Something Missing

[Meton08]

Just a quick story that crept out of my brain after the RP today.

It had been a long day and night for Meton, he had just returned from a month long search for two Scourge agents, granted it was successful but it left him somewhat tired none the less. When he found Steadfast once again, he was somewhat surprised at all the new blood in search of a guild hall to call their home. It seemed the Dead Scar had other plans for Dharkoth however when he was called in by voices. It took almost all night to bring him to Lady Sylvanas. Afterward is when Meton found himself sitting in the Filthy Animal with Solivar about the day's events. About halfway through is when Meton realized something was missing in his life. Perhaps he was too busy before with all the constant fighting but this downtime made him miss the old days when he would sit and talk with friends, which is something almost non-existant these days for the death knight. This talk with Solivar made him yearn for those days but at the same time Meton was feeling something he hadn't felt in so long; and that was just a fleeting moment of happiness. Knowing that he couldn't afford to feel this happiness when there was vengeance to be had, Meton quickly raised his defenses back up but was still glad that his helmet hid a half smile that crept across his face as they went their separate ways for the time being.

[Solivar]

...I shall be replying at greater length, and In Character, this evening. But for now I will say: SQUEE!

Ahem.

That is all.

[Meton08]

Huh...well then. Didn't know that was anything...squee worthy.

[Chabindi]

I wonder if he had that 'squee' saved and was just dying to let it out.

[Solivar]

It had been a near thing -- too near by half.

Do you hear them? The voices?

He had, for the briefest of instants, allowed himself to know relief: someone else heard them, too. The voices, the endless susurrus of whispers, the souls of the dead crying out from the places where the last of their mortal life bled away and what remained was anchored, unable to find a release of their own making, helpless to move beyond the instant of their deaths. Oh, yes, he heard them -- from the instant he had risen from his own impermanent ending, they had been a companion more constant than any other, those lingering echoes of life that called out to him, knowing he could hear. Before, it had not troubled him. They had not troubled him. They were nothing, after all, but raw materials for preparations that required ectoplasmic residue at best, a puling irritation at worst, a constant, subliminal nails-on-a-slate whine of unending need.

Now?

Now he had to fight the urge to listen for the voices he knew.

That Dharkoth and Shaixne heard them as well was, in retrospect, not entirely surprising. They were both warlocks, after all, and the stuff of souls their medium of trade with the powers they commanded. That Shaixne was untroubled by it was also not surprising; mad though he sometimes seemed, Shaixne was at least graced with peace in his destructive malevolence, and directed his violence against those who would do the brotherhood harm. Dharkoth...was not so fortunate.

Kill them. Kill them all.

For an instant, there on the Scar, Dharkoth's voice had held an echo of the Lich King's own -- the command that had put both Lordaeron and Quel'Thalas to the sword. And, in that same instant, he found he at last had the strength to resist it -- to refuse to feed his rune-marked weapons the blood and lives of those most dear to him, the comrades and friends who had accepted him into their ranks. Bitter irony, then, that refusing to visit death on them had proven to be the path of least resistance, least temptation.

Call them. Take them. Make them your own. They are your army, the weapon you wield in my name.

He had woken with those words ringing in his mind, shaping him into what he was to become, defining the purpose for which he would exist, the manner in which he would serve his king. Some waded hip-deep in the slaughter of whole nations, bathed in the blood of their lord's enemies. Some ravened among the living like wolves made of night and death, with tearing fangs of winter, the better to let those lives run free. And some were subtle, slipping past the lips and beneath the skin, turning blood to poison and breath to icy fire, minds and souls to fever-wracked wreckage and flesh to a prison, a prison easily commanded to spread death far and wide. His gift, the insidious death-plagues sleeping in his blood waiting only for the magic that called them forth, the power to flay souls from their flesh and enslave both. And he had. Oh, he had. There were no lack of voices among the earthbound, restless dead that howled his name, knowing him their murderer, their defiler.

Call him. Take him. Make him your own.

So close -- he had begun calling the magic before he could think of a reason not to do so, the binding circle etching itself into the barren, poisoned earth of the Scar, reaching out to envelop Dharkoth entirely. And it would have been so very easy -- Dharkoth's will was already in tatters, his mind fragile. Easy to finish tearing him, finish breaking him, rebuild him stronger, better, more controlled, to repair everything wrong inside him --

Make him your own.

