Eonthane: The Turning Point

[warraven]

I've had Eonthane's history, personality, and relationship with his family planned out since I first created him. It's grown and refined over time and I have waited patiently for something that would push him to a turning point where he would change who he was. Unfortunately, the explanation is too long for guild roleplay. Fortunately, I like to write. This will take several installments and I'll try and space them out so as not to reveal what happened to Natalyia and Raineigh too soon.

Part 1:

The man was his mirror image in many ways. The reddish-brown hair, the angular face that lent a feminine appearance to his expression. In figure, they were very alike. It was easy to tell they were brothers. Eonthane was the slighter of the two, shorter and scrawnier, as if worn thin as paper by too much exposure to a harsh wind. But standing opposite each other, both flanked by Silvermoon guards, there was not much resemblance beyond the physical.

“Akedas,” Eonthane said softly, inclining his head in respect. He said nothing else. It didn’t need to be said.

Why have you done this? Why send the guards you are allowed to order to come for me? Why betray your own brother into this situation?

Eonthane knew the answers. They were there, written on his brother’s familiar features.

Akedas’s eyes were harder than last Eonthane had remembered. He knew the look. In the past his older brother had always seemed worried, the cares of bearing the broken household of sa’Lara putting his face into grim lines of concern. He