in as the plagues that constantly afflicted her ran through his bloodstream. Still screaming, he fell weakly to the forest floor. She casually walked up to him and crushed his windpipe with her boot, silencing his cries.

Everyone else was completely still as Beckyann looked at them, a smile on her bloody lips. Even the whores had grown silent, no longer struggling, their eyes wide with fear. Casually, Beckyann reached up, pushing her glasses up on her head, her baleful eyes taking in the men and filling them with terror.

“Let this be a lesson to you girls,” Beckyann said silkily. “Never assume that you are stronger than someone else, or that someone else is inferior to you simply because of their birth. This man's hubris, his unyielding pride was his downfall, as it will be for all of the rest of these men. You are better than this, stronger than this, or you can be. Consider this well in the days to come when the nightmares keep you awake in the darkness.”

With that she reached out, a tendril of necromantic magic snatching one of the men up and bringing him towards her. With a foul grin Beckyann struck him down with a howling gale of dark energy, his corpse falling and shattering on the now dead earth beneath his feet. The action caused the others to panic, and the whores began to scream.

And then the real killing began.

Hours later, Beckyann returned to the city, her pouch full of gravemoss and her lips a slightly darker shade of red than she normally colored them. She had a smile on her face and a spring in her step that indicated to any seeing her that she'd had a good day.

Beckyann Short Number 23

The tension in the air was thick. It was almost a taste on the wind, a feeling of impending destruction that could neither be avoided nor turned aside. In the Alliance fortress on the Isle of Conquest, men and women of every race prepared their mounts, said prayers softly, or tried to talk up their bravado to prepare mentally for battle.

Amongst them Beckyann sat atop her deathcharger. Her baleful eyes passed once over the gathering of allied forces before she reached back and grabbed the helmet that was strapped to her saddle. She raised it up, placing the thick metal and chain atop her golden head of hair. The purple colored metal was capped with gold in the shape of a crown, and it always amused Beckyann to think that she and her brothers and sisters were as Kings and Queens of death. The crown of her armor was symbolic of this fact.

She sat in stillness, completely motionless while those around her shifted nervously or made last minute preparations. Her deathcharger sat equally as still, dead mount and rider more still than any living creature could ever be.

No tension, no fear, no weakness flows through us. We do not tire. We do not sit in anxiety. We are calm, patient. We are eternal, and time flows around and through us, but does not effect us. We exist in the moment, for we do not look to a point in the future where we will not be. There is nothing that can challenge us that we are not willing to face.

A horn sounded and the gate in front of the allied forces crashed down, signaling the advance. Hundreds of riders spurred their mounts, the animals (and sometimes mechanicals) lurching forward, slowly picking up momentum. Beckyann kicked her own steed's flanks, the dead creature beginning to move before she had even completed the gesture, knowing that it was time. The thunderous roar of a thousand hooves grew around them as they picked up speed, rumbling steam tanks joining them from along the side of the fortress as they began heading down a gentle slope towards the horde fortress waiting in the distance. Red banners fluttered from its battlements, as if to represent the blood and lives that the structure had claimed. One of many that the Horde had built on the isle, it was a strong-point that could not be contested.

We pass as though we were the wind. We leave nothing behind us but our own graves. No barrier, no distance, no obstacle can slow us. No mountain can break our bones. Like the pale horsemen of myth we ride with ruin in our hands, our steeds tireless, our strides long. The very soil trembles at our passing, and sighs in relief when we are gone.

In the distance, the Horde had unleashed its own forces, and a mighty roar echoed in the air as they charged towards the surging Alliance riders. They had brought their own war machines with them, and as the two sides drew closer both unleashed hell upon their foes. Huge spears of wood hurtled through the air, slamming into the ground or pinning riders. Behind Beckyann and to her right a cannonball landed and exploded with devilish goblin engineering, taking ten riders and simply wiping them from existence in a heartbeat. Others gasped from the sheer shockwave of the explosion but Beckyann simply ignored it and continued on.

A razor sharp disc fired from a glaive behind the Horde lines bounced once in front of Beckyann, skipping across the ground like a stone tossed on the surface of a pond. It flipped upwards, the deadly edge spinning as it carved through the riders in front of her, sending mutilated corpses tumbling from their saddles. By the time it reached the death knight, it had lost altitude again and merely sheered all of the legs from her deathcharger. As the beast hissed in fury, she leaped from the saddle, landing and rolling as her mount died in ruin behind her, the disc continuing in its path of destruction. Beckyann drew her runeblade as she rose, already striding towards the enemies.

If we are challenged, we meet our foe with deadly violence. Designed to destroy, we know our craft better than any other creatures that have ever existed. No shield, no sword, no spell or ward can stay our blades. No prayer or defense can resist our magic. We are devastation to our enemies and horror to our allies. We are oblivion to those who stand against us, and salvation to those who wield us as we were meant to be wielded.

A steam tank rumbled past Beckyann, its exhaust belching out clouds of smoke as it mowed down several Horde outriders. All around the death knight Alliance riders passed, clashing with the Horde forces that had charged out and pushing them back towards the gates from which they had issued. An orc riding a huge wolf attempted to behead Beckyann as it rode past, and she merely ducked and hacked a limb from its mount, allowing the beast and its rider to tumble under the treads of another steam tank that was coming up behind her.

In front of her, battle raged and she stalked into it, her runeblade already dripping with gore and magic on her unencumbered hand. Howling blasts of dark necromantic energy struck out, throwing orcs, trolls, tauren, blood elves, forsaken, and goblins down into ruin, Beckyann continued to push forward, striding on the corpses of the fallen as if they meant nothing to her, her entire being absorbed in the blood lust that pounded through her mind.

We are relentless. Our morale cannot be broken because we do not fear death. We have long since passed beyond the curtain and have stared into the face of what is to come. We have come to terms with our mortality, and risen above it. We cannot be halted, we cannot be slowed, for we know that our purpose, our will is an unquenchable fire that will consume any who go counter to our designs.

As the Alliance forces pushed forward, the Horde faltered, retreating back towards their fortress. At first this was a boon to Alliance morale, but then deadly fire from cannons and siege engines began to fall amongst the riders, cutting dozens down and leaving mangled bodies before the earthen ramparts leading up to the gates.

Ahead of Beckyann, a steam tank was struck in the side by a glaive, the disc shredding its armor and puncturing the boiler. The vehicle exploded, flames and dark black smoke spewing up into the air as burning men and women tumbled from it, screaming out their last. Many amongst the Alliance attackers fell back, but Beckyann strode on, her steps unwavering as she watched a singed gnome from the wreck run towards the fortress, a satchel in his hand. He was met with a withering hail of gunfire and arrows from the walls, and he fell in a pool of his own blood.

Striding swiftly through the curling smoke coming from the vehicle, Beckyann walked up to the gnome, completely ignoring the bullets and arrows that continued to strike the ground around him. She reached down, snatching up his satchel. His dead eyes stared up at her, and she merely turned and walked away from him, towards the fortress.

Though the living may fall around us, and the way may seem impossible, we will carve a path. Our strength, our power was intended to make war upon the mortal races of this world, and war we shall bring. We are the living dead. We are Knights bred of shadow and darkness, dedicated to death but free to protect the living as we please. We are the 1113^th, and none shall thwart us or deny us our destiny, our glory, and our honor.

