Beneath the Boughs

Beckyann's heavy plate armor pushed down into the soft forest floor, snapping the occasional branch with enough force to make the sound echo and cause her to wince. Although the tall trees and lush foliage of Ashenvale deadened the sounds, any noise was unacceptable given recent encounters.

The death knight smirked, flicking her runeblade and spattering some of the nearby plants with orc blood. She'd run into not one, but two small patrols of orc scouts so far. They were preparing a new offensive or perhaps mapping out a new area to begin logging operations; either way it didn't matter to her and they were quite dead now, an added bonus on this little excursion.

She had set out to collect some herbs that grew only beneath the shade afforded by Ashenvale's massive trees. Sunlight only filtered down in beams here and there, diffused beneath the canopy and making the perfect growing conditions for certain plants; precisely what she was looking for. Once collected, the herbs and a few other spell components would be mixed and used in some experiments she was preparing that were related to regeneration of undead flesh.

Another stick snapped beneath her boots and she snarled; if she kept making noise she was bound to bring another orc war-party down on her and she had other business to attend to at the moment. Even as she thought this, she entered a small clearing, sunlight dancing down in a beam from far above. Something felt out of place, and she paused, scanning the scenery.

At first she saw nothing, slowly turning in a circle, her runeblade extended before her. She listened, straining her senses as far as they could, attempting to detect whatever it was that had set off her combat alertness. Despite her efforts, nothing seemed amiss and with the abundance of life surrounding her in the forest it was hard to separate a potential threat from the scenery. As she was just about to relax, her gaze roamed over a deeper patch of shadows amongst some fallen boughs and it was there that she saw what had alerted her.

Two golden feline eyes stared at her warily from the shadows.

Had she been alive, Beckyann would have gasped at the discovery. The creature was so silent and still that she would have believed it to be undead if she had not known better. Her runeblade came up ever so slowly, pointed at the shadows. Wild animals roamed the forests and it would not be surprising to have a large hunting cat attack a lone traveler.

A soft sigh of breeze made Beckyann turn her head slightly to the right to check for other foes. The movement was just a fraction of a second, but in the time she took her eyes from the shadows to when she returned her gaze there, the feline eyes had disappeared. She blinked once in surprise; the beast was quick.

Perhaps it was the sudden change in air pressure, or maybe a whisper of sound, but something made Beckyann jump and she whirled, blade up and pointed behind her. Where there had been empty clearing behind her now stood a Kaldorei with a staff. She leaned against the support, watching Beckyann with perfect stillness.

“You startled me,” Beckyann said. The elf remained silent and Beckyann took a moment to study her. Long blue hair flowed down her back like a mane, coming almost to her waist and held in place by feathers and ties. Young looking, moonlight pale skin nearly glowed in the sunlight that shined down on the clearing, the purple markings on the elf's face vivid and looking almost like a butterfly when taken in whole. Dressed in an assortment of leathers that were well worn but also well cared for, the Kaldorei had a very serene, natural feel to her. It took Beckyann only a moment to determine that she was likely a druid, and likely the source of the feline eyes she had just been examining.

With a grunt, Beckyann flicked the last of the orc blood from her runeblade and sheathed it, studying the elf with a raised brow, “What? Are you going to chide me now about being in your lands and tell me what sort of awful abomination I am or some such? I've dealt with your kind before in Darnassus you know.”

The elf remained silent for a moment longer before speaking, her voice soft and almost musical. There was no hint of malice in her tone as she replied, “What makes you believe that your actions within the forest have gone unobserved for the past two hours? I am well aware that you have protected Ashenvale as a whole while you wander here, despite what you are.”

“Look druid..” Beckyann began. The elf held up a hand, pausing her in mid-sentence.

“My name is Celessarae Moonfang, not 'druid' or 'lady' or whatever else you wish to call me. While it is true your kind are unpleasant to us and represent a blight against nature, there are things to weigh and consider,” the druidess said calmly.

Beckyann planted her hands on her hips, staring at the elf in surprise, “Well I'll be. One of you has a bit of sense after all. I wasn't 'protecting the forest' though as you put it. I was attempting to find a specific herb here and happened into the orc patrols.”

Celessarae shook her head slowly, feather swaying in her hair, “It matters little what you did or did not intend. What matters is what you have done. While I am not as advanced in my training as many others, it is still a simple thing to examine. You bring disease and corruption with you, and yet such things are correctable. The orcs destroy the entirety of the forest, devastating the land and reaping more than can ever be replaced. When weighed against one another, it is not difficult to make a choice.”

The words gave Beckyann pause; she had never had a debate with a druid before. In fact, other than sneering at her, spitting at her, or telling her she would be 'watched closely', none had spoken more than a word to her. It was a unique encounter. “I'm pretty sure the rest of your little bunch would have a few words of disagreement with you there elf,” she replied somewhat sarcastically.

The druidess remained serene, either not detecting the sarcasm or not rising to meet it. Silver eyes studied the death knight closely, roaming over the emblems of death that contrasted sharply with her own natural attire, “There are many views on the subject. Some believe you should fall on your swords; that your very existence is a blight and that you should be removed lest you spread. I believe that this is a short term view of the problem however. We live for many centuries, and to think that we will not encounter similar diseases, similar blights like those you represent is foolish. It is only by studying, understanding, and curing such ailments that we can truly protect ourselves in the long term.”

Beckyann blinked and barked out a laugh, “Are you serious right now? You really are a novice aren't you? The plague of Undeath cannot be 'cured'. It has never been done.”

Celessarae smiled, the expression genuine, “You are not the first to say such, and I am not claiming that I now, or possibly even ever will have such skill. And yet I have heard of lands afflicted by such magics that are now on the mend thanks to the efforts of Light bearers and my own kind. Think on that as you will. A time may come when there is peace enough for the best of us to fully study the problem and find a solution. We have hardly been free of external threats and given the time to do so.”

The words sent a chill through Beckyann; the last thing she wanted was a cure, but it would also mean so much to some of the others if not for the world. It was almost a soothing thought when one contemplated the possibility of peace in the distant future, where death knights would no longer be needed nor tolerated. She answered slowly, shaking her head, “Perhaps. That time will not be soon however. If you will excuse me, I must finish my work here and return to where I belong. We will both be happier.”

The druidess smiled, nodding and stepping aside. As Beckyann began to walk towards the edge of the clearing, Celessarae followed her, walking in time. The death knight rolled her eyes, clenching her fists at her sides and tromping through the foliage; the last thing she wanted was a Kaldorei babysitter.

And yet that was what she had. She continued along, moving through the open spaces and searching for the perfect shadowed area where the herb she needed might grow. Behind her, Celessarae trailed after her, content to walk along silently. In fact it was hard for Beckyann to even hear the elf as they moved, and if orcs descended upon them it would be because of Beckyann's doing, not the Kaldorei's.

After ten minutes of futile walking and searching, and the rising tension those silver eyes on her back instilled in the death knight, Beckyann finally spotted the herb she needed. With almost a sigh of relief she knelt down, about to yank the plant from the soil. To her surprise, two pale hands pressed against her gauntlets, stopping the motion.

“You must take only what you need, lest you kill the entirety of the plant,” the druidess chided softly. “Here, I will show you, and assist you. Have you never grown your own herbs before? You can save yourself troublesome treks through the forest if you harvest your own herbs properly.”

Beckyann ground her teeth, contemplating what the elf would look like decapitated. Likely that would not go over well though once the body was discovered and it would create what Red liked to call an 'incident'. She ground her teeth together and plastered a false smile on her face, “Oh. By all means, please demonstrate...”

