Post by warraven on Dec 2, 2007 13:49:46 GMT -5
((I really, really liked this quest))
The symbol stank of fel magic, so badly that Eonthane could barely touch it. Most times, he was loathe to embrace the Shadowform because of the raw arcane power it brought with it… a sweet seduction… but this time he gathered it to himself willingly, relief coursing through his veins alongside the ice of shadow as the burn of the mark was numbed. He could still feel, but it was somewhere outside his body and he could listen to the thrum of shadow in his heart instead of its foul whisperings in his hand. He wondered what had driven the elf, Mehlar, to such hatred. Yes, he had heard the tale. He knew what had destroyed his precious city and brought so much suffering to his people. But he had been a bit too young to fully comprehend it, not until much later when he came of age and the pain of the addiction started gnawing at his bones. Then he began to hate but it was directed elsewhere.
Still. It was a simple enough task and he needed something to take his mind off of recent events. Defiling a simple tomb… who would care? The place was dead and rotten anyway and what use did anyone have for a simple symbol, even for one as revered as the paladin Uther Lightbringer? Doubtless Eonthane would find it already defiled by the walking dead that roamed the place.
The path leading up to the tomb was surprisingly clear. Eonthane reined his hawkstrider in, a sudden curiosity warning him to approach carefully. There had been plenty of ghouls outside. He walked up the path, his staff in one hand, the tainted mark in the other, and saw light streaming down upon the statue of a human, hammer raised in the air. The place felt holy and Eonthane stopped in mid-step, suddenly disquieted.
He’d turned his back on holy. He had. The priest felt his shadowform waver and he steeled himself. There was someone up ahead, another priest by the looks of it. Female. Very well, she stood in his way. She’d suffer and die and he’d accomplish his task. Stain the ground of this holy place with unholy death and then defile it with the mark he carried and be gone.
Neither spoke as the fight began. There was really no need to. Her light was as loathsome to him as his innate shadow was… and each sensed the other’s intent, unspoken in the air between them. Eonthane let his hatred loose, all that hatred he’d bottled up since learning to use his talents, since tasting the first hints of madness that would come if he ever gave up his inner fight, and unleashed it upon the woman. He saw her eyes go wide in pain as the blast struck, as her nerves coursed pain through to her mind, sourceless agony that had no reason or explanation. She’d die without a mark on her.
And in turn, holy light lanced through Eonthane and each time it did it felt like a searing upon his soul, opening up old wounds he’d tried to hide.
His remaining family in Silvermoon.
The girl Dalaran apprentice he’d tortured and left on their doorstep for revenge and his own enjoyment…
The things he said to his guildmates.
The few times he’d helped them.
All the bitter failures and broken promises and that pendant that lay hidden under the thick cloth of his tunic.
And all this he gathered to the forefront of his mind, reeling under the assault of the holy magic, and slammed it into the woman’s mind. Forced her to experience what he had, wrapped in a packet of shadow. The blood vessels of her mind burst before she had time to comprehend the images she saw before her eyes, of the lean elf with the drawn face and haunted eyes, and then she fell before him, staff clattering to the cobblestones and the thinnest trickle of blood escaping her lips. She exhaled once but that was only the body letting go of the soul, for her mind was destroyed. Eonthane stood there for a moment, heart pounding and the delicious taste of shadow in his mouth. He’d hurt her… she felt what he did before she died… and taken it to the grave with her. It was relief enough for his own holy-torn body.
He gathered himself up and stepped over her body, walking up to where radiant light spilled out over the statue. Hesitated. Then he stepped inside and felt and overwhelming aura come across him. The Shadowform slipped away, almost unnoticed, and the taint of the defiled mark he held in his hand returned to him, reminding him of the task he had come to do. But for a long moment he gazed up at the stature, wondering what kind of fool this Uther had been. Followed a path of Light and now look. A forgotten tomb in a land corrupted beyond hope. Eonthane raised the symbol and released the magic contained within it.
The light dimmed and was replaced with a dark veil of fel shadow. Eonthane smiled thinly to himself. There. The task was accomplished. Everything failed in the end. Promises would be broken, vows neglected, and even that which was revered and holy would fail and be no more. He could go now and leave this no-longer holy place and it would trouble his mind no more.
But there was another source of holy still… and in horror, the blood elf backed away as a spirit manifested, a hammer in one hand, a book in the other. He hovered over the ground, as substantial as he’d need to be surely, to strike down the one who had dared to defile the tomb. A stern face, lined with the cares of duty and eyes sharp and bright and very, very dangerous that gazed down into the elf’s own.
“Why do you do this?” Uther spoke, his voice seeming to resound in Eonthane’s mind, “Did I somehow wrong you in life?”
