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.
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