The elf leaned forward, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a small knife. She gently took the plant in hand, cutting only stems and leaves that were not vital to the plant's survival. Even with the careful pruning, she harvested more than enough herbs for Beckyann's uses. As she worked, the sleeves of her tunic pulled up and Beckyann noted an array of silver scars running up Celessarae's left arm. Beckyann's eyes widened and she clicked her tongue as she studied them.

“Looks like you have some experience with warfare after all,” Beckyann said, nodding at the scars. “I'd recognize a battlefield wound if I ever saw one.”

Celessarae paused, her silver eyes looking into the distant forest for a moment before she resumed her pruning. She spoke over her shoulder, not looking at the human that stood beside her, “Yes. That would be an accurate guess.”

Beckyann smirked, folding her arms across her chest, “Not going to talk about it eh?”

The elf continued to prune, seeming to ignore the question at first. After a moment she spoke, no hint of anger or malice in her voice, “Let us just say we all fail at times. It is impolite to ask about the failings of others. For example, I did not ask you how you came to be as you are, did I? Let the past lie as an example for those who experienced it, and leave it at that.”

Beckyann's smirk faded and an look of annoyance passed across her features. With a gentle motion Celessarae handed the herbs to Beckyann, who rolled her eyes before taking them and shoving them in a pouch. The druidess stood, looking calmly at the death knight, her sleeves covering her arm once more as she leaned on her staff.

“Well, that is the end of my business in your forest, elf,” Beckyann said awkwardly, feeling almost relieved. She turned and paused, looking back over her shoulder, “I would like to open a gate here to depart if you don't mind.”

The elf nodded, speaking serenely, “I will cleanse this clearing once you are gone, fear not.”

Beckyann snorted, “Yeah. Whatever.” She began to chant, opening a death gate. As she was about to step into the howling darkness behind, the druidess spoke one last time, the words something that would haunt Beckyann for hours after.

“A time will come when you will have to rejoin the natural order of the world. Whether that is as a corpse decomposing back into the earth as some would like, or through actual healing is a choice you must make for yourself. The beauty of healing is that it can begin whenever you would like, even if it is only from within. Consider this.”

With that, Beckyann was gone into the darkness, leaving Celessarae to watch as the portal closed. She smiled lightly, murmuring into the wind and beginning the process of rejuvenating the plants that had been touched by the darkness.

A Midnight Masquerade

Lord Maxwell Hyperios III was bored; terribly terribly bored. He stood casually amongst a group of sycophants that typically followed him to most social events, nodding politely as they spoke and otherwise doing his utmost to pay them no heed.

The gala he was attending was supposedly in honor of the coming spring, and yet it had already been delayed twice due to inclement weather. As far as Maxwell was concerned, it could have been delayed indefinitely for all he cared. Though the weather had cleared up over Stormwind, it had done nothing to improve the quality of the guests that were in attendance as far as he was concerned.

Nodding again at some inane comment that one of his underlings murmured, his eyes scanned over the crowd lazily, looking at all of the other nobles in their finery. The gala was a masquerade, so most of the men and women in attendance were wearing masks. Even so, he was keenly aware of who almost everyone was, and his own rather slim mask would do little to disguise him. He wanted them to know he was here after all; he was that important.

As his gaze swept over the crowd, he paused, his eyes taking the sight of someone he'd not seen before. She was standing just within the ballroom, near one of the punch tables. Clad in a deep black velvet and silk dress that was bustled at her hips and decorated with silver embroidery, the woman cut a striking figure amongst those standing nearby. With her bright blonde hair tied up above her head and held in place by two elegant looking black hairpins, Maxwell could take in her slender neck and back as she politely shook her head to a servant that was offering her wine.

As she turned, he found himself gasping as he saw the stunning mask she wore. Unlike many of the other attendees, rather than a simple black or gold mask to cover her upper face the woman had on an amazingly detailed mask that looked almost like the eyes and snout of a wolf. Made of black velvet with silver and gray threading in it, it was even enchanted to give the 'wolf's' eyes a blue glow. It perfectly matched her dress and with a few pieces of her blonde hair artfully framing it, she looked stunning.

His mind whirling, Lord Hyperios looked about to see where the woman had come from. Surely her presence would have been announced by the Herald when she came in. He quickly spied that one of the garden doors was ajar, and given the time of year it was unlikely it had been left that way intentionally. He smirked as he realized she had crashed the party, sneaking in the back when no one was looking. Perhaps she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, playing at having a true title or perhaps of a family that was less wealthy and hadn't been invited; regardless, her boldness amused him and he found himself making polite excuses to those around him as he made his way towards her, glass in hand.

He came up behind her as she was again refusing another servant, this time with a platter of fine cheeses that were being given out. He moved to within inches of her, murmuring over her shoulder, “I do hope that you are enjoying the party m'Lady. You don't seem to enjoy the refreshments very much.”

She stiffened for a moment, whirling around to see who it was that addressed her. Maxwell caught the faint scent of her perfume, mixed with what his puzzled mind could only relate to the first biting cold inhalation one would get when walking outside in the winter. She regarded him for a moment as he looked on, her lips painted black and drawn into a wary smile. Finally she spoke, her tone and voice so low that he could barely hear her amongst the crowd. She had some sort of accent or undertone, but it was impossible for him to place what it was about her voice that was different, “No, my Lord, the party is quite lovely thank you. I simply have no hunger or thirst at the moment. It is kind of you to inquire however.”

He grinned, nodding to the woman and offering her a bow, “Now now, none of this 'my lord' this or that. We are at a party and should get to know one another. Well, as best as can be given our masks hmmm? You may call me Maxwell if you'd like. And I would be delighted to learn your name and, if I may be so bold, invite you to dance. You do dance, yes?”

The woman smiled, seeming to relax for the moment. In that same low tone she responded, “You can call me...Becky. And I would love to dance. I do so enjoy the music.”

Maxwell grinned, holding out his hand in invitation. The mysterious woman calling herself Becky reached out, placing a delicate, gloved hand in his. He admired the fact that her hands were not hot beneath the fabric; surely she was calm and relaxed even in such social settings. Combined with the boldness of crashing a party, Maxwell found himself intensely interested in the woman that was quickly in the running for his chosen conquest of the evening.

With that he lead Becky behind him as the two proceeded towards the dance floor. Other patrons moved out of his way as he walked, such was his reputation. A few whispered as the saw the woman he was leading, the rumors of the Lord's dalliances somewhat legendary. At that same moment, the musicians struck up another song, violins playing a popular tune for such an event.

Within moments Maxwell had the woman dancing with her. He was amused to note that although she seemed quite skilled at dancing, she would often attempt to perform dance steps that were incredibly out of fashion with the times. At one point she actually began a dance with him to a tune that no one had done in over a decade. He gently guided her into the correct steps, ignoring for the moment the giggling that her missteps had caused amongst the other dancers. It didn't matter, the lovely young woman was still beautiful, and if she were not as well versed in the current fashions and trends of the nobles in attendance, it would just make it easier to conquer her later as far as he was concerned.

As the music began to wind down, he found himself growing tired. With a nod he paused the dance, offering Becky a polite bow before leading her away from the dance floor. To his mild surprise she didn't seem to be out of breath at all, the smile from earlier still plastered on her face. The two walked towards one of the refreshment tables, where he had a servant pour them both a glass of the most expensive wine available. He turned and handed it to her and she took it with a nod of thanks.

He began to make small talk with her, sipping at his wine as he did so. He told her of his estate and manor house, attempting to impress upon her the sheer volume of his wealth and worth. He told her of his late wife, and how she had passed in recent years, neglecting to mention the rather suspicious manner in which she had passed. He spoke with her of music and the arts, watching her as she responded with knowledge and wit and laughter.