Bullets raked the ground around Beckyann, some even striking her armor. An arrow punched through her breastplate, the force of it making her stumble for a moment, but she ignored it. It had only punctured a lung after all, not something she was actually using. She strode within twenty feet of the wall, driving her runeblade into the soil before her even as more Horde began to crowd the walls above her, taking aim.

As if they didn't exist, Beckyann swung the satchel around, opening the flap and looking inside. As she knew there would be, there were endless cords of det-tape and explosives tucked neatly within its confines. With a slight smile and nod of thanks to her brothers and sisters of the Knights of Menethil for training her to use such things, she casually reached in and flipped the timer on the explosives on, hearing it begin to tick. Her arm came back and hurled the bag, sending it tumbling end over end towards the wall. It struck the gates halfway up their length, detonating almost instantly. A massive fireball consumed the center of the barricade, and they fell into ruin as the fires roared up. Shrapnel and bits of razor sharp wood flew around Beckyann, several piercing her body and the ground around her, but she ignored them, watching as the walls were breached.

She took up her runeblade, raising it high above her head. Her warcry rose up above the sound of crackling flames, echoing like a forlorn soul calling the dead on their black march to the hereafter. Behind her in the smoke other, living voices took up the cry as the Alliance rallied, seeing the gates fallen. Far above on the battlements, the Horde scrambled to get to the breach, hoping to seal it before it was too late, but it had been too late from the moment Beckyann had first hurled the explosives at it.

We are death. We are ruin. We ARE war.

With a smile she strode into the smoke and flame, eagerly awaiting the slaughter to come, the sound of hundreds of charging men and women washing over her as she herself charged.

Beckyann Short Number 22

Beckyann rolled her eyes behind her tinted glasses, walking slowly across the bridge in the Valley of Heroes. She'd had quite enough for the evening, even if the last part had been more pleasant while she stood and talked with the Corporal. Beyond that one highlight, tonight had seemed to be, to her eyes, a disaster.

Living people were so obtuse sometimes.

She made her way around the outer perimeter of the gates that lead to the trade district, her silver-threaded gown flaring around her ankles with each stride. Although it was evening, she continued to wear the heavily tinted shades that she normally adorned while pretending to be one of the breathers. Normally she would enjoy such an outing, but after tonight the outfit felt stifling, as if she were trying to be something that she had no desire to be any longer.

"Really, how hard is it to keep order?" she mused aloud as she approached the gates. There were guards stationed there in larger number than normal, and they were searching people entering the city. It had created a bit of a queue although in the late evening it was not too terrible. It was obvious that the near-riot at the entrance of the Valley of Heroes had created some concern amongst the enforcers of the law. The delay only made Beckyann's impatience grow.

The evening had gone downhill because of the gathering she'd attended. While Beckyann had visited the self-proclaimed 'Queen's' court on several occasions, this particular visit had resulted in a spectacle that she was still trying to process. A man had been tried for a simple crime of desertion. Protests had started over the legality of trying the man, clergy had come and denounced the proceedings, and what was almost a full-scale riot had occurred at the city gates as various guard groups and political leaders clashed with one another. Being relatively newly arrived in Stormwind and formerly a country girl at that, Beckyann was still trying to add up all of the fallout of the incident in her mind as she waited on line to re-enter the city proper.

It all came down to names. Names and titles and rank and position. Such things could be powerful weapons in the hands of the shrewd. They could build kingdoms up, or tear them down in rebellion. They were so important that everything revolved around them, and yet, to Beckyann, she knew they were meaningless.

As this thought crossed her mind, she reached the front of the line. A guard in a Stormwind tabard stepped up and looked her over, speaking flatly, "Name?"

"Beckyann Eastberg, sir," She responded politely.

The guard looked over some list in his hand; likely a list of wanted names (as if she would ever give her real name if she were a criminal...) and then nodded. "We need to check you for bloody weapons or evidence that you've been rioting. There was some fighting in the streets and a few duels."

Beckyann sighed and nodded as another guard came up and began rather intimately patting her down. As she held her arms up and allowed the man to check her for weapons (she didn't have any!) or any evidence of spilled blood (she mostly didn't have any!) her mind wandered back to her previous line of thought.

Names. What is in a name? Who is Beckyann Eastberg? My first name comes from my grandmother Becky of course, and that is a fine and proud thing. And my last name is the name of a group of peasant commoners who never owned land or properties. I come from nothing, or at least that is what the nobility would tell you, if they happened to still be alive. If I myself happened to still be alive even! 

And that was the problem, wasn't it? That was what was causing the riots in the city streets. That was what caused the political bickering and backstabbing. Names. Blood. Position and power. All of these things meant nothing in the end. Beckyann smiled to herself knowingly.

They think that their posturing means anything. They think that this one is a Queen or that one is a Lord or a Duke or a Baron and it has any real, lasting impact on the world. What they do not realize is that death is the great equalizer. It comes for all of us in the end, and lays us low. We all look the same in our tombs, we are all peasants and vassals of the ultimate Lord Death.

The guard patting Beckyann down gave her a puzzled look as she giggled to herself. Although it was normally pleasant to lay hands on a nice looking woman such as the blonde, there was something off about her. She felt...wrong somehow, cold and stiff even. He looked up at her, gesturing for her to lower her arms. "Is there something wrong with your eyes Miss Eastberg?"

Beckyann offered him a polite smile before reaching up and pushing her glasses into her hair. Her baleful blue eyes looked deeply into the man's own, and he backed up a step, realizing who and what he had just been touching. "Light! You should have TOLD me about that! Ugh, I'm going to be sick!"

For some reason, the man's comments made Beckyann giggle more, a sound that would have been delightful if not for the hollow echo behind it. She shrugged and pushed her glasses back on her face. "Will that be all sirs? Am I free to enter the city?"

The guards quickly stepped aside, gesturing into the city. "Yes yes, just go and get away from us," one of them said.

Beckyann offered them a mocking curtsey before continuing on her way, the guards making a large space for her to pass through, as if they were royal guards and she their Queen. The thought plastered a smile across her face.

In time, all things die. Even those who think they are above the others. But some of us pass beyond even death's reach. We are the true Kings and Queens of this world, because we are here eternally. The little fool by the gate can spout whatever she wishes, all she is in the end is a tool to reclaim the lands some of us once lived in. Barring that, she will die to our enemies, making them stronger and the need for us greater. Either way, it matters little to me as long as I can continue to be.

In a thousand years the names of the lords and ladies of this city will be nothing but dust, their tombs empty and forgotten. But my name, the name of a simple peasant girl from Corin's Crossing, will still be on the lips of others, because I will do more with this existence than they can possibly comprehend.

We are not amongst them anymore. We are above all of this. And we certainly would not have let one of our prisoners ESCAPE. No, this farce will last only so long, but it will be amusing to see how many it takes to the black hereafter with it. 

The dead woman made her way into the thickening crowds of Stormwind's trade district, her mind wandering over these thoughts. No one paid her any heed in her guise. No one realized what walked amongst them.

Just the way she liked the sheep to think and act.

Beckyann Short Number 21

Beckyann's boots pounded on the soft soil as she charged, her armor clanking loudly and her runeblade extended in front of her. Ahead of the charging death knight several black robed figures jumped up in panic as their camp was assaulted. Beneath their cowls Beckyann caught glimpses of pale faces tattooed with dark runes in the manner of the Cult of the Damned.

