Chapter II, He who resists
Chapter III, Rotten to the core
Okay, warning! Includes descriptive content of weird things. If you're very sensitive to that, please don't proceed.
So I know I don't sound native. I'm not. I don't have to. What matters is I enjoy this story and I want to tell it.
I listened to Assault on New Avalon, Luca Turilli - Prophet of the Last Eclipse, Demonheart while writing this.
Disclaimer: I do not own the World of Warcraft, Azeroth or anything in it, but it was me and not Blizzard that came up with the story of this character, whom I have created to breathe life into their world.
He felt incredible pressure around his chest, as if his heart was squeezed really tight and then released. Squeezed and released, squeezed and released again, like it was blackmailed to start beating. A foul stench invaded his consciousness, stinging his nose and forcefully awakening him from the slumber. The pain he had just felt around his chest was gone. As he opened his eyes, a freshly bloodied meat wagon lay next to him, welcoming him to Acherus, the Ebon Hold.
- Get up, maggot! We cannot lose more time!
Vladan troublesomely pushed his other cheek against the chilly stone floor. A short-haired man in blue armour stood straight before him. He carried massive armour on his wide shoulders; his face had strange markings on it. The man pointed at Vlad with a glowing sword.
- Put your rotting bones together! Why haven't you got up on your feet yet?! the man kept yelling.
Vlad managed to drag himself up against the wall. He stood feebly before the grim figure known as Instructor Razuvious.
- Take this blade and choke on it, if you will, I need no aimless cowards on my way, Razuvious threw the blade on the floor before him. - Stop by the armour racks and report to the Master!
The weak man wandered over to what seemed like a combination of an anvil and a furnace, and picked up pieces of dark armour leaning against it. The saronite plates felt strangely fitting against his flesh. A cold embrace surrounded him as he felt drawn towards the terrace.
All that I am: anger, cruelty, vengeance - I bestow upon you, my chosen knight.
As Vladan trudged towards the balcony, an image of Isa holding Milka in her arms formed on his mind. Isa sat at the dining table. Her smile was as warm as the sun as she watched over the newly born baby girl. She crouched to reach out for the hem of her white dress, a wedding gown, and squished it in her fist.
...a blemish upon these Plaguelands.
Starting from her wrists, her skin slowly began to burn. It burned up her arms, her shoulders, her chest and neck - until it finally reached her face. As if the skin was peeled off, the bones and tissue of her face were exposed, quickly rotting into unrecognisable features.
Where you tread, doom will follow.
Isa suddenly raised her leer from the floor. She stared emptily through whatever was in front of her, and slowly stood up. With each step forward, she collapsed lower towards the ground, and as the last breath of air coursed through her, she turned to cinder.
Go now and claim your destiny, death knight.
. . .
Isa leaned against a tree, a cotton blanket wrapped tightly around her. A few Scarlet soldiers and a share of civilians remained in the sleepy shore. High General Abbendis, along with Landgren, had climbed aboard a departing ship a moment ago. It had sailed away soon after. Abbendis' words still echoed within Isa's mind. The Scarlet Crusade is no more. Long live the Scarlet Onslaught!
Father Patrick Newbury mumbled to himself in the misty morning. He appeared drunken. The old man sat on a heavy, wooden box, looking towards the windy path leading up to the orchard, and eventually the Chapel of the Crimson Flame. Isa leaned towards the disoriented priest.
- Father, is everything alright? she reached out, placing her palm against the man's shoulder. - Are you planning to take the next ship?
Father Newbury let out a cough mixed with ironic laughter.
- The chapel is cursed with their taint now. The sacred ground around it will be devoured by the plague as we are devoured by the ground, each one of us at our own time. Ashes to ashes. Dust-... to dust.
- What? the tone of Isa's voice rang with disbelief. - They... they have taken the chapel?
Newbury's sorrowful eyes closed as he took a deep breath.
- They have taken all but us.
- But we... we still have time to get on the next ship. We'll make it to Northrend, the vessel will be here any minute.
- Listen, girl, Newbury chuckled carelessly. - No ships are coming back. We are only headed to our doom.
. . .
Casey Morgan's grim stare reached the horizon from the stern of the Scarlet vessel. The man shook in his boots, desperately trying to rub his arms for warmth.
- What've we got ourselves into? What kind of a genius mind decides to sail to the roof of the world? This chill here, I tell you, is the herald of our doom.
- Save your breath, Captain Danell's sharp words cut Morgan off. - You're not the only one whose blood is freezing in here.
- Excuse me, captain. I didn't think your hazy mind had taken note of it.
- I swear your tongue will be the end of you.
Morgan corrected his posture into a more pompous one, standing right in front of Captain Danell.
- The same tongue your wife thought so highly of.
Danell's eyes blurred as if the light in them was turned out. He spoke in a low, callous tone.
- Mary passed away last year, you know that.
- I'm well aware. Have you heard of the shirt she hid under your bed one time just as you came home? That time she was out of breath and claimed she had carried something heavy. That time you had to leave soon after, and she told you to take your time. What was she dressed in again? A white dress, yes, the one with a mild scent of roses to it.
- To hell with you, Morgan!
Before he had time to think, Danell found his palms placed steadily against Morgan's chest, giving him a hefty push towards the sea. Morgan lost his balance, first leaning far back against the bulwark and soon after swaying over the edge. With a troubled cry, he fell into the icy water. In a matter of seconds, the Scarlet commander disappeared into the murky waters of the Frozen Sea.
Stanley Danell swallowed visibly. He looked confused as he leaned against the bulwark and stared into the ocean with wide eyes. Without moving his gaze, he spoke to the crew that remained silent as they peered at the captain.
- Deckhand, he began assertively. - Prepare the anchors. We're approaching the shore.
- Right away, sir.