As the two spoke, a growing irritation began to develop in Maxwell's mind. The woman barely even sipped at her wine. Although she spoke casually with him, she never moved closer than a foot or two. Certainly she was not intoxicated, and not hanging on his every word or on his arm as he preferred his women to be. In fact, the longer they spoke for, the more he began to realize that she was intentionally keeping a careful distance between them, both physically and romantically, gently coaxing him away from his wooing.

It was enraging of course. No one denied him! He had never before been challenged in such a way. After the momentary anger passed (carefully concealed from reaching his face of course), he began to relish the challenge she posed. How could he gather her interest? He clearly would not get her drunk as she didn't seem to wish to eat or drink at all, but surely there was some way he could entice her closer. All the while, he continued his polite banter with her, trying to see beneath the mask, to understand what had motivated the woman to come to the party, to figure out who she WAS.

The night progressed on, the bells tolling from nine o'clock until midnight finally approached. Although the evening had been filled with dancing, wine, and good talk, it was not what Maxwell had had in mind. He had NEVER left one of the galas without a conquest, and the challenge that this Becky gave him had driven him nearly to madness inside his own head.

Feeling like he should confront her more directly, he turned to speak to her, his mouth opening just as a loud banging could be heard. All eyes turned to see the host of the event holding a staff in his hand, smiling at his guests, “Come my friends! You have all had time to eat and drink and dance! Now it is time to reveal who your new friends are! Let us remove our masks at midnight, and celebrate in new friendships in a new season!”

The rest of the attendees cheered, all eyes turning to look at a rather large and ornate clock that hung from the wall at one end of the hall. It was only a minute till midnight, and the crowd seemed to wait with breath held, eager to see who they had been merrymaking with all evening.

At Maxwell's side, the woman who had called herself Becky stirred. She offered him a polite bow, carefully sliding her gloved hand from his grasp as she made some excuse about 'needing to use the powder room' and 'she didn't want him to see her face unless she had checked the mirror'.

He nodded, at first thinking nothing of it before his eyes widened. He turned, seeing at the corner of the room the last hint of a black dress as it slipped through the garden door. Even as the clock chimed for midnight and the crowd cheered and began removing their masks, Lord Maxwell Hyperios III pushed his way through them, hurrying through the garden door.

The door lead out into the black night, with only the moonlight to guide his steps. They were in the center of Stormwind, with the Cathedral nearby giving a warm glow from its open doors. Ahead of him, he could hear footsteps as Becky's heels contacted the cobblestones. She had used a side path to head from the garden and deeper into the city, seemingly towards the cemetery behind the Cathedral.

He dashed after her, intent on finding out who she was, enraged that she had slipped his grasp as no other woman had in years. His boots pounded the paving stones, eating up the distance between them as he plunged into the darkness of the cemetery. A cold mist had crept out, winter's grasp still clinging to the land despite the warmer weather. He hurried through the cold and misty dark, hearing the sound of her thick heels on the grass between the headstones. Finally he spotted her in the moonlight, her blonde hair the only color in the dim blackness.

“Where do you think you're going Becky?” he asked smugly, approaching her. “The party is hardly over yet.”

She turned, her mouth open in surprise that someone had followed her. She wrung her hands together, her voice low. In the silence of the graveyard, there was a faint echo that Maxwell could not place, “I-I'm sorry my Lord! I-it was time for me to depart however. I-I...it was a lovely party...”

Her voice trailed off lamely as she finished, and he stepped within a foot of her, studying her. She appeared nervous, although even now her breath did not come from her in gasps as a frightened woman might. The idea that he did not frighten her irked him further.

“As I said, the party is far from over and it is hardly fair not to reveal yourself at midnight, as is the custom,” he said, his voice insistent.

She began to shake her head, her response cut short, “My Lord, I don't think I shou-”

He reached forward and yanked the mask from her face roughly, snapping the ties that held it in place. It tumbled to the ground behind him as he took in the sight of her. His eyes widened in horror at what he saw.

The glow of the wolf's eyes on the mask was no magic trick, they were her eyes! The dead glowing orbs started at him, a forlorn look on her face as she returned his gaze. Fury welled up within him as he realized he had been tricked. He'd been DANCING with a DEAD woman all evening! She'd let him believe she was just a simply party guest! She'd made a FOOL of him!

In a rage he reacted, his hand coming out to strike the woman across the face. Her head rocked to the side, a tear sliding from one eye. A brackish black tear full of diseased fluids. It enraged him further to see her staring down at her torn mask, as if what she'd done was excusable. He struck her again, harder this time. It would not be the first woman he'd beaten, and no one would see in the cemetery.

Her head rocked again and she remained motionless, staring endlessly at her mask as it lay in the grass. His arm came up a third time, lashing out at her face.

It was caught in an icy cold grip, immobile instantly.

His eyes widened as he looked at the woman. Gone was the demure and innocent expression on her face. Gone was the forlorn look of despair at his rejection. Instead there was something else there now, something that gazed on him with a cold malice the likes of which made his bowels quiver within him. She stared at him, a malicious smile on her face as she licked at a dab of blackened blood that oozed from her split lip.

“That's not very polite, Maxwell,” she purred. The sound was otherworldly now, and had such intense hatred in it that he would have recoiled if he could wrench his arm free from her horrible grasp.

She grinned at him now, stepping closer and putting her face inches from him, “And now you see me, my Lord. Tell me, were you going to bed me like all of the others you've dragged from those parties? Did you think I didn't understand what you were doing? Furthermore, do you think your dead wife can't find out about everything you've done? I can tell her if I'd like. It would be such fun, knowing that she was waiting for you on the other side, enraged.”

He nearly wet himself, and the fear on his face was like a fine wine to the death knight. With a sudden lurch her other hand came up and she shoved him with both hands, flinging him backwards with incredible strength. He flailed as he sailed away from her, his knees connecting with a low grave marker that he fell over. The stone fell over along with him, and he was left atop the cold, disturbed soil as she stood over him, staring down on him.

“I WAS having a lovely evening, Maxwell,” She said in a solemn tone. “Perhaps next time you will treat your friends with more respect hmmm? You never know when I might be watching.”

He shivered as she spoke and she turned, ignoring him. She walked past him, the creeping mist combined with her long dress concealing her shoes and making it appear that she was gliding across the grass. Given her unnaturally glowing eyes, she might as well have been for all he was concerned. He nearly fainted as he realized he was in a cemetery with a very annoyed dead creature.

She bent down, picking up her ruined mask and turning it over in her hands, a look of irritation on her face. He could not tell if it was from the loss of the object, or from the loss of her masquerade. After a moment she sighed and turned, her back to him. She spoke a few words in a language that he'd never heard before; one that almost instantly gave him a headache.

Before her a gaping black portal opened, a howling mournful wind flowing from it. Within was nothing but the coldest blackness of death, and he stared at it in abject horror. The woman who had called herself Becky, the woman who was really Beckyann Eastberg, Corporal of the 1113^th Reformed Scourge Legion ignored the quivering breather on the ground behind her. She gathered her skirts up and walked casually into the black of the portal, disappearing within as her black dress swirled around her in the wind.

And then she was gone.

For a moment the portal lingered, and Maxwell could almost imagine he saw his dead wife staring back at him from within. The woman he'd murdered to gain more wealth and power. This time he DID wet himself, mewling pathetically in the dark of the cemetery until he finally managed to garner the strength and wit to rise and run for his life. Behind him the black portal shrunk to nothing, and the cemetery was left in peace at last.

The Oath

The death gate slowly closed, the inky blackness of its edges fading until it collapsed on itself, taking Ceriseth away and back to Acherus. Likewise, the comm had fallen silent as Daera began her duties for the evening. Beckyann sat atop a tumbled pile of masonry stones, staring off into the distance and considering all that had happened that evening.