Shaixne was just as broken in his own way, mad and seething with barely contained rage, a fury that would consume him and likely anyone nearby when it finally became too great for him to hold in his twisted soul, the rotting shell of his body. And Dayari with his child's mind made of equal parts tactless innocence and unthinking cruelty, his bloody, deadly hands, his reflexive deference to those stronger than himself.

Make him your own.

Meton...oh, that would have been sweet. The best of all. A true brother to call to his side, to have at his back, to fight and kill beside. Angry, bitter Meton, whose soul was consumed with a wrath that wrapped around how he loathed what he'd become, hated himself enough to seek his own death in the destruction of all that he despised.

Make him your own.

It would have been so easy. And standing there, with the power blossoming within him and reaching out to wrap its tendrils around them, it had felt right. Right to reach out with it and take them, to undo what they were and remake them in accordance with his own will, to make them his own, to be one of five again, bound together by ties of blood and magic and brotherhood, a single perfect weapon.

It had taken more will than they would ever guess to resort to physical violence, to beat Dharkoth half-senseless and drag them both off the Scar before he did something he would regret forever. Or how close he had been to doing it, and how sickened with self-disgust that he had nearly yielded to that temptation, to violate the minds and souls and wills of his brothers in arms, his friends. Meton had questioned his willingness to deal in death -- but death at least had the chance to be clean. When he could still call himself a healer, he had known that death was sometimes a mercy, a final blessed release. And it was the only true gift he had left to give now.

He wished to say that to Meton, as they sat companionably together next to the fire in the Filthy Animal's common room, bathed in warmth and light and the sights and sounds of life and the living. It had been on the tip of his tongue to tell that deadly, volatile brother everything, to confess all his sins, and accept whatever judgment Meton offered in return. But, in the end, he did not -- could, in truth, not bring himself to it, for one reason: that smile, small and knife-edged and mostly hidden by the shadows of his helmet, the first he had seen from the man. There was hope in that expression, no matter how quickly hidden it might be, hope and trust and brotherhood and he would do nothing to harm that. Nothing. It was something they had both lacked for far too long.

[Lunar_Watcher]

after hearing of his beloved's death, shaixne rush back to brill, fear incasing his very soul, (it couldn't be, they are lying to me) but as he approached a feeling of dread came over him like a wave crashing against the shore.

the bodies of those unfortunate enough to be caught in the raid were lined up along the street, as to be claimed by their loved ones, shaixne walked numbly down the line and apon spotting lilian's decapated body he finally knew the truth.

knees buckled as he scream loud and hard the unshed tears fallling form his eyes, (SHES DEAD!) His mind screamed, then silence came, the voices in his head grew increasingly louder (KILL KILL, KILL THE ONES THAT DID THIS!) the voices of the demons he shared his bein with demaned blood, vision going red, shaixne gave himself over to the voices and summoning his demon steed to his side shaixne mounted and let the demons guide him.

the thundering hoof beats of his steed sounded on the rocky path, as the great citidal came into site, sliding from his mount, everything else happened in to shaixne seemed like a blur. screams, fire, people pleading for him to stop, but all those that got in his path, men, woman, even children in the citidal, none were spared, none were given mercy, all died by his rage.

the doors slammed open and a stuned general looked at the demon that now consumed the once peacful warlock, letting out a demonic scream shaixne charged at the man, he could smell lilian's blood still drying on the mans tabard, a clashing of steal, fire and claw, a scream then the silence came again.

the tabard tooken for the fallen body of what was once a man, the darkness faded around shaixne, he numbly walked out of the citidal that night around the bloodly and fallen bodies of all those unfortunate enough to get in his way.

summoning his horse to him, shaixne headed to the undercity and once inside the darkness over took his shattered mind again, shaixne couldn't comprehend what had happened, all he knew is waking up in chains in the apothocary with the dark lady standing over him.

forgive me he begged as the dark queen walked away, then next month was spent recieving injections and recovering from what had taken place. once shaixne was released, he worked hard to gain the trust of his queen again, as lilian's ashes were laid to rest shaixne's mind finally came to ease.

he promised not only his fallen wife, but also the dark lady that he would never repeat the past, everyday shaixne fights for the ones he cares for and for the honor of his queen, but in his mind the whispers of the demons are always there, as much as he tries to ignore them, sometimes the voices grow to strong to ignore and sometimes they take control of him, causing him to repeat his mistakes.