And Eonthane, frozen to the spot, could only sink to his knees before the spirit. Uther Lightbringer. He could feel the spirit’s gaze piercing even the sanctity of his own mind… searching. For reasons. There were many of them and Eonthane could only tremble as Uther gently shoved each aside. He could have torn Eonthane’s mind apart. The elf had done as much to many, many others. But the touch was gentle and Eonthane shivered, each reason being examined and reminding him of what he was and why he did what he did. Uther knew then. And he would surely kill Eonthane for what he was. The elf shut his eyes.
“Ah, I see it now in your mind.” He’d reached the heart of the reason. “This is the work of one of my former students… It is sad to know that his heart has turned so dark.”
The presence withdrew. There was a quiet sadness in Uther’s eyes, weariness, and a complete lack of hatred for either the one that had sent Eonthane there or the elf that had dared such a vile act. For an elf that had nothing but contempt for all that the Light and Uther stood for.
The next words were almost lost in Eonthane’s numbed mind. Forgive him, Uther said. That he forgave his old student. Then the spirit vanished and the unholy magic was purged, washing the tomb once more in blinding holiness. Eonthane crept forwards; the spent token discarded, and carefully put one hand against the cold stone of the tomb itself. Drew a deep, unsteady breath. He’d faced death many times before, been beaten and left for dead at the laughter of the Alliance races, and had willingly thrown himself into reckless situations, not caring of the results. He’d expended all his hate and pain at the addiction that plagued him and never, not once, had anyone seen into Eonthane’s mind like this one had. And each time Eonthane killed to appease that gnawing hunger, to expend his own burning soul, he’d felt that bitter aftertaste of an empty victory.
When had it last been since he’d seen only forgiveness in return? Had he ever?
Eonthane did one last thing before he left. Although his arms were weak and his body frail, he gathered up the slain priestess and carried her to the base of the tomb. Her soul had fled too far for him to call it back… but it felt fitting like this. And at least here, bathed in holy radiance, the ghouls of the Scourge could not touch her lifeless form. Then the elf returned to where his hawkstrider waited and mounted up, kicking his heels into it with a vengeance, and did not look back.
Mehlar’s words were harsh at Eonthane’s report. He left much out; save for that Uther forgave him. And when the elf yelled for the priest to be gone from his sight, Eonthane obligingly turned and did so, feeling disgust well up inside him. Forgiveness. Not many got a second chance like that. He didn’t understand how such hatred could be forgiven so easily. And how someone would not accept that opportunity. But Eonthane knew all too well what stubbornness a person could have and so he only turned the reins of his hawkstrider away and left the Bulwark behind.
It would be much harder to leave behind what had happened at the tomb itself.
The symbol stank of fel magic, so badly that Eonthane could barely touch it. Most times, he was loathe to embrace the Shadowform because of the raw arcane power it brought with it… a sweet seduction… but this time he gathered it to himself willingly, relief coursing through his veins alongside the ice of shadow as the burn of the mark was numbed. He could still feel, but it was somewhere outside his body and he could listen to the thrum of shadow in his heart instead of its foul whisperings in his hand. He wondered what had driven the elf, Mehlar, to such hatred. Yes, he had heard the tale. He knew what had destroyed his precious city and brought so much suffering to his people. But he had been a bit too young to fully comprehend it, not until much later when he came of age and the pain of the addiction started gnawing at his bones. Then he began to hate but it was directed elsewhere.
Still. It was a simple enough task and he needed something to take his mind off of recent events. Defiling a simple tomb… who would care? The place was dead and rotten anyway and what use did anyone have for a simple symbol, even for one as revered as the paladin Uther Lightbringer? Doubtless Eonthane would find it already defiled by the walking dead that roamed the place.
The path leading up to the tomb was surprisingly clear. Eonthane reined his hawkstrider in, a sudden curiosity warning him to approach carefully. There had been plenty of ghouls outside. He walked up the path, his staff in one hand, the tainted mark in the other, and saw light streaming down upon the statue of a human, hammer raised in the air. The place felt holy and Eonthane stopped in mid-step, suddenly disquieted.
He’d turned his back on holy. He had. The priest felt his shadowform waver and he steeled himself. There was someone up ahead, another priest by the looks of it. Female. Very well, she stood in his way. She’d suffer and die and he’d accomplish his task. Stain the ground of this holy place with unholy death and then defile it with the mark he carried and be gone.
Neither spoke as the fight began. There was really no need to. Her light was as loathsome to him as his innate shadow was… and each sensed the other’s intent, unspoken in the air between them. Eonthane let his hatred loose, all that hatred he’d bottled up since learning to use his talents, since tasting the first hints of madness that would come if he ever gave up his inner fight, and unleashed it upon the woman. He saw her eyes go wide in pain as the blast struck, as her nerves coursed pain through to her mind, sourceless agony that had no reason or explanation. She’d die without a mark on her.
And in turn, holy light lanced through Eonthane and each time it did it felt like a searing upon his soul, opening up old wounds he’d tried to hide.
His remaining family in Silvermoon.