The camp was small, only a few tents with cages beside them and a portable wagon with a table set on it. Within the cages, and strapped to the table, were several recruits from Hearthglen that had been captured during a training exercise. Although the Cult's power was greatly diminished, a few pockets remained here and there and were intent on returning the power of undeath to the lands. Beckyann was there to ensure that none of them lived to walk away from their bold assault on the Argents of the Hearthglen garrison.

The first two figures perished almost instantly, impaled and slashed by Beckyann's runeblade. The third proved to be better trained, bringing up a sword of his own and parrying her first blow. As the death knight drew her weapon back to strike again, she saw a female cultist chanting and pointing at her. Before she had a chance to react, a spell hurtled towards her.

"Oh sh-" Beckyann began before the magic slammed into her.

The spell was not a combat spell in the ordinary sense, and it didn't trigger any of the anti-magic wards that Beckyann placed on her person. Instead it struck at her mind, and her vision began to blur. In a second, everything faded from sight and a figure stood before her. She blinked, her sword coming down and a hand rubbing at one eye to try and focus. After a moment, the blurry outline of the figure became more clear.

It was her!

Or rather, a version of her. Wearing a powder blue dress and with a healthier complexion, the doppelganger stepped towards her, becoming more real. It was Beckyann to the most minute detail, with the exception that its eyes were a pleasant shade of green rather than glowing blue. For a moment, the two figures stood silent, staring at each other.

"And what is it that you think you're accomplishing here?" the copy said in a soft tone. "Are you the champion, come to save the prisoners from some foul fate? A fate that we already experienced perhaps?"

Beckyann's mouth opened and closed in surprise. She was not sure how to respond to the creature. After a moment, she merely grunted, "Something like that."

"But why?" the copy asked, tilting its head in curiosity. "What purpose does it serve? Will it make them appreciate you? Accept you? Will it cure you of the curse on your flesh? No. It will do none of these things, and will only sate the lust for blood that you have raging within you by a small fraction."

Beckyann frowned, saying nothing. The copy smiled at her, stepping closer, a hand running through her hair, "We were beautiful once. Alive and well. We were the hero then, weren't we? But then we fell into darkness and became something else. Something that has its own nature, its own needs. Remember when you were a thrall of the Lich King? Although you had no will of your own, you needed none, for he understood your needs, your desires. He knew that you had to be fed the blood of the innocent in order to truly thrive. He understood the nature of the creatures he had wrought."

Beckyann bit her lip, looking at the copy in frustration. She could feel the pounding in the back of her head where her bloodlust waited, always wanting more, always needing to inflict more agony, more suffering. It was always with her, just as the creature had implied.

The copy stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Beckyann in a friendly manner, gesturing out before them towards the camp. "And look now, you are here as the hero to rescue these fools. Look at how weak they were, to be caught by pathetic cultists. Look at the suffering they already endure, knowing they will be killed or perhaps indoctrinated in time into the ranks of their enemies. You could inflict so much more suffering. You could command all of the wretches here, as your King designed you to do. You are more than this, and you are not the shining champion here to save the day. You know full well that there is never a happy ending. Their belief in it is like a slap to your face."

Beckyann paused for a moment, her desires battling against her consciousness. The doppelganger stepped in front of her, smiling pleasantly and nodding encouragingly, an image of the young girl she had been before everything had come crashing down around her.

And yet, she is the opposite of me, because she is trying to convince me.

The thought bubbled through Beckyann's mind, and deep within her she felt her spirit stir. The one piece of herself that remained, the part that, although chained, still controlled who and what she was. She shivered once, her runeblade coming up, it's point resting against the hollow of the doppelganger's throat. Beckyann grinned wickedly.

For a moment, they faced off against each other, and Beckyann felt an odd rush wash through her. For a brief second, the doppelganger on the other end of her sword looked at her through glowing blue eyes, and she gazed back with the natural green ones she had been born with so many years before. For a second, she remembered exactly who she was.

"All tales have an ending, and sometimes it is not what you think," Beckyann said, her voice heavy with restrained fury. "You are not the past, not the person I was. These cultists are not weaklings, but instead deluded. Their prisoners are not toys to play with, but people who deserve a chance to live a life that I myself didn't get a chance to live."

She paused before plunging the point of the blade into the doppelganger's throat, "And I am not the villain, even if my armor does not shine as brightly. Begone."

The creature popped as if it had never existed, and the shroud of magic lifted from Beckyann's eyes. Her runeblade had impaled the cultist she'd been fighting in front of her, but during the visions the spellcaster had stepped closer, so close that she was almost intimately embracing the death knight. She grinned, her hands plunging a dagger into Beckyann's side, slipping it between two plates.

"You're dead!" the cultist cried triumphantly, her voice echoing across the camp and sending the prisoners into despair.

Beckyann looked down at the knife protruding from her and then back up at the cultist and spat out a sarcastic response, "No shit, really?"

The cultist's eyes widened as the death knight reached for her, completely ignoring the blade sticking from her chest and slicing through organs that likely would have been vital to a living person. With unnatural strength Beckyann reached out and slammed her fist into the woman's windpipe, collapsing it. She watched with some degree of enjoyment as the cultist crumpled to the ground, gasping and choking as she tried to draw in a breath. The death knight withdrew the dagger that had pierced her, rolling her eyes and tossing it away before giving the dying woman a few kicks.

She walked past her victim, kicking another dead cultist out of spite before heading towards the caged Argents. As she unlocked their cages and freed them, an errant thought passed through her mind.

Sometimes a hero is not what one thinks it is I suppose. Had a death knight rescued me from that ziggurat, I would have been eternally grateful. I guess it is not what you are, but what you do that matters. As I've said before, evil is a conscious choice. One's nature is not. There is a world of difference.

Beckyann Short Number 20- Holy Place

They say sometimes a spirit wanders the world after death, seeking redemption or to put one last thing right that they had not finished in life. They say these spirits dwell on in the places where they died, seeking a way to ease their passing into the next world. 

 *The Plaguewood, Current Day*

With some effort, the wooden doors were forced inward. One of the two barriers had fallen from its top hinge, and the heavy wooden obstacle dragged with a loud scraping noise across the dirty stones of the ziggurat. With the barriers removed, sunlight streamed weakly into the opening of the dark structure, the shafts of light illuminating particles of dust as they danced in the air. The sun was blocked as a figure stepped into the doorway, pausing to peer into the building.

Beckyann took in a deep, unnecessary breath, as if she were trying to sense what was deeper within the abandoned structure. The Cult of the Damned had used these places for foul rituals, for torturing their victims, and for making their plans to spread the plague further throughout Lordaeron. With the major defeats that they had suffered in recent years, many of the structures were abandoned entirely, or used infrequently at the least. The Plaguewood was still firmly in their control however, and Beckyann could sense the undead wandering through the diseased mushroom growths just beyond the structure.

Stepping past the opening, the death knight slowly made her way deeper within. Her plate boots echoed loudly in the hollow passageways, the sound bouncing from the irregular surfaces and returning to her in distorted bursts. With nothing to block the sound other than a few tattered scourge banners that hung here and there, she was the only thing within the entire ziggurat making a noise.

