Beckyann Short Number 12

The decrepit wagon creaked loudly as its old wheels hit a rut in the road, the plank-board frame bouncing lightly. As the conveyance moved forward, it encountered a larger, deeper rut and the dead, skeletal horse that pulled the wagon had to strain against the reins to force its load over the obstacle.

Sitting on the wagon's flat driver's seat, a hunched over and cowled figure snapped the reins once, earning a hiss of irritation from the dead animal ahead of the wagon. Despite its ire, the creature dutifully picked up its pace, moving down the road in the heart of Tirisfal Glades. The figure in the driver's seat made no noise as it sat, the tattered clothing it wore occasionally flapping in an errant breeze.

Up ahead the road widened a bit, the first sparks of energy from the newly rebuilt buildings in the Forsaken town of Brill shooting up into the sky. Although a wall now surrounded the town and made it hard to see, the wagon's driver could clearly make out the statue of the Banshee Queen in the town's central square, the image of the monarch lording over her servants as they went about their business there.

As the wagon reached the outskirts of the town, two Deathguard strode towards it, leaving their positions on either side of the opening that lead into Brill proper. The wagon's driver pulled back harshly on the reins, forcing the dead horse pulling it to come to a stop. Wagon, horse, and driver remained motionless as the heavily armed Forsaken guards approached.

Glowing yellow eyes roamed over the wagon, inspecting the horse, the cowled driver, and the contents of the wagon's bed. One of them reached forward, yanking the cloth that covered the wagon's cargo free, revealing spades and a variety of other equipment typically used in a cemetery. The second Forsaken kept his eyes glued to the cowled figure, scowling at the person.

“What is your business in Brill?” the Deathguard demanded, his voice hoarse.

The cowled figure tilted its head, two points of unnaturally glowing light studying the creature that had questioned it. After a moment, a voice hissed out, low and barely audible. It was impossible to tell if it was male or female, and it had an echo, as if more than one person spoke or the speaker was somewhere deep below the ground, “Supplies. For the cemetery.”

The Forsaken looked at his partner, who nodded to confirm that the wagon was indeed loaded with supplies that one might need in a cemetery. He looked back up at the driver, studying the figure intently.

“Why do you hide your face? Show yourself so we know you ain't a breather,” the Forsaken said again, his tone menacing.

The cowled figure released its hold on the reins, its gloved hands shaking as it slowly reached up to the cowl. After a moment's hesitation, the tattered fabric was pulled back, and the Forsaken grinned at what he saw. The figure, not clearly male or female, had a patchwork of diseased flesh covering its head, wisps of bloodstained hair hanging between the flaps of skin here and there. The flesh of its face hung limply, as if it had been flayed off and stitched back on, the glowing eyes of the figure recessed deeply into the baggy folds.

For a moment the figure's eyes locked on the Forsaken, and the creature shuddered under that baleful gaze. While not afraid, there was something in the look, some hint of suffering, that the Deathguard had no inclination to learn more about. With a shrug he nodded to his partner and then waved a boney hand towards the road leading to the cemetery. “Very well then, be about your business.”

The wagon's driver nodded once, and brought its hands up again, pulling the cowl down over its hideous countenance before taking up the reins. Snapping them once, it turned the undead horse down the path leading to the large cemetery behind brill, it's last words trailing out behind it.

“Glory to the Queen.”

The two Deathguard shrugged and walked back towards their posts as the wagon rounded a bend and disappeared amongst the tombs and crypts.

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As the wagon rolled to a stop between two large tombs, the driver jumped down, moving with far more agility than it had displayed previously. Looking past the wagon and back up the road that it had traveled down, the figure spat once on the ground.

“I didn't say which Queen you stupid little scourge suckers,” a female voice hissed. The figure turned, walking towards the rows of headstones. “There are far more than one to choose from these days.”

The figure fell silent as it began to study the headstones, passing one after another, searching for ones that looked newer amongst the countless hundreds that made up the cemetery. The area had been used for burials since the founding of Lordaeron itself, and later the place had been defiled by the Scourge as they claimed the kingdom for the undead. It took some time for the figure to find what she was looking for; an area of relatively newer looking headstones.

Finally, the figure stopped, finding one that not only looked like it had not been there for as many years, but that had not been despoiled at all because there was nothing in it to despoil.

Shaking again, the figure brought its hands up, pulling the cowl back. This time the gloves pulled on the flesh of its face, slowly peeling back the skin that had been artfully stitched into a mask from the faces of a half-dozen corpses. As the flesh tore free, unblemished but filthy pale white skin was revealed as Beckyann's face was uncovered.

She smiled as she pulled the last bits off, taking off the gloves and throwing them down before playfully letting her hair fall behind her. It was stained with blood, but bleach would remove it easily and would not bother her with its scent or harshness now that she was dead. It didn't matter anyway, she had found what she was looking for. She knelt before the headstone.

In loving memory of Beckyann Eastberg, Mage of House Woodbury. Though fallen, may we forevermore remember her for her dedication to duty, her love, and her beauty. Her absence leaves the world a darker place.

Her fingers came out, tracing the carving on the stone letter by letter as she read and reread the inscription. Slowly she sank down, sitting in the mold and grass amongst the headstones and whispering quietly to herself, “So he did as he said. I do, in fact, have a grave. How odd it is to see it. A surreal experience, even for one such as myself.”

Beckyann sat there for some time, her thoughts turned inward as she thought about the life she once had, and the man who had had the inscription made. She had done much to get to that spot, from requisitioning an undead horse to her elaborate disguise to avoid alerting the Forsaken, and she found now that all of that work, all of the effort she'd put into seeing the headstone only left her mind in a state of wonder.

Why? Why did any of this matter?

She shook her head, not understanding the hints of emotion buried in her dead heart. She looked about, seeing that the sun was setting and knowing the Forsaken would likely stumble across her if she tarried much longer. Slowly she rose, brushing the grass from herself as she looked at the headstone one last time. She turned, murmuring a spell and opening a Death Gate that would take her back to Acherus, back to her true home.

As she stepped through, a small part of her mind wondered if she would have been better off buried beneath the soft soil in that quiet corner of the cemetery.