The girl Dalaran apprentice he’d tortured and left on their doorstep for revenge and his own enjoyment…
The things he said to his guildmates.
The few times he’d helped them.
All the bitter failures and broken promises and that pendant that lay hidden under the thick cloth of his tunic.
And all this he gathered to the forefront of his mind, reeling under the assault of the holy magic, and slammed it into the woman’s mind. Forced her to experience what he had, wrapped in a packet of shadow. The blood vessels of her mind burst before she had time to comprehend the images she saw before her eyes, of the lean elf with the drawn face and haunted eyes, and then she fell before him, staff clattering to the cobblestones and the thinnest trickle of blood escaping her lips. She exhaled once but that was only the body letting go of the soul, for her mind was destroyed. Eonthane stood there for a moment, heart pounding and the delicious taste of shadow in his mouth. He’d hurt her… she felt what he did before she died… and taken it to the grave with her. It was relief enough for his own holy-torn body.
He gathered himself up and stepped over her body, walking up to where radiant light spilled out over the statue. Hesitated. Then he stepped inside and felt and overwhelming aura come across him. The Shadowform slipped away, almost unnoticed, and the taint of the defiled mark he held in his hand returned to him, reminding him of the task he had come to do. But for a long moment he gazed up at the stature, wondering what kind of fool this Uther had been. Followed a path of Light and now look. A forgotten tomb in a land corrupted beyond hope. Eonthane raised the symbol and released the magic contained within it.
The light dimmed and was replaced with a dark veil of fel shadow. Eonthane smiled thinly to himself. There. The task was accomplished. Everything failed in the end. Promises would be broken, vows neglected, and even that which was revered and holy would fail and be no more. He could go now and leave this no-longer holy place and it would trouble his mind no more.
But there was another source of holy still… and in horror, the blood elf backed away as a spirit manifested, a hammer in one hand, a book in the other. He hovered over the ground, as substantial as he’d need to be surely, to strike down the one who had dared to defile the tomb. A stern face, lined with the cares of duty and eyes sharp and bright and very, very dangerous that gazed down into the elf’s own.
“Why do you do this?” Uther spoke, his voice seeming to resound in Eonthane’s mind, “Did I somehow wrong you in life?”
And Eonthane, frozen to the spot, could only sink to his knees before the spirit. Uther Lightbringer. He could feel the spirit’s gaze piercing even the sanctity of his own mind… searching. For reasons. There were many of them and Eonthane could only tremble as Uther gently shoved each aside. He could have torn Eonthane’s mind apart. The elf had done as much to many, many others. But the touch was gentle and Eonthane shivered, each reason being examined and reminding him of what he was and why he did what he did. Uther knew then. And he would surely kill Eonthane for what he was. The elf shut his eyes.
“Ah, I see it now in your mind.” He’d reached the heart of the reason. “This is the work of one of my former students… It is sad to know that his heart has turned so dark.”
The presence withdrew. There was a quiet sadness in Uther’s eyes, weariness, and a complete lack of hatred for either the one that had sent Eonthane there or the elf that had dared such a vile act. For an elf that had nothing but contempt for all that the Light and Uther stood for.
The next words were almost lost in Eonthane’s numbed mind. Forgive him, Uther said. That he forgave his old student. Then the spirit vanished and the unholy magic was purged, washing the tomb once more in blinding holiness. Eonthane crept forwards; the spent token discarded, and carefully put one hand against the cold stone of the tomb itself. Drew a deep, unsteady breath. He’d faced death many times before, been beaten and left for dead at the laughter of the Alliance races, and had willingly thrown himself into reckless situations, not caring of the results. He’d expended all his hate and pain at the addiction that plagued him and never, not once, had anyone seen into Eonthane’s mind like this one had. And each time Eonthane killed to appease that gnawing hunger, to expend his own burning soul, he’d felt that bitter aftertaste of an empty victory.
When had it last been since he’d seen only forgiveness in return? Had he ever?
Eonthane did one last thing before he left. Although his arms were weak and his body frail, he gathered up the slain priestess and carried her to the base of the tomb. Her soul had fled too far for him to call it back… but it felt fitting like this. And at least here, bathed in holy radiance, the ghouls of the Scourge could not touch her lifeless form. Then the elf returned to where his hawkstrider waited and mounted up, kicking his heels into it with a vengeance, and did not look back.
Mehlar’s words were harsh at Eonthane’s report. He left much out; save for that Uther forgave him. And when the elf yelled for the priest to be gone from his sight, Eonthane obligingly turned and did so, feeling disgust well up inside him. Forgiveness. Not many got a second chance like that. He didn’t understand how such hatred could be forgiven so easily. And how someone would not accept that opportunity. But Eonthane knew all too well what stubbornness a person could have and so he only turned the reins of his hawkstrider away and left the Bulwark behind.
It would be much harder to leave behind what had happened at the tomb itself.