I have friends.

How was it possible? What did it mean? Not an hour ago Beckyann had been in a ruined, burned out Scourge torture chamber, lying atop the soot-covered remains of the table where she'd died, prepared to lay there until she could find a way to simply fade away, to cease to exist. And then Ceri had come and pulled her back from the edge.

She'd told the other Knight everything then. Everything about who she was, about her eternal shame and dishonor that haunted her in this hellish hereafter. A hereafter that she rightfully deserved. It was almost on the very spot that she now sat where she had earned the punishment that was undeath. Here, in the small village of Northdale, ruined and destroyed so many years before.

In all of the years since I passed away, never once have I embraced someone and felt anything. And yet, in this place, I did so with Ceri after sharing that. It is here where I had my last embrace in life, when I told Frederick about what I'd done. It was the last time he ever held me while I drew breath. The irony that I discovered what friendship is anew here is not lost on me.

And it was not just the Sergeant either. Despite what Daera had done, Beckyann found herself comforted by the way the other woman spoke to her regularly. Even after being dragged about on that shopping trip that was as hellish to Daera as sitting in the ruins of Northdale was to Beckyann. It was as if the two had tested one another, dancing along the edge of animosity before deciding that each was worthy of the loyalty that their shared condition would otherwise force upon them.

I even went so far as to buy her a gift. A GIFT of all things! Who was the last person I purchased a gift for? Frederick most certainly. How many years ago was that? When did these other Knights slip beneath the parapets that protect my spirit? Are they honored guests, or foes that seek to destroy my fortress from within? It is so hard to understand.

And yet it wasn't really. Ceri knew everything that Beckyann had done, and had practically forgiven her and told her that it was something she could atone for. Daera had ignored Beckyann's fit in Brill and let it pass, as a true friend might. If they meant her harm, they both had had the opportunity to take full advantage either within the Unit itself or personally. They were actually friends.

But is it allowed? Am I allowed to have any small shred of positivity when I am serving a punishment? It is hard to fathom. One thing is quite clear though; if not for Ceri this evening, I would have reneged on my obligations to see this through to the end. She helped me stay here. I have never regretted being what I am until this evening, and after that conversation I have never been more determined to remain what I am. I owe the people who once called this place home that much.

Beckyann sighed, rising from the rubble and turning towards the burned out building behind her. In that place, her patients, her experiments had died painful deaths. The least she could do is assure them that she would never again consider surrendering. Her face drawn in a grim line, she marched towards the ruins, stepping on blackened timbers and fire-scorched stones to stand in the outline of what was once a two-story dwelling.

Slowly, almost with ritual care, Beckyann reached up and removed the brooch that pinned her cloak on. It was old and worn, the metal scratched here and there. Upon it was the stylized 'L' of Lordaeron; a little something that Beckyann had found in her tomb hunting and decided to keep in remembrance. With an air of reverence, she knelt down, placing the little brooch in the center of the ruins, the metal glittering brightly amongst the blackened floorboards.

“I know that you cannot hear me now,” Beckyann murmured lightly, “But know that I will never stop. I will never surrender. I will see this through to the end, because I understand my obligation to you most honored dead. I can never atone for what happened here. I can never apologize enough for the suffering you experienced, the suffering you may still experience. And yet I am more sorry about this than I can possibly explain. Rest peacefully, knowing that I will pay for what I have done until the titans return to this world if need be.”

Her prayer, no her oath complete, Beckyann rose and looked down on the emblem one last time. With a resigned nod she turned, striding out of that ruined place quickly. The Plaguewood called to her again, not to surrender now, but as a means of soothing herself. She would slay wandering Scourge until her next duty shift began.

Once she was gone, the ruins behind her began to stir. The little brooch she had planted in the ruins glittered, a faint trace of Light shining from it. Slowly, ghostly eyes formed, studying the emblem from a distance. Ghostly hands reached out, hesitantly approaching what the death knight had left behind.

What Beckyann could never know, what she could never part the tides of time to see, was that the people who had died in that building had not perished from the plague she had accidentally infected them with. They had not risen as Scourge to march on their fellow countrymen. No, instead the men, women, and children who had been too weak to walk had died within the building itself as it burned down. As fires raged around them, unable to flee, they had suffered indescribable agony in their last minutes of life.

They had died from the fire that Frederick's men had set at his orders.

Ghostly hands caressed the brooch and the Light flared brightly. With a sigh, a spirit faded into the Light and was gone, eternal peace granted at last. Slowly the others reached out, one by one, each of the victims who had died in that place. As spirits melded with the Light, agony faded, peace spread over the ruins and the dead finally went to their well earned rest.

In her self-inflicted atonement, Beckyann would never know that she had given the ghosts of her past rest at last.

Unfriends

The clomp of hooves and jingle of armor were the only sounds heard as the trio of Knights made their way along the cobblestone road in the Western Plaguelands. Leading the three person patrol, Beckyann sat sullenly in her saddle, her hands gripping the reins loosely and her mind lost in thought. With her dark armor and black cloak of the 1113^th trailing behind her, her blonde hair was the only shock of color present amongst the black Knights.

She had volunteered for the duty in order to get away from Acherus. After the events of the past several days, she had wanted to simply throw herself into combat or do SOMETHING to get her mind off of everything. Normally she would have spent her off time studying necromancy, writing in her journals, or perhaps engaging in hobbies such as looting tombs or shopping, but today she was simply not in the mood.

Why? Why did I agree to take her on a shopping trip? After everything that's happened, I should have just said no. Even so, it would greatly benefit the unit as a whole if more of them understood how to blend in with the living. I just hope it is not another disaster.

The brooding thoughts had been with her all day, circling over and over in her mind and replaying the events of the past week in harsh and vivid detail in her mind. Clinging to each was a hint of guilt at herself, at her own lack of self control. She had almost attacked a sister Knight, which went against the very principles of what she wished to accomplish. She had lost control of her temper, which could be detrimental at best to the unit and outright disastrous amongst the living.

As the thoughts continued to circle through her mind, Beckyann felt a nagging worry begin to rise. No stranger to battle, her baleful eyes scanned the surrounding woods, noting how the road curved slightly up ahead and the way the foliage seemed thicker right at that point. She blinked once, pure instinct guiding her actions.

“AMBUSH!” she yelled, kicking at her deathcharger and spurring the mount forward. The two Knights behind her were no initiates and were well-tested in battle. Each of them responded in kind, yanking on reins to guide their steeds off to either side and spurring them on, spreading the group out.

It was fortunate that they had done so. No sooner had the three lurched into action than the 'foliage' ahead of them dropped forward, the plants having been cleverly attached to a weave backing and used to camouflage three catapults. The war machines lurched as their crews, clearly Forsaken, pulled on the firing levers and sent canisters of poisonous blight flying down the road.

It was a clever trick, and had the Forsaken been attacking a normal Alliance patrol it would have slaughtered them to a man. But they weren't attacking living men and women, they were assaulting a patrol of Knights of the Ebon Blade. As the canisters fell and sent out clouds of deadly gases, the three Death Knights simply stopped breathing, ignoring the blight completely. They didn't need to communicate any further to do battle with the enemy; all three knew exactly what they were doing.

Hooves pounded away at the cobblestones as the three charged. Ahead of them, the Forsaken crews frantically began to reload, knowing they would only get one more chance to fire. Several footmen rushed forward, drawing blades to defend the war machines.

Beckyann smiled, her deathcharger moving swiftly towards her soon-to-be victims as three more canisters arced up into the air ahead. She was in her element now, her self-doubt and brooding forgotten in an instant as she fulfilled her ultimate purpose as she saw it; to make war.