As if in a dream, Beckyann pushed further in, knowing where she was heading even if she didn't know the course to get there. It almost called out to her, like a lost lover spreading his arms wide, and she found herself drawn deeper inside the stone building, walking down curving ramps and into chambers carved below the ground.

She entered a central chamber, the stone floor pitted and stained. Above it, chains hung, their rusty lengths holding hooks that still had scraps of rotten material dangling from them here and there. A few of them began to clink lightly in the wind of Beckyann's passing, but nothing else disturbed the stillness. In the room where she stood, there were five doors to choose from. Beckyann knew that each of them lead to a similar chamber, but she did not have to guess which door she was seeking. She could feel it, as if she'd always known where to go. Hesitantly she stepped towards it, her hand reaching out to push the wooden door open that blocked her view.

The chamber beyond was small and dark. Burned out torches on wall sconces once illuminated it with a dull glow but now the room held only blackness. Beckyann whispered a word and the two torches burst back into light as a flickering blue scourgelight appeared on each. She stepped through the doorway, studying every detail of the place.

What little she could smell of the air had the sent of mold and old blood. It left a coppery taste in her mouth to even be in the room, although she could not tell if this was a result of the atmosphere or of the memories that threatened to bubble up within her. As she stepped further into the room, her eyes locked on the one object that it contained; a wooden table. A torture table.

The table where she had been tortured to death.

She walked towards it, her footsteps hesitant as she reached out a hand. She closed her eyes, her fingers running across the bloodstained wood where a thousand victims had met their end at the hands of the Cult of the Damned torturers. Her fingertips found every divot, every pit and scratch in the wood. She opened her eyes, running her fingers up near the top edge of the table, where her hands had once been strapped. She felt the marks her own fingernails had gouged into the wood as she experienced the agony that eventually killed her. A dozen dozen other marks also pitted the surface; the remnants of victims before and after her.

The touch sent a chill through her as memories flashed through her mind. She saw blood and rusty, bladed instruments. She saw the chilling smile of the man that slowly killed her. She heard his voice as it echoed from the rough stone walls, always asking her about her magic. She heard her own screams as they bounced around within the chamber, and the furious denials she gave him. She heard the drip of her own blood as it ran from the table, heard the sound of metal cutting flesh. She felt once again the last sigh as life fled and her spirit gratefully left the pain behind.

Slowly Beckyann removed her hand from the table, her body trembling. It was important that she come back to this place, if only to face the memories and try to come to terms with what had happened to her. Here a young Dalaran-trained mage had met a gruesome fate. Here a citizen of Lordaeron had been slain by traitors sworn to a cult of death that would wipe out their own nation. Here a maiden had died, with no champion to burst through the doors to free her at the last moment, with no happy ending. Here she had passed, defiant until her last breath.

Beckyann reached into a pouch, removing the scepter she had retrieved from the noble in Stormwind. It glittered in the light of the torches, as if it remembered this place. It's cold handle felt somehow wrong in Beckyann's hand, and she gently placed it down on top of the table, her mind recalling the magic it contained, and the agony it could produce on a torture victim.

The death knight stepped back for a moment, taking in the scene and recalling every second of what had happened to her. And then she reached into her pouch again and withdrew a cloth-wrapped object. It was warm to the touch, and it was something that she should not have and that the other knights of the 1113th would abhor on sight. Carefully, she removed the wrapping and walked towards the door, object in hand.

She turned back towards the table, murmuring aloud as she tossed the object towards it, "Rest in peace Beckyann Eastberg. May your vengeful spirit send many more into the hereafter with you."

The object tumbled end over end as it hurtled towards the table top. Made of glass, it was a large bottle containing a liquid that was almost too bright to look upon. Holy Light flowed from it, the blessed holy water having been delivered to Beckyann directly after being blessed at Light's Hope Chapel. As it came down on the table, the glass burst, spraying the holy, purified liquid across its surface and coating the scepter there.

Beckyann shielded her face as the holy radiance of the liquid set the table top and scepter aflame. The unholy artifact detonated, sending bits of shrapnel around the room. The death knight calmly walked away as the place burst into real flames, the unholy energies clashing violently with the Holy Light she had brought into the darkness. Her skin reddened a bit, as if she'd spent too much time in the sun, but she paid the stinging pain no heed as she slowly walked away.

As she stepped back into the light of day, smoke began to curl from the ziggurat behind her as the Light ate away at the foul place, laying to rest the torture chambers and the memories that had tormented her for so long. She smiled once, never looking back as it burned away.

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

They say sometimes a spirit wanders the world after death, seeking redemption or to put one last thing right that they had not finished in life. They say these spirits dwell on in the places where they died, seeking a way to ease their passing into the next world. 

Sometimes they are wrong though. Sometimes a spirit stays by its own choice. Sometimes, even when the path is clear to the hereafter, strength of will may keep a spirit in this world, so that others never have to die as it did.

Sometimes to simply exist is enough. 

Beckyann Short Number 19- Moments

Beckyann heaved the stone up, her arms straining as she brought it down into place on top of the monument. It was the last piece that had been knocked off and she dusted her hands against each other as she stepped back to look at it. The object had once been a tomb laying in the heart of Lordaeron, but the Scourge had disturbed it, snatching the body from it and destroying the beautiful memorial in the process. Some clever necromancer had also left a deadly trap behind that would add new dead to ranks of the scourge if it were set off. Of course, such traps were a concern for the living only.

Beckyann smiled at her handiwork, starting to turn around. The old woman had asked her to repair the memorial to her beloved but was too weak to do the work herself. As the death knight opened her mouth to indicate that she had completed the work, her eyes widened in shock. Where the old woman had stood, a small bronze dragon now rested. The creature offered her a toothy grin, dipping its head, "Thank you Miss Eastberg. You have honored him as I could not. The trap on it would have slain me also, and I'm not so familiar with death magic that I could have undone it as you did. I am sorry for the deception, but it was the only way I could have his tomb repaired."

Beckyann merely blinked at the creature, still too stunned to speak. A deep chuckle escaped the beast and it dipped its head again, "We are told, when we are young, not to take on the forms of the shorter lived races, as there is risk. Not to our bodies, but to our hearts. I loved a man that died many thousands of years before I myself will pass from this world."

The creature paused, looking the death knight over with large reptilian eyes, "And what of you? You have done me a boon, and therefore you shall have one as well. What would you undo, if you could? I cannot alter the course of history, but I can grant you a gift. One mistake, undone as you please."

Beckyann frowned, shaking her head before answering, "The past is what it is. I cannot alter it nor should I. The present is confusing enough as it is."

The dragon chuckled at this response, tilting its head. "No? You would change nothing at all? I can see the thread of your life. There are many moments I suspect you would change. Such as...."

Magic flared and a memory came unbidden to Beckyann.

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

*Corin's Crossing, Several years before the plague of undeath*

"Beckyann Eastberg! You get in here right this instant," a voice called from the next room. Beckyann sighed, her green eyes rolling once as she tied closed the last laces on her backpack. She rose from where she'd been sitting on her bed, her seventeen year old frame still lanky and thin from the scarcity of food but not entirely starved either. Turning to ensure that everything was in order in her rather messy bedroom, the young girl hurried from her room and into the small living room/dining area of their family's cabin in Corin's Crossing.

