Beckyann Short Number 10

In the darkness of the night, Beckyann's eyes glowed brightly as she surveyed the small encampment on the ridgeline above her. There were many camps like the one she was seeing that had been overrun in the Twilight Highlands and laid to waste. This one appeared occupied though, with a campfire lit in the center and several magical torches in the ground around the central tents. Interestingly enough, this encampment also had a few cages, some of which looked to be occupied, and quite a few figures moving about it in; more than would be needed as guards.

“Cultists,” Beckyann nearly spat. “Looks like some of you vermin managed to escape the downfall of your leaders after all. But why are there so many of you up there?”

She'd seen the campfire from the air while she was looking for rare ore in the area to use in one of her necromantic rituals. Curious as to why there would be an encampment on the desolate ridgeline, she'd brought her skeletal gryphon lower down in the foothills of the mountains and made her way upwards by foot. It was clear now she'd found a nest of enemies that were hiding out in the rugged terrain, but again the nagging thought that there were too many of them stayed in her mind.

She grinned to herself, a hand coming back to grasp her runeblade. She drew the deadly weapon in a smooth motion, the runes on it beginning to glitter with a foul light. “Time to find out what's going on here.”

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Her attack had been brutal and quick, laying waste to the guards on the exterior of the camp before they even realized they were under attack. The men had been poorly trained and lax in their duties, and she'd cut down five of them before the camp was fully aware it was being assaulted. Although Beckyann had seen dozens of figures when she scouted it, it was now clear that many of the people in the camp were dressed in rags and being used as servants for the cultists there. They ran around in a panic, their eyes dull and their minds broken, able only to obey the commands of the men and women who had enslaved them.

Those orders became more and more sparse as Beckyann waded into the center of the camp, her hand coming up and sending deadly gales of freezing cold necromantic energy into the confused mass of defenders. Blood froze and hearts stopped as her spells lashed out, leaving the cultists utterly disorganized and demoralized.

A few of the brain-washed slaves charged at Beckyann, and she swatted them down with her weapon, not bothering to spare those who couldn't even retain their own minds when faced with the propaganda of the Twilight's Hammer. They died alongside their masters, the twisted and broken bodies laying in glittering pools of blood that made Beckyann feel a faint pulse in her neck. The slaughter was like a graceful dance or a fine work of art to her, and her body responded to the sensation of taking life and removing limbs.

Lost in the moment, Beckyann failed to notice as a spell slashed out at her. The bolt of twilight energy slammed into her breastplate, burning her tabard and staining the metal dark black, ruining its purple color. With a growl, Beckyann's baleful gaze roamed over the now-fleeing cultists until they came to rest on a man that was chanting in front of one of the larger tents. Even as he spoke the words to a spell, she pointed at him and whispered a word in the language of death. Shadowy magic wrapped around his neck, making it impossible for him to speak the words to the spell. He gasped, choking and flailing his arms as he retreated into the tent.

Beckyann lurched after him, her plate boots splattering through the puddles of gore her assault had left. All around her, cultists continued to wail and scream, some of them fleeing the camp and others cowering as she stalked past. She paid them no heed; it was their leader she wanted.

She burst through the opening of the tent, whispering words of power even as a bolt of magic lashed out at her. She had expected the spell, and the energy was absorbed by her anti-magic shell, the power flowing into the glittering runes on her runeblade. The cult leader's eyes widened in shock as his spell not only failed to kill her, but failed to even hit her. He yelped once and tried to run past her, only to be close-lined by the death knight as she stiffened her arm at neck height. The hapless cultist tumbled backwards, giving Beckyann a moment to step into the tent.

The interior of the tent was filled with luxurious rugs, a fine divan, and several of the glowing purple torches. In the center of the room an orb sat on a pedestal, softly glowing with a pale purple light. For a moment Beckyann paused, admiring the rich interior with some degree of envy. The death knight's eyes then strayed to the object sitting in the center of the tent, and she realized that here was the source of the camp's ability to induct new slaves and trainee cultists.

As her eyes made contact with it, the orb began to whisper to her. At first it was subtle, and she had trouble discerning what it was saying. Images flashed through her mind, a never-ending stream of temptations that showed her in positions of power over both the living and the dead. Ancient spells floated through her mind, power the likes of which she had only imagined before. She knew without a doubt that all of it would be hers if she let the orb in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the cultist leader smirk as he slowly came to his feet, and her runeblade's point dipped a little towards the floor. The orb flickered with magic, joining with her and she could feel her consciousness expanding. Suddenly the whispers grew louder, and with them the thoughts of those in the camp around her. She could feel the terror of the newly inducted. She could feel the confusion and the zealotry of the camp's remaining guards. She could hear the thoughts of the cult leader as he appraised her, understanding that he believed her to be the ultimate weapon once her mind was fully broken by the orb. The orb itself whispered sweet words into her mind. All of this would be hers; no one could ever plot against her again. She would know everything that everyone was thinking. She would be like a goddess, if only she submitted.

In all of the years of my life, I have never willingly surrendered. Not to the Cult of the Damned, not to the Lich King. I am so much more than what these living creatures have to offer or can understand.

Beckyann whispered a single word. A word in the language of death that she almost never spoke. A spell so dire that none but a death knight could ever utter it. There was no flash of light or power as she said the word. The room did not quake with her spell, and her enemies did not feel it's wrath. It was subtle, a slow chill in the air. An eerie sense of wrongness.

With a word known only to the lichborne, Beckyann banished her soul to the shadow-realm temporarily.

All semblance of life drained from her body as she became as close to Scourge as the death knight would ever become again. Pale glowing eyes turned and locked onto the cult leader, and the runeblade came up, the point almost casually impaling his thigh.

Through the connection with the orb, Beckyann FELT his agony. It washed through her like a breath of life itself. And yet, she felt no pulse this time and no sense of heat within her. She was as a lich, cold and without emotion. The orb tried to whisper to her again, but the images and words slid off of the unreachable distance between the body and the banished soul, lost in the nothing of the shadow-realm.

As the cultist fell onto his back, whimpering in agony, Beckyann stepped forward, looming over him. She hissed once as the natural urge to feed on him filtered through her. She brought it under control with great difficulty, spitting words at him, “I am no man's puppet. I already have all of the power in the world, for I am life and death itself. I choose my own course, and I decide who joins the endless black march into death.”

Her blade came down, not on the wounded cultist, but on the orb. It shattered, the magic howling out of it and burning holes in parts of the tent. The cultist looked up at Beckyann in horror as her lichborne spell ended, a slight flush returning to her face.

She smiled down at him, her runeblade playfully carving a gouge in his leg and causing him to scream. “And now,” she purred, “I do believe we'll have a long talk about the creation of that device, shall we?”

Outside of the tent the rest of the cultists fled in fear as horrific screams began to come from within the cloth structure. They wanted no part of the blue-eyed woman who even now was getting the answers she desired.