The footmen had only a moment to realize they were outmatched as Beckyann's armored deathcharger slammed into those in the lead. Undead bodies spun away, shattered by the weight of the mount as Beckyann brought her runeblade up and down, beheading one of her enemies. Behind her, the canisters fell, exploding and sending out pools of acidic goo. One of the Knights behind Beckyann fell, splashed by the foul substance and loosing her balance as part of her steed dissolved.

It was far too late though. Within moments Beckyann and the remaining mounted Knight had cut their way through the Forsaken on foot, reaching the weapon crews before they could load a third round of canisters. With a smile Beckyann pointed, foul necromancy building around her and flying out as a death coil, slamming into one of the canisters and detonating it.

Her companion followed suit, and acidic chemical weapons splashed all over the war machines and their crews as they screamed and ran around attempting to remove the vile substance. Beckyann helped a few of them into the afterlife more quickly, her runeblade covered in foul ichor.

With the enemy destroyed, she dismounted, surveying the surrounding terrain to check for any remaining enemies. Seeing none, she nodded to herself, satisfied. She turned around and noted that one of her Knights was struggling on the ground, half laying in a pool of the acidic goo. Hurrying, she ran over to the undead woman, reaching out and grasping her gauntlet. The Knight's legs had partially dissolved, and Beckyann tugged to pull her to safety.

In that moment, a memory flashed through her mind like a slap to the face. A memory of her own hand being clasped by the gauntlets of another Knight, pulling HER to safety from the Cathedral in Stormwind. A memory of Daera Dalamora intentionally saving her from harm when the Light had burned Beckyann enough to begin causing serious damage.

Beckyann reeled back, loosing her grip on the other Knight who grunted as she fell on the soil, free from the acid. Thoughts reeled through Beckyann's mind, a confused blur.

Why would she help me one evening, and flay me with her tongue another evening? Why did she insistently protect me from damage if she wanted to hurt me? What does she WANT? I don't understand!

There was no answer forthcoming in her mind. The memory stood out, starkly contrasting with the damage that Daera had inflicted on Beckyann in previous days.

For a moment, she stood, recalling the event and trying to understand it, as if there were a hole somewhere in her mind that she could not fill. The more she poked and prodded at it, the less it made sense. Saving Beckyann, and later showing her a bit of her own life, were the acts of a friend and sister, not an enemy.

Unable to fully understand it or process the emotions that threatened to bubble up, Beckyann shook her head, pointing at her other patrol member, “Secure her to her saddle. We can repair her back at Acherus. We should report the Forsaken activity in this area to Command.”

The other Knight saluted Beckyann and proceeded to follow her instructions, leaving the blonde Knight to climb back into her own saddle. The ride back would be uneventful, and very very silent as Beckyann continued to think about a puzzle that had no clear answer.

Doomed to Repeat History

Beckyann rested on her bed, laying on her belly and flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine she had picked up during her last trip to Stormwind. Her feet kicked idly in the air behind her, spacers made of the carved and polished bone of some humanoid used to keep her toes apart while her pedicure dried. It was one of the rare times when she had some downtime, and she planned to enjoy it.

Naturally this was not to last, and her solitude was soon interrupted by a pounding on her door. She rolled her eyes in irritation as the pounding intensified, “Go away! I'm not on duty! Find one of the officers if you need something!”

The pounding grew louder, with a muffled, “Corporal! You are needed at once!” coming through the wooden barrier.

Beckyann sighed, whispering a word of magic and releasing the wards on the door. The result of this was that the wooden barrier rapidly opened upon the next pounding, leaving an initiate death knight to stumble into the room. His eyes widened and he averted his gaze for a moment as he saw she was in her underthings; it was an ingrained habit from when they were alive and completely unnecessary in their state of undeath. It still made Beckyann giggle a little.

“What is it? As you can see I am not on duty. This had better be important,” she said with a hint of threat in her tone.

“Corporal! Our sentries have spotted a large group of rogue Scourge moving through the hills just south of Eastwall tower! The lead elements of the group have already begun an ambush on a small Argent caravan passing through the area!” the initiate said.

Beckyann's eyes widened for a moment as she realized that it was indeed grave news and the initiate would not have come to her if one of the higher ranking officers was present. She slid out of bed, mourning the loss of a perfectly good pedicure for a moment before nodding and reaching for the armor that was haphazardly piled in the corner of the room, “I'll be on the observation deck in one minute. Get the scrying orb ready.”

It was the duty of the Ebon Blade to support their allies and to eliminate rogue Scourge after all. Plus it would be fun!

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

The upper reaches of Acherus had a number of good vantage points where sentries maintained eternal vigilance over the fortress of the Ebon Blade. It was to one of these vantage points that Beckyann hurried, her plate boots pounding on the dark stones. Ahead of her a blue, glowing scrying orb sat ready to be used. Resembling a disembodied spirit eye, the device allowed the Knights to look out over the surrounding terrain to assess threats to their forces. Beckyann wasted no time in reaching up to grasp at the orb.

Instantly she felt it detach itself from the fortress, her vision joining with it and flying freely out into the Plaguelands. The dead ground flew below her as she sought out the enemies that the sentries had spotted, her gaze drawn to a series of moving dots on the ground. As it drew closer, she could make out the individual bodies of a group of Scourge rushing through the low, dead foliage, intent on reaching a larger mass of undead that had surrounded a small group of men and women in bright armor.

Frowning, Beckyann brought the image closer, picking out the details on the group. There were five wagons and a number of men and women on horseback. About ten footmen walked beside the wagons, spears and swords in hand as they fended off the lighter scourge monsters. As Beckyann drew closer still, her eyes took in the emblems of the Argent Crusade on the banners that several of the men held and the barding of the horses. Scanning over the group of men, her eyes encountered a banner that sent a jolt through her as if she'd been stabbed.

One of the men on horseback had two escorts with him. An argent banner flew from his banner-bearer's staff, and beneath that was a small blue banner with a fleur-de-lis flanked by two swords. The sight of it made Beckyann's view waver as a wave of emotions crashed through her.

How many times have I seen that emblem? How many times have my fingers traced it on a solid steel breastplate as I stole moments with him? How proud was he, to wear his own crest as he was appointed captain? How many times has it haunted my thoughts, my memories?

Her gaze faltered and with intense will she managed to move the scrying orb. Her vision roaming until it found...him. He lead the men of course, he always was a natural leader. He looked older now, although it was hard to tell beneath his helm and the steel he wore. Frederick Lightstone had always been an imposing figure, and in plate armor he was outright powerful looking. Just glimpsing him made her knees weak, made her want to vomit. She couldn't understand the feelings that flowed through her upon taking in his visage.

He was a Captain of the Argent Crusade now. She had known that of course. Had known he was stationed almost beneath her feet in Light's Hope. She had never been able to visit though, even after receiving a letter from him. And now, there he was, in her sight at last, his sword flashing as he brought it down to behead a ghoul that clawed at his mount.

She sighed, letting her vision expand, not wanting to look any further. Just before she released the spell, her eyes caught the sight of something larger amongst the attacking undead. Eyes wide, she pushed the spell towards the lumps in the distance, their forms clarifying and setting a sense of dread and urgency in her stomach that she could not process in her undead state.

There were abominations in the group, and they had nearly reach the hapless caravan.

In a second urgency turned into rage, rage turned into action. She snapped the connection to the scrying spell, whirling and pointing at several initiates who manned the observation post, “You four, go and fetch five of our skeletal gryphons! NOW! We have to hurry!”

One of the initiates looked at the others and spoke hesitantly, “But Corporal, we don't have orders to launch a rescu-”

His words were cut off when Beckyann's runeblade impaled him. In a rage she left the weapon quivering in his chest as he fell in a heap. She turned her baleful gaze on the other initiates, her voice full of malice, “You have your orders. I will take responsibility. Go NOW!”