"Yes mother?" she said sweetly, knowing that being polite might be a LITTLE help.


Laying on their one, beat-up couch, Beckyann's mother sighed at her daughter. Her golden hair had a touch of gray in it, and there were new lines around her eyes that Beckyann didn't remember seeing in recent years. She coughed hard before she managed to get a response out, shivering beneath her blankets. 


"I don't want you going up to that grotto today Becky," her mother said. "I know you like to go there but there's chores to be done here and your father isn't feeling well. He can't sharpen those knives the butcher needs and we need the coin. Can you stay home today to help out?"



Beckyann frowned in irritation. Her mother had been sick for days now and her father had caught whatever it was that was going around. Even so, the thought of being stuck in the workshed out back all day sharpening blades was enough to set the teenage girl's teeth to grinding. She offered her mother a pout, "I stayed in and helped YESTERDAY mother! I've got an experiment going on in the grotto and I want to check on it. It's important!"


Beckyann's mother sighed, the sigh turning into another series of wracking coughs. She looked at her daughter through glassy eyes, a frown on her face, "I know it means a lot to you Becky, but family's important too, and your father needs your help. You want him to have to do all the work 'round here while I'm laid up? Don't argue with me, just help him."


Beckyann could have screamed. Her parents never believed that she would accomplish anything with the scant bits of magic she'd found she possessed, and to her young mind this was just another roadblock in her path. The experiment would be ruined and she'd have to start all over! She put her hands on her hips, a frown on her face, "No. I need to tend to my experiment. I'll be back before sundown and THEN I can help him. You never take me seriously mother! I'm doing very important things! You'll see!"


With that she turned and walked back towards her room. Behind her, her mother coughed again, shaking her head and protesting weakly, "Becky, I know you're going to go places, but sometimes you gotta slow down and think about what's important. Your father needs you and I can't help him right now."


Beckyann shut out the voice, furiously snatching up her backpack. It was just like her mother to make her feel guilty for ONE DAY away from the cabin by appealing to her sense of family. She KNEW her mother always took care of them, but why couldn't she understand that Beckyann had things she needed to see through also? 


With a resolute look on her face, the young blonde teenager stormed out of her room, marching past her mother and towards the door. She didn't turn to face her as she grabbed the door handle, "I'll be back later mother, and then we'll talk."


She left and went to her grotto, spending the day there engrossed in her budding magical skills, returning at sundown. By then of course it had been too late. The sickness that her mother had been battling for days began to gain the upper hand. The woman had looked feverish and pale when her daughter came home, and had been unable to speak past the fluid that was slowly filling her lungs. Within twelve hours, Beckyann's mother had died, drown by the flu that was eating away at her. 


And then her father's cough began to worsen....

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

She had fallen to her knees as the vision flashed through her mind, her hands outstretched in front of her, the soil of the plaguelands grinding into the legs of her armor. Tears streamed down her face, the fluid dark and unhealthy looking from her unnatural state. Beckyann blinked to find she had been weeping openly, the memory like a searing hole in a heart that had stopped beating many years before.

Behind her, the dragon whispered softly to her, "I can undo that moment. You can spend the day with her. You can say goodbye."

Muscles clenched in Beckyann's neck as the emotions washed over her. Confusing, agonizing feelings flowed through her that she couldn't sort out and didn't understand. Despair, grief, sorrow, mourning and guilt all mixed in a toxic cocktail within her. Her only defense was to reach for the feelings that sustained her, that allowed her to exist in her current state.

Rage.

It pounded in her mind like a hammering pulse, the feeling so intense it almost blinded her at first. Her outstretched hands clenched into fists and her voice hissed from between her teeth, the menace obvious to all. "How DARE you? How DARE you make me experience that again? How DARE you attempt to manipulate my emotions?"

She rose slowly, facing the creature directly, hateful malice in her gaze now. The dragon's head moved back, confusion on its face. "I only sought to give you a gift...to change a mistake..."

Beckyann trembled with rage, staring the creature down. "Leave. Now. Get out of my sight. We are what we are because of our mistakes. BECAUSE we have to learn lessons that are sometimes painful. That does not mean we have to relive those moments over and over!"

"Miss Eastberg, you misunder-" the dragon began.

The creature was cut off by the deadly sound of Beckyann's runeblade being drawn. It came free with a metallic shiver that hung in the air like the promise of doom. The dragon became alarmed to notice that the death knight actually appeared to be breathing, her rage so extreme that her chest rose and fell regularly. It moved towards her, "Miss Eastberg, please there is no need for-"

"I SAID LEAVE NOW!!!!!!!!!!!" her voice came out in a howling shriek, her eyes flaring with magic. Fierce gales blew in the air around her, the icy touch of the wind coating the ground in frost. Her hair broke free of its ties, the blonde strands blowing wildly around her, framing a face that had nothing but hate written on it.

When the dragon didn't move fast enough, the death knight lurched at it with unnatural speed, the blade coming down. It struck where the bronze's leg had been a moment earlier, severing a talon but causing no permament damage. The dragon hopped backwards, wings flapping as it took to the air, the gales buffeting it.

"I'm so sorry Miss Eastberg. I will leave you to your grief then."

As it flew away, Beckyann threw her runeblade at it. The weapon fell far short, arcing back down to the ground and sticking point first in the soil. The creature disappeared into the distance, a glittering dot in the sky, leaving behind it nothing but endless malice.

Beckyann Short Number 18

Beckyann pulled on the reins of her deathcharger, causing the dead animal to stop short. It turned it's head, hissing at her in irritation but she paid it no heed, her eyes looking past it and towards the golden glow ahead of her on the road. Even through her tinted glasses she could sense the power that she was approaching, and it made both her and the deathcharger uncomfortable.

She bit her lip, uncertain as to what to do next. With no answer forthcoming, she slowly slid from her saddle, taking care to keep her dress orderly as her boots touched the tainted soil of the plaguelands. Not three feet ahead of where she'd dismounted the ground was changed. The dry, brittle grass and decayed plant-life gave way to an expanse of green grass and healthy looking plants that ran all the way up to the gleaming white stone wall ahead. Beckyann took it all in at a glance, understanding that the power of the Light at Light's Hope Chapel had allowed the land to be healed of the infestation that it had suffered from when the Scourge had been at their strongest in the region.

Hesitantly, Beckyann pulled the letter she had received from Frederick from a pouch, her shaking hand holding it up again as she read and reread the words that had been put to paper by the man. She looked past the letter to the gleaming structure ahead. She knew he'd be there, amongst the Argents. It was where the document originated from.

But should I follow through on this? Should I really go there to speak to him? CAN I even go there? 

It was a quandary that had been nagging at her mind since she received the letter. Was it a wise idea to reconnect with the past? Was her unlife an existence that allowed for friendships and relations from her time alive to be reborn? Or was the pale shadow of what she was a barrier that she should never attempt to penetrate? They were questions that were not easily answered, even by those with far more experience than she had. What was a country girl to think of with such weighty matters on her mind?

And yet, Lenneth had been kind to me. She had indicated that her own brother was as I am, and that she still valued the fact that she could connect with him. And the Argents I've met at Hearthglen have been accepting, even if I can't fathom why. None of them have scorned me. Perhaps I CAN do this?

Beckyann nodded to herself resolutely. She would go forward and find out if it were possible. She would find out if the dead could live amongst the living and remain connected to those they'd lost. She reached out and patted the side of her deathcharger, ordering it to stay put in a low tone. Predictably the beast attempted to bite her hand and was rewarded with a swift cuff to the side of its head. She paid the creature no further heed as she began to walk towards Light's Hope, her thoughts on the past.

She had not gone five feet before the pain began. At first it was subtle, like too much sun on a warm summer day. It made her feel warm where she normally was cold, and the fact that she could even identify that there was a temperature change should have been a warning sign. A few more steps brought the first hints of pain as her undead form was punished for treading upon sacred ground. She grit her teeth, forcing herself onward, understanding the price that she was required to pay to go to such a place.

But Light's Hope was not just a holy place, it was a sacred place of the Light far more powerful than any other place she had ever visited. The very ground itself had repulsed the efforts of her entire legion when they were Scourge, and there was little difference in that power now. Although she came with no ill intent, Beckyann found the searing agony of the place more than she could bear. After a few more steps she faltered, standing on the road trembling with pain.

She saw figures approaching from the opening in the stone wall; a patrol of Argents going out to aid in whatever efforts they were working on at the time in the plaguelands. As they approached, she could make out their gleaming armor and white tabards and hear the banter between them. They saw her after a few minutes, their voices falling silent.

"Miss, do you need assistance?" one of them asked, concern in his voice. He was a human, a knight much taller than Beckyann. She found herself unable to answer, her voice robbed of its power as she was wracked by the Light. She shook her head slowly.

The Argents had paused in front of her, and now all of them had the same worried expression on their faces. Beckyann would have laughed if she'd been able to get anything out of her mouth that was not a scream of agony. The irony of having these holy men and woman concerned over her well-being was not lost on her. The leading knight spoke again, his tone holding the same concern, "You do not appear to be well Miss. Do you need us to escort you to the chapel? I'm sure the healers there could tend to whatever ails you."

This time Beckyann DID manage to bark out a laugh, imagining the utter torment that she would experience if she were brought TO the chapel to be healed by a Light wielder. She shook her head, her hand coming up to push her glasses up to rest in her blonde hair, exposing her baleful eyes. The Argents all blinked in surprise and then nodded knowingly.

"Maybe you should turn back Miss. Sometimes the grounds can harm your kind," the Knight said. His tone was still compassionate, and for some reason it made Beckyann feel a flare of fury deep within her.

It isn't fair.

She shook her head, brutally bringing her mind and body under the dominance of her will. Speaking past the agony, she croaked out a few words, "Came to see. Frederick Lightstone. S-sorry. Shouldn't have come. Can't go on."

A particularly nasty jolt of pain shot through her and Beckyann brought a hand up to her face. When she looked at it, it was covered with blood that had begun to run from her nose, the diseased, brackish fluid sticky on her fingers. The Argents began to look even more concerned, a female High Elf stepping forward and gently grasping Beckyann's arm.

"Miss, please. Take a few steps back. I believe Captain Lightstone is near the chapel with his wife at the moment. I can send someone to come fetch him if you'd like to see him," the elf said gently.

Beckyann's eyes widened in surprise.

Wife. He's with his wife. Why did I assume...? Why did I think that he wouldn't move on? I'm dead. I left his life. Of course he would find someone. He didn't write because he still loved me, he wrote to assuage his own guilt. Maybe a part of him still loves the girl that died, which is why his letter was so soft spoken, but he has moved on. As I should have. I should not be here.

I should not be anywhere.

Suddenly irritated, Beckyann wrenched her arm free of the elf's grip and turned, stalking back towards the polluted ground further away from the Chapel. The Argents stared at the strange woman, watching as her dress stirred up the dust of the plaguelands. When she was safely far enough from the ground to regain her composure, Beckyann turned, wiping the rest of the blood from her face. She looked at the Argents and spoke softly, "Thank you for your assistance, but I do not wish to disturb Captain Lightstone. I merely wanted to ensure that he was well. It sounds as if all is in order here. I will be on my way now. Good day to you."

With that she grabbed her saddle and pulled herself up, mercilessly digging her heels into the flanks of her deathcharger, tugging on the reins and heading towards the pass that would lead to Acherus. Behind her, the Argents exchanged looks amongst themselves before they shrugged and continued their foot patrol.

The human that had first spoken to Beckyann watched as she rode away, shaking his head slowly. As he turned to join his companions, he murmured softly to himself, "That poor, cursed thing."

Beckyann Short Number 17

Beckyann smiled as she flipped the page in the book before her, baleful blue eyes scanning the old writing contained on each page. She lay on her belly on her bed in her quarters in Acherus, the book laid out on the covers before her and her feet up in the air, ankles crossed behind her. A small chuckle escaped her as she flipped another page and read on, a hand coming up to casually push an errant strand of her blonde hair from her face.

The book she was reading was the spellbook that she'd retrieved from her secret grotto in the foothills near Corin's Crossing. It had been many years since she'd read through it, and it amused her now to see her thoughts about magic, her hopes, and her desires from many years ago laid out before her like the pages of a history book. Some of the things she'd written had made her laugh; such as her description of a crush she'd once had on a local boy from town. Other things had been sobering, such as her entries where she discussed the loss of her parents and tried to sort out her emotions about it.

As she flipped the pages, she found a set of magical phrases scrawled on a page, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise as she instantly recognized the spell. “No, it can't be, can it?” she murmured.

Taking the book in hand, she sat up, laying the text down in her lap as she began to recite the words. Magic that she'd not called upon in many years flowed in the air, and suddenly there was a slight 'pop' as the power manifested itself. Almost instantly, her quarters became host to a sound not heard in Acherus ever; the chirping of a living songbird.

The snowy white bird fluttered about the room, chirping happily as Beckyann stared at it, her eyes wide. It had been so many years since she'd seen her Familiar that she had no idea what to think of it. The creature had been an incarnation of her budding magical power as a young girl, and it had often accompanied her on her adventures as a teenager or assisted her with her magical research. It represented a piece of who she was, a part of her magic and power, and a sliver of her very soul. To see it again brought a rush of unfamiliar emotions through her.

“It's been so long,” she said softly. Instantly the bird began to fly around the room, circling closer and closer to her head, it's song echoing through the stone chambers and down the hallway nearby, the sound a pleasant melody that was utterly alien in such a place of death.

Hesitantly, Beckyann held a hand up. As it had when she was alive, the songbird circled closer and then happily landed on one outstretched finger, chirping at her. For a brief moment in time, Beckyann felt like she was a young mage again with a fresh future ahead of her and the world at her fingertips. The bird's song echoed peacefully through the room, and she felt a calm descend over her.

It was not to last sadly. The bird's head tilted as it studied her and it's song faltered. Bird eyes met the glowing curse of the scourged and something indefinable passed between the two. Beckyann shivered as she felt a cold gale of magic wash through the room, and another 'pop' was heard as the spell she'd conjured went terribly wrong.

A second bird appeared in the air where the first had, a dead, black crow that gave off a coarse cawing rather than a pleasant melody. The creature spread tattered wings and fluttered about the room, it's decayed body hollow in spots and its bones visible on its ribcage. Spotting the songbird, the black thing dived down, talons extended. As it attacked, Beckyann realized that it too was an incarnation of her magic and soul, only in its current form. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the beloved pet and companion of her childhood torn asunder by the cursed existence that she lived in now.