As the initiates scurried to obey, she reached down to gather her runeblade. She hesitated, her thoughts whirling. She didn't want Frederick to see her after all. A disguise was in order. Quickly, she stripped the initiate of his rune-ax, also removing his helmet in the process. She left him bleeding out black ichor on the ground as she rammed the metal on her head, covering her hair and features. By the time she had donned the helmet, the other initiates had returned, skeletal gryphons cawing and hissing behind them. She nodded, taking the reins of one and jumping into the saddle.

“We ride!” she yelled before mercilessly kicking the undead creature and launching it from Acherus.

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

Frederick knew they were in trouble. The thought passed through his mind as his blade came down to behead another skeleton that had tried to stab at his mount. The caravan was mired in the ambush, unable to break free without a change in the fortune of battle. Amongst the wagons were women and children who had been leaving Light's Hope, and he knew that if something didn't change, they would all perish.

His wife and child were there. He could not fail.

“Rally to me!” his voice called out, confident and strong. “We have to clear the front of the wagons or we'll never get them out!”

Men-at-arms responded, hurrying to his side and spearing a few more of the undead. With a bit of luck and skill they just might break through.

The hope was dashed as the ground began to shake, a dark shadow falling over the men. With eyes wide, Captain Frederick Lightstone turned, his stomach dropping as he saw the abomination that loomed over them. Its flesh was oozing diseased ichor and filled with pustules, its organs hanging out of holes in its torso. Made of a variety of different creatures that had been stitched together like some mad jig-saw puzzle, the undead creature was an unstoppable force. It growled, raising a huge hatchet over its head, a sadistic grin on what passed for its face.

Knowing that there was no way the men would hold the line against it, Frederick spurred his mount forward, his sword raised to take a blow that he would not be able to stop. His heart sank as he realized he'd failed, and determination to die fighting set in within him.

As the hatchet began to descend, another shadow passed over the battlefield, this one moving so fast it was almost impossible to spot. Just as Frederick prepared himself for death, a blur flew from the corner of his vision, racing towards the abomination. It was a dead gryphon, made of bones held together with necromantic magic, its talons extended like razor sharp swords, a horrifying screech coming from it as the armored rider on its back forced it to fly full speed into the abomination.

In a heartbeat bone collided with flesh, and despite its size the abomination was plucked from where it stood, torn to shreds, and thrown to the ground along with the gryphon and rider. The three figures ended up in a heap ten yards away, broken bones and oozing fluids all that remained of the gryphon and the creature.

For a brief moment, the battlefield drew silent as the undead took in the new threat. Three more shadows drifted over them as three more armored figures landed on the outskirts of the Scourge lines. As Frederick watched in disbelief, the armored figure of a woman rose from the ruins of the abomination, her hand reaching up to draw an axe from her back. The weapon glittered with deadly runes as she stepped over her still dying mount, bones crunching beneath her boots. A howl escaped her, cold and empty as she brought the ax down on a nearby ghoul, cleaving its head off.

And then all hell broke loose.

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

Beckyann reveled in the destruction she was causing. Ghouls charged her from all sides, the weak creatures meeting their fate on the edge of the weapon she held. Limbs were hacked off and diseased, clotted blood splattered the ground around her. The dead began to pile like driftwood around her feet, pinning her in place but meaning nothing to her as she continued to slaughter.

From the corner of the eye-slit in her helmet she caught sight of the initiates she'd brought with her wading into the flanks of the undead, driving the creatures away and slaying dozens of them. The men-at-arms behind her of the Argent Crusade had begun to rally, and several of them were clearing the path for the wagons to flee. In minutes the caravan would escape the ambush and they could withdraw. She just had to slay enough of the undead to deter them from following.

It was all going so well that she was taken by surprise when the second abomination launched its attack. This one had used more cunning, and rather than running into the middle of what was now clearly a killing field, it used a long chain as a ranged attack, the vicious hook on the end of the chain made of steel and heavy enough to kill a horse.

The weapon flew through the air, aimed at Beckyann's chest. At the last moment she moved slightly, alerted to its flight as she finished off a ghoul that had jumped on her. The repositioning saved her from extensive damage as the creature's weapon gave her a glancing blow to the helmet.

The force of the impact would have killed a living woman, but it was not such a concern for Beckyann. What WAS a concern was that it spun her around and snapped the straps on the helmet, sending the armor flying away and leaving a black, oozing bruise on her cheekbone. Her dead, golden hair, now free of the confines of the armor, flowed around her, framing her face as her head rolled back.

In that half spin, her gaze crossed the battlefield. Facing the wrong way, her eyes locked with HIS eyes, and she knew in that moment by the look on his face that he recognized her. An electrifying shock passed through her body, a terrifying moment of pure raw emotion that she could not control. In that moment, the glow in her eyes faded, and a green-eyed girl from Corin's Crossing stared out across the impossible distance at the one who she once loved.

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

As the helmet was torn from the woman's head, Frederick gasped in shock and horror. His eyes met hers, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was Beckyann. Although death had not been kind to her, it had frozen her in a moment in time, and Frederick did not see the dead hair flowing over stylized black armor or the emblems of death that surrounded her. Instead he saw the vibrant young woman that he'd loved. The woman who always wore a dress and a smile, her words kind and gentle and the loving devotion in her eyes when she'd speak to him.

In that horrifying instant, he knew that if he did not act, that girl would be plucked from him again. If he did not MOVE, the Scourge would take her from him as they had when his cowardice had allowed him to falter. Deep within him, guilt plagued him as he thought of the wife and child in one of the wagons behind him, but there was nothing he could do to stop himself. It was a chance to undo the horrible mistake he'd made. A way to assuage guilt that could never be soothed when it visited him in his darkest dreams.

His face drew into a frown of grim determination and his hand tightened its grip on his sword as he prepared to finally save his beloved Beckyann.

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

He was going to be foolish. She could see it in the way his back straightened. In that stubborn look that crossed his face; the same one he'd always had when about to argue a point. She could see it in the way his sword came up, the way the gauntlets tightened around it. She could not allow it of course, it was far too late for such a thing. That moment, that time, had passed away forever.

For a second time seemed to slow, and she murmured words that he would never hear over the clash of the battlefield, but that he would read on her lips. He would see it in the softening of her face; the first time a positive emotion had passed across it in the years since she had perished.

Softly her voice came, sounding almost like it had those many years ago, “No. I will love you until the end of time itself, but you cannot save me now Fred. I will never be safe again. Go and live and love. Flee and be at peace.”

She reached out with her free hand, grabbing the chain of the abomination's weapon, her unnaturally strong grip locking around the links just as the creature hauled back on it to retrieve it. As the force of the creature's grip yanked the chain back, Beckyann's body was jerked into the air like a doll, flying towards the creature, her golden hair and black cape of the 1113^th flaring out behind her as she hurtled towards her doom, plucked away from that moment of contact with Frederick forever.

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

In an instant she was gone, taken by the Scourge once more. It ripped his heart asunder in his chest, and grief would have driven him to his knees if not for the words he saw on her black lips before she was snatched from him. Tears streaming down his face, he turned from the sight of the battlefield, looking with guilt towards the wagons behind him and the men that awaited his commands. Realizing what she had bought him with her attack and sacrifice, resolve surged through him.

“You three! Clear those wheels! You and you! Push through the remaining Scourge there! We're getting these people out of here!” his voice barked out. Confidence surged through him as a part of him felt guilt melting away, both at his actions and his indecision. Deep within him, peace began to heal wounds that had been opened for too many years, as her parting words freeing him from the past.

She was not resentful. She had forgiven him. He knew it in his heart, and with renewed energy his blade came up and he prepared to do his duty to his order and to the people that depended on him. Nothing would stop him now.