To Beckyann's great surprise, there came no cawing or screeching as there would have been if bird had struck bird. She opened her eyes to find that the songbird had taken flight, avoiding the attack and that both creatures circled her now. It was like an omen, the light and love of her youth and the decay and darkness of her unlife, both a piece of who she was and what she was. A beloved friend and hated enemy both present in the air.

The darkness was not finished though, and the dead crow again assaulted the songbird, it's black, rotted claws extended to take the smaller creature from the air. This time its attack was faster, and almost unavoidable as it struck out. The white bird fluttered in mid-air, and just as it seemed it would be struck it did a barrel-roll, coming up above the crow. Beckyann watched with wide eyes as its own little claws came out and raked across the back of the dead crow.

The black bird shattered into a hundred tiny pieces of shifting darkness and then was gone. The songbird fluttered once in the air, chirping its sweet melody again before it dove down towards the spellbook in Beckyann's lap. It collided with the page, and the runes that represented its spell glowed brightly, even as a small image of the bird was burned into the bottom of the page and the creature itself disappeared.

For long moments afterwords, Beckyann sat unmoving on her bed, simply staring at the newly burned emblem in her spellbook. After a time, she slowly closed the book over, her hand caressing the battered leather cover. As she thought about the encounter, she realized with a start that her heart had been beating the entire time the bird had been present, as if it strengthened the parts of her that still existed from her previous life.

Shaking her head slowly, Beckyann set the book down and laid back in her bed, her glowing eyes staring up at nothing as she tried to understand what the visitation had meant. Memories flowed through her of a time when the world was a much brighter place.

Did the banishment of the crow mean something? Was it a sign that there was more to her unlife than the dark magic that sustained it? The questions would burn in the death knight's mind for many days to come.

Beckyann Short Number 16 (A chase!)

Beckyann dashed around the corner, finding herself in a long corridor with stained glass windows looking out over the ocean on one side. The slanting rays of the dying sunlight sent colors dancing playfully across the marble floor, but she had little time to pause to admire the view. In a rush, she dashed off towards the far end of the corridor, her thick-heeled maryjane shoes echoing loudly on the stones as she picked up speed. Her dress and petticoats billowed out behind her as she ran, her hands bunching the material at her hips to allow her greater speed.

Behind her from the doorway that she'd emerged from, muffled shouts and the clatter of armor moving quickly across stone could be heard. Beckyann didn't pause to look back as she continued her mad flight, even as the first of the armored men rushed into the corridor, pointing and shouting, “THERE SHE IS! THIS WAY!”

Beckyann rolled her eyes, a hand releasing her dress for a moment to check the pouch at her hip. She grinned as she felt the object there, her mind recalling the events of the day.

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

It had all started mid-afternoon. She'd been out and about around Stormwind, procuring some supplies and going about her duties. As she'd wandered through the outer Canals near Cathedral Square, she passed the opening to a large building that had a crowd of people in it. Curious, she'd paused and discovered that an auction was going on.

That is when she saw it.

The object that was being bid on was something that had no place in Stormwind. Even as Beckyann stared at it in abject horror, the auctioneer began the bidding process. Long and thin with a red gem on top, the object was a scepter that the auctioneer had indicated was a magic wand, but Beckyann knew so much better.

It was a scourge artifact!

Not only was it heavily imbued with necromantic energy, but Beckyann knew exactly what the object was used for. It was precisely like one of the devices that the Cult of the Damned had used to torture her to death years ago. Now it was sitting in the middle of Stormwind, being presented as a magical artifact with valuable gems on it. It had taken Beckyann a while to snap back to attention as the mere sight of it sent memories flowing through her that she preferred not to even think about. She noted that none amongst the rather rich looking clientele at the auction appeared to be spellcasters themselves. Likely they were collectors looking to pick up a rare piece.

She had watched as various people bid on the item, noting which ones were willing to spend the most on it. As she bit her lip in tension, she witnessed a dark haired man in an expensive suit making the final bid and coming to collect the item to a spattering of polite applause. The auction continued, but Beckyann hadn't cared; she'd stayed just outside the building, watching and waiting.

When the man had emerged, she'd 'accidentally' collided with him, sparking a conversation. With her expensive dress that she'd looted from some noble family's tomb in Lordaeron and her tinted glasses, the rich man, who'd introduced himself as Lord Geoffrey Edgewood, had believed her to be a young noblewoman from the city. With his newly purchased package in hand, he'd offered Beckyann his arm and escorted her to his manor house on the edge of the city for brunch.

The death knight had happily played along. Beyond her desire to obtain the artifact, it had been nice to be treated as a living woman, even if she knew it was a lie. From the moment he began escorting her though something felt out of place, and it was not just the object he'd purchased.

The visit to his manor house had gone almost text-book predictably. He'd taken her on a brief tour, leaving his purchase in a sitting room. Then he'd taken her to a large dining hall where he proceeded to make small talk with her for over an hour while his servants prepared a completely unnecessarily large brunch. Things had, as Beckyann expected they would, taken a turn for the worse as time wore on. He became annoyed when she ate only a few nibbles of food. He looked at her in puzzlement as she continued to wear her glasses even though they were indoors. He had almost glared at her when she'd sipped the fine wine he offered and taken no more, and when her flesh had not developed the flush of drunkenness that he likely had been hoping for.

After a time, he'd risen in what Beckyann believed was a huff to go 'deal with some business'. As he walked out, she smirked to herself and quickly rose from her seat, heading for another doorway from the massive dining room. She'd wandered the halls of his manor-house, her senses always aware of the location of the scepter, moving quickly towards it. When servants questioned her, she'd politely told them she needed to use the powder room, and they'd helpfully given her directions which she promptly ignored once they were out of sight.

At last, she'd found the den again, complete with the wrapped package that contained the scepter. Slipping into the room, she'd unwrapped it, holding the deadly artifact in her hand, the memories that it stirred in her making her hand tremble. Of course, at that moment, the Lord Edgewood had entered the den, immediately pointing and shouting.

And so the chase had begun.

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

Beckyann's shoes skidded on the marble as she struggled to maintain her balance. She had not exactly been planning on running from angry guards when she'd dressed that morning. As she reached the end of the corridor, her hands came up in front of her, pushing open the double doors at the corridor's end and bursting into...

Sunlight. A balcony overlooking the ocean. A dead end.

She skidded to a stop, whirling to look back down the hallway. Several guards burst through the double doors behind her, weapons in hand. Lord Geoffrey Edgewood walked up behind them, a smirk on his face as he pushed his way past his men, “Going somewhere with my property, Lady Eastberg?”

Beckyann almost giggled at the fact that he had called her 'lady' but she shook it off and offered him a scowl instead, “This is not something that a citizen of Stormwind should possess, my Lord. It needs to be taken somewhere for safe keeping. Such objects can inflict terrible pain on others, or even worse, be used in illegal and foul rituals.”

The man laughed, a smile crossing his face as he stared at Beckyann, “Lady Eastberg, I am quite well aware of what the object does. More so than you I am sure. Now hand it over before my men have to take it from you.”

He gestured and two of his guards stepped forward. Before they had taken two steps Beckyann's hand shot up and a tendril of dark energy flew out. It wrapped around the hilt of one of the swords and yanked it from the man's hand, depositing it neatly in her own hands. It was not a runeblade, but it would do.

“I cannot allow that Lord Edgewood. Please withdraw your men. I do not wish to fight with them,” Beckyann said.

The noble scowled, shoving his men aside again, “I can see that you are more than you appear, but then, so am I Lady Eastberg. I was not asking you to relinquish it, I was telling you.”

His hands came up and he spat out words of magic. Black energies began to curl around his upraised hands, and Beckyann idly noted that his guards seemed not to be surprised or overly concerned as he pointed at her and hurled a bolt of pure necromantic energy at her. She smiled sweetly as it flew towards her and whispered a single word. The spell struck a flickering array of anti-magic wards around her, dissipating into nothing.

Beckyann gave the man a stern look, even as his guards brought their weapons up again, “Know this, Lord Edgewood. All is not as it appears and you are not the master of such magics. We will be watching you closely going forward, to ensure that you are not...crossing the line hmmm? Good day my Lord.”

With that she leaped backwards, her shoes just clearing the edge of the balcony's railing. She watched with amusement as the noble dashed forward with his guards, looks of shock on their faces as he reached for her in vain. And then he was far away, growing ever further by the moment as she tumbled from the edge of the manor house and the sea below rose up to meet her. Her dress billowed around her in the wind, making her appear as a large black bird diving towards the water. And then she was gone.

On the balcony above, Lord Geoffrey Edgewood shook his head and scowled. There was no way the woman would have survived that fall, and now he'd have to send divers out to try and recover her corpse and the object that he'd purchased. As he turned to walk back inside, her parting words to him nagged at the back of his mind.

He never realized that Beckyann Eastberg was no living woman. That the fall that shattered her against the rocks far below was merely inconvenient. Or that she had no need to breathe beneath the surface of the waves.

Several hours later, Beckyann's black dress was hanging in her quarters in Acherus to dry, the scepter locked safely away in one of her trunks.

Beckyann Short Number 15

The gnome grunted as he bent down to retrieve a dropped tool, his small hand lifting it as he straightened up and leaned over the work table. The little device shot a spark of electricity into the open box of Beckyann's comm device, making it give a slight hiss of static. The gnome nodded to himself in satisfaction while the death knight stood on the other side of the counter, her arms folded across the front of her dress and her eyes watching the little person's movements through her green-tinted eyewear.

After a few more sparks, the gnome nodded again and looked up at the woman, smiling, "Yeah, I think I can fix this. You should be more careful with your things though, not everyone has the fortune of owning nice things."

Beckyann grinned, a small chuckle escaping her. She shook her head, as if thinking of a joke that only she would get. Curious, the gnome looked up at her, pausing in his work. "What'd I say?"

The blonde woman merely smiled and shrugged, her arms uncrossing as she spoke, "I do believe my mother used to say that exact same thing to me."

The gnome grinned at the dead woman and nodded, placing his tool on the worktable and adjusting the over-sized goggles he had on his head that he'd been using to magnify the inner workings of the comm device. "You know, if ya don't mind, I'd really like to know what your mother was like. I never figured that a..uh...well, you know, one of your kind, had a mother. I guess they all did right?"

For a moment Beckyann fell silent. The gnome could not exactly make out the emotion on her face due to the glasses that hid her eyes, but the angle of her head seemed to show that she was looking past him. Her voice came out, almost distant, "She...she was a very loving woman. I-I remember..."

Curious, the gnome encouraged Beckyann in a soft tone, "It's alright miss. Memories can be good things. What do you remember?"

A soft sigh escaped the death knight as she actually took in a deep breath and let it escape. Her voice remained distant, as if she were struggling to recall something from long ago, "I remember that she used to bake for us. For my father and I. She made the most delicious pies, a-and dinnertime was always special. We didn't have that much coin you see? But she always did her best to make things that would be bland taste wonderful. It was almost like an art to her."

The gnome smiled and replied, "Sounds wonderful! What did she do for a living? You seemed awfully curious about the things in my shop when you came in here."

Beckyann's head tilted and the gnome could tell she was looking at him now, in the present. Her voice was more sturdy as she controlled the flow of memories, "Oh yes. She and my father were both tinkerers and menders. It is how we scraped by. They could fix pots, sharpen your knives, repair a few small gadgets here and there. We were poor, but we lived in a wonderful place called Corin's Crossing. Our neighbors were always there for us, to share and help. They knew how my parents struggled, and they knew how helpful both were to the town. My mother was also skilled in sewing and tailoring and would help mend clothes for the local women. Really both of my parents did any work they could to get by."

The gnome smiled at this, nodding. "Sounds a lot like my family! Although they were able to teach me enough 'bout engineering to open up my own shop here in Stormwind! I suppose you must be pretty handy with things too eh?"

Beckyann laughed outright at this, shaking her head and setting her blonde hair to bouncing around her face, "Oh heavens no! My mother told me that I might as well have been born with four feet since my two hands weren't much use! I fear I was a most disappointing child, always getting into one disaster after another and tearing and staining what little clothing I possessed. My mother always chided me to take better care of my things. She never let me forget that we had very little, and we needed to treasure each and every thing we owned even if our neighbors might have better."

The gnome laughed at this, bending down over the comm device again, "Sounds like she was a very wise woman Miss Eastberg. You had a blessed childhood."

Beckyann's voice drifted over him while he worked, the distant tone making him pause, "Y-yes. I loved her very much I remember..."

The gnome looked up, frowning slightly and pushing his goggles out of the way as he met Beckyann's gaze through her glasses, "I'm sorry Miss Eastberg. Did she...that is, the plague..?"

Beckyann shook her head slowly, and the gnome shivered as he felt and almost undefinable gulf open between the two, even though nothing had changed. Her voice came out hollow and echoing, like a forlorn spirit now, "No. Mother and father passed away when I was seventeen. A flu you see. There was little that the healers in the Crossing could do, and we didn't have the coin to send away for one from Stratholme."

The gnome winced, shaking his head slowly, "I'm sorry to hear that Miss Eastberg."

Beckyann sighed, shaking her head. She turned as if to leave the store, pausing to speak one last time, "It is for the best. We did not have enough coin to make a proper grave for them. I had to give their bodies to the pyre, and in the end, it saved them from being raised when the Scourge came to the Crossing. I know that somewhere they are together and at peace, even if I will never see them again."

Sighing, the gnome shook his head, "You shouldn't say such things Miss Eastberg. I'm sure you will be reunited with them one day."

The blonde woman turned, a hand coming up to push her glasses up. Her glowing blue eyes studied the engineer for a moment before she shook her head, "No. I am bereft of my hereafter. They would not know me now. I...have to go for a bit. I will return in an hour to pick up the comm. Thank you for your help."

Returning her glasses to their place, she reached down to her coin purse. To her surprise, the gnome leaned over his worktable, his hand grasping hers to stop her. "No need for that Miss Eastberg. Consider it a favor hmm? I'll have it fixed up for you in a jiffy."

The death knight nodded wordlessly, a hint of thanks in her expression as she turned and walked from the shop, her skirts swirling around her ankles. The gnome shook his head and sighed again after she was gone, staring at the doorway where she'd been, "Poor thing. Don't think folks understand their kind too well. Everyone's got a mother after all!"