With a roar, the Argent Crusaders charged, plowing a path through the remaining dead that the Knights of the Ebon Blade had left. Behind them, they left the center of the fight, freeing the innocents amongst them from the carnage by blade and faith.

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

Abominations were one of the most powerful weapons the Scourge had ever made. Designed to besiege and destroy any strong-point, the creatures were unparalleled in strength, size, and ferocity. They were not very intelligent, but that made it all the easier to direct them into combat. Although few were left amongst the Scourge ranks in the Plaguelands, they still were a formidable foe and many Argent Crusaders had died beneath their chains, rusty weapons, and fists.

As the chain curled back around the abomination's arm, it came to learn that although it was almost the peak of Scourge research into necromantic weapons, it was not THE most powerful weapon in their arsenal. The creature that flew towards it from the force of the chain's yank was something different entirely.

Designed purely for war, purged of weaknesses and forged in the most vile of necromancy, Beckyann Eastberg had been changed from that young maiden that Frederick had loved into something else entirely. As she flew through the air, her grip on the chain strong, scourgelight blazed in her eyes and rage burned through her body. Designed to feed on negative emotions, the shock and pain of meeting a loved one had sent her into a killing frenzy.

As the arc of her short flight was reached, the hand holding her rune-ax came up, bringing the deadly weapon over her head. The abomination had certainly not expected its prey to still be capable of lifting its weapon. It was doubly surprised when Beckyann collided with it, her ax arcing down and blazing with scourge magic as it smashed through the creature's upper torso.

Still partially alive, the abomination wondered in confusion why its vision suddenly split in two as the two sides of what passed for its head fell away. The last thing it saw was a boot coming down to stomp out one of its eyes, and the last sound it heard was the howl of a forlorn spirit so driven to rage that she would tear it into unrecognizable bits.

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

Hours would pass before the battle came to an end. Hours filled with hacking, howling rage that left Scourge creatures maimed and body parts and gore littering the plaguelands. By the time it was done, Beckyann's armor would be awash in dark fluids, several rents in the metal showing where blows had struck her.

One of her legs was barely functional, a gargoyle's talon protruding from her armor as she limped to the edge of the battlefield. All around her as far as the eye could see lay twitching, dead Scourge. One other figure walked amongst the destroyed creatures as carrion birds circled slowly high above. Beckyann nodded at the last remaining initiate, pleased to see that her entire strike force had not been destroyed.

The initiate, a human who was now sans one of his arms, saluted her awkwardly before frowning, “All of the mounts were slain Corporal. We'll have to walk back...unless you can make a death gate?”

Beckyann shrugged, figuring the pain of the magically enchanted claw in her leg would be good suffering to focus on during the trek. In the distance, she saw a cloud of dust passing out of sight; the caravan safely on its way into Argent territory once more. For a brief moment, the glow of her eyes faded once more, and she nodded towards the departing dust, “Farewell...my love.”

The initiate paused, turning to look at her, “Ma'am? Did you say something?”

Beckyann turned, her eyes glowing once more as she started the long walk towards Acherus, too drained even to open a death gate back home, “Shut up initiate.”

He wisely did so as the two headed off.

Common Interests

The ruins were covered with vegetation, making it difficult to identify what some of the structures might once have been in some places. The vines had choked much of the crumbling stone walls, leafy foliage sprouting all throughout the bamboo forest.

Beckyann carefully stepped over a thick vine, her plate boots jingling slightly as she planted her foot to gain better purchase. She had been in the ruins for an hour or so now, and with each passing minute an almost child-like delight grew within her. There were ancient carvings and glyphs all over the ruins! What was even better, they appeared to be older than most of the other sites she had ever visited, with the exception of a few areas in Uldum and the Storm Peaks. Truly ancient mysteries were buried within the soil beneath her feet.

Her fascination with the site drew her deeper within the encompassing walls that surrounded the ancient compound. Ahead of her, one of the walls was partially clear of vegetation due to the way the sun filtered down through the Jade Forest all around the site. It left the carvings there exposed, and although thousands of years of moisture had obliterated some, there were more than enough to record and study.

Beckyann practically ran towards the wall, excitement on her face and an almost life-like flush in her skin. It was moments like this when she most connected with the woman she once was, and the act of discovery was a driving force in her unlife. It took the doldrums out of merely endlessly existing.

With some degree of glee, the death knight paused before the wall. She took her runeblade and plunged it into the soft soil, sinking down onto her knees to view the inscriptions. The ones near the bottom of the wall had some plants growing in front of them, but had suffered the least from water damage and deterioration. She eagerly pulled plants out of the ground, removing her gauntlets so her fingers could trace over the deeply engraved words. After a few moments of study, she set her pack beside her, removing a travel journal and beginning to take notes. It had been some time since she'd found a site worthy of further study, and it was highly likely that another archaeological dig would be called for in the near future.

Beckyann was so engrossed in the carvings on the wall that she failed to pay attention to her surroundings. Kneeling on the ground, she wrote quickly in her notebook, murmuring to herself as she attempted to translate what few words she was familiar with. It was for this reason that she failed to notice the intruders approaching her from behind until two overly large hands wrapped themselves around her neck.

“I see you are already kneeling supplicant! This is good! It will save us much trouble!” a loud voice boomed out from behind her.

The pressure on her neck increased, and clearly whoever had grabbed her was trying to choke the life out of her. Idly Beckyann noted that the size and coloration of the hands around her matched those that she had seen of the Mogu. Although she'd not fought them directly, she knew enough about them to understand that the creatures would slay any that stood in their way.

She was also not impressed in the slightest.

Rolling her eyes, Beckyann pretended to struggle, her hands coming up to try and remove the huge hands encircling her neck. She kicked her feet, pretending to strain, one hand reaching over her head as if to grasp at the attacker that she could not possibly overpower. To her annoyance, the pressure increased and she heard the crackle of cartilage beginning to break. If it went on much longer she would be damaged, and the thought immediately irritated her. Tired of the game, she slumped forward, arm resting atop her own head and her other arm dangling limply.

Predictably, once all signs of 'life' had fled her, the hands encircling her throat let go to drop her to the ground. The tactic was an excellent attack, and would have left any of the races of Azeroth choked to death and laying sprawled in a heap before the wall.

Unfortunately for the Mogu, Beckyann was no longer a member of the races of Azeroth and didn't actually need to breathe.

As the hands let her go, rather than fall forward, her hand shot up into her hair. She yanked her hairpin free, whirling around and rising. She had a glimpse of a surprised, disgusting face inches from her before she plunged the hairpin into the creature's chest. Seven inches of cold saronite pushed through its body, striking its heart. The death runes on the little hairpiece flickered to life, disease setting in all around the puncture. As Beckyann fully straightened, she smirked at the Mogu, watching his flesh begin to decay. The large creature slumped sideways before falling to the ground, a last gasp of air escaping him as he died.

With the large form out of her line of sight, the death knight could see three more Mogu standing in the ruins. They looked at her with some degree of surprise. Casually she reached up and brushed some of errant blonde hair from her face, the brittle dead strands having little luster even in the light of the sun. She smiled at the Mogu, casually reaching for her runeblade and pulling it from the soil.

The creature closest to her pointed at her with the blade of a halberd, its voice thundering, “You! You are not like the others! You are already a construct! You will submit to us for study and dissection at once!”

Beckyann blinked, pausing to consider what the Mogu had said. She studied the creatures as they fell into a battle stance, noting something unusual about the weapons they held. Magical energies sparkled on the blades, and she could sense the essence of chained spirits in some of the materials they carried on their belts. As she took this in, the meaning of the Mogu's words came into focus.

They were using the spirits of the slain for some foul purpose.

She laughed as the realization struck her, the echoing sound unnatural as it bounced off of the rocks. After all she'd been through, it seemed the Cult of the Damned had not even had an original idea when they began enslaving spirits. The creatures before her used similar spells, and likely had been doing so for far longer.

Oh well.

She brought her runeblade up, saluting the large creatures mockingly. Her black lips parts, the words that slipped out full of malice, “Kneel supplicants.”

The Mogu glared at her, bringing their weapons up and roaring battle-cries. They had little effect on Beckyann however, and she merely brought her runeblade up, advancing towards them like the endless march of death that time brought to all things. Silently her runeblade came up to meet the first of the attackers' blows.

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

Less than an hour later, Beckyann mounted her deathcharger, cuffing the undead animal harshly when it tried to bite her. Behind her, the runes lay silent once more, a thin layer of frost beginning to melt in the warm weather that the Jade Forest enjoyed. Silent and still forms lay crumpled amongst the ruins; a demonstration of what happened when the very weapons the Mogu wished to create were given free will.

With a laugh, Beckyann harshly spurred her deathcharger, the saddlebags beneath her bouncing as they began to move. Within lay her travel notebook and the research she'd done, as well as a few bottles filled with the twisted spirits of long dead creatures, taken from the fallen as spoils of war.

Maybe the continent was not as much a waste as Beckyann had first imagined. The thought brought a smile to her face as she raced beneath the bamboo canopy.

Burial Rites

“And you say that the creatures have been appearing more frequently?” the older Pandaren asked of his companion. The two were walking slowly down a path between low bamboo plants, heading towards the ruins of the Horde base in the Jade Forest.

“Yes Elder,” the other Pandaren replied. “The Sha remnants have been appearing with more regularity as of late, but only in the specific area I mentioned. I fear that there is some element of malice that is causing them to form. I'm quite worried for the safety of the village.”

The older Pandaren chuckled, bringing a hand up to forestall further theorizing, “Now now, let us not jump to conclusions. It could simply be that the battle on this site left a bit of a mark on the lands, and that with time the manifestations will diminish. Rushing to declare that it is this or that may make us overlook important details.”

As the two continued to talk, they reached the end of the path and a clearing beyond. Small stone markers with brightly colored bits of cloth tied to them sat in neat rows in the cleared space. The cloth fluttered in the wind, the memorials to the dead looking peaceful and serene. The older Pandaren paused, looking over the small cemetery.

“And you say that it is in a specific area here? This is where we buried the outsiders who fell in battle against the Horde,” he mused. “Show me the spot.”

The younger of the two Pandaren nodded, moving between the neat rows of markers to one near the end. The stone itself resembled the others, although it had a few scratches on it where Sha creatures had been clawing at it. On the center of the stone was a metal marker taken from the one buried beneath it, some beastly emblem with the inscription '1113^th' engraved on it. The marker itself had a name carved into it. The Pandaren had been able to determine that the fallen woman's name was Beckyann Eastberg based on dog-tags she had within her armor.

“Ah, I remember this one,” the elder said sadly. “The poor woman's arm and leg had been torn off when one of their machines crashed, her other arm broken. I pray that she did not suffer long.”

The younger Pandaren nodded and then turned to his elder, concern on his face, “What if a Sha creature is inhabiting the corpse? We've seen such before. That would explain the manifestations.”

The elder thought the question over, stroking his beard in thought. Finally he nodded, looking sad. “Yes, such is possible and we have seen it happen in this conflict that the outsiders brought amongst us. We should at least check, so that the poor woman is resting in peace.”

With a nod, the younger Pandaren set down the bundle he had been carrying, unrolling the fabric around several tools including a shovel and pick. “I agree, it is for the best I think.”

He rose, shovel in hand, and drove it into the soil to take the first load of dirt off the grave.

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

Minutes later the shovel hit metal, the sound of it causing the younger Pandaren to pull his tool back. He leaned forward, brushing dirt from the hole he'd dug, revealing purple plate armor that was covering a forearm. The Pandaren carefully brushed more soil away, revealing a tan wrist and hand with black fingernail polish.

He looked over at the elder, relief etched into his features, “Her hands are not Sha claws. The corpse is still pure.”

The elder frowned, leaning closer, “And yet...I know little of these outsiders, but look at the coloration of the flesh. Their living look as such, sun-kissed and warm. And her nails...the flesh of the dead rots and decays typically. The claws of our people appear longer, as if they had grown, yet hers are neat and trim despite being in the soil for such a long time.”

The younger Pandaren looked at the arm with wide eyes, “You are right elder! What could this mean?”

He picked his shovel up again, prodding the soil around the exposed limb, as if the dirt itself would give rise to an answer. Within the soil a small creature squirmed, some type of bloated worm that one would associate with corpses. The Pandaren thought nothing of it, pushing the shovel deeper into the soil.

With a sudden motion, the arm of the 'corpse' reached out and grabbed the lower portion of the shovel's handle!

With a gasp of shock both Pandaren reeled back, the younger still maintaining his grip on his shovel. He pulled, his frightened mind frantic to retrieve his tool from the grip of the corpse. The arm holding it displayed incredible strength, maintaining the grip and pulling. The sudden resistance caused the Pandaren to tumble backwards.

As he fell, his weight put leverage on the shovel's handle, pulling it with a mighty jerk. The soil around the limb heaved, the dirt piling up in a mound and falling away. Both Pandaren looked on in horror as the corpse of a blonde haired woman rose from the hole, dirt falling away from her and caked to her armor. The purple metal was rent in several places, particularly along her left arm and leg. Both limbs displayed a black gash with whitened flesh along the edges, but all four limbs seemed attached.

As the two Pandaren looked on with terror in their eyes, the blonde haired woman took a step out of her grave, steadying herself on the headstone that had marked her resting place. Her eyes opened, baleful blue scourgelight studying the hapless creatures on the ground before her. Black lips parted and she attempted to speak, the dirt in her mouth preventing sounds from coming out.

Although both Pandaren were only vaguely familiar with the language of the outsiders, it was clear that the walking-corpse was not saying very nice things. They scrambled to their feet, eyes still wide as the blonde spit dirt out of her mouth. Angrily she snatched up the marker on her tombstone, the rank badge that also served as a communication device to keep in touch with her legion.

She rolled her eyes, chanting something and dark energies formed around her lips. She spat out a few words which were translated by the temporary spell.

“Bath. Now. And do not TOUCH me. Ever.”

Wide-eyed, the Pandaren scrambled away from the woman, heading back towards their village to do as she'd ordered. Clearly she was not Sha-touched, but whatever she WAS they wanted no part of it.

For her part, Beckyann Eastberg reached up to brush more dirt from her flesh, shaking out her hair and leaving the grave soil behind her. Her clothing was ruined, her armor torn to shreds, and she had no idea where her runeblade was. She was going to have to craft a new one from whatever weapons the primitive fools in the village ahead had. The fact that they did not even know what her kind was did not do much to convince her that they had any intelligence within them. In fact, at that moment, she was not sure if she hated a living creature more than the foolish fur-covered twits that fled before her as she stalked towards the town.

Behind her, a small manifestation of her hatred formed, tendrils reaching out to lash at her back. Before they struck, she whirled, necromancy on her lips. The creature was struck with a howling blast of freezing air, shards of ice tearing it to shreds in a moment. A thing of hatred that fed on negative energies snuffed out by one of its own kind.

“I cannot STAND this place,” Beckyann Eastberg murmured. “I can see this is going to be a long campaign.”

With that, she shook her head, proceeding towards the town where the natives had better damn well be drawing her a bath so she could clean her corpse and armor. It would be steaming hot if they knew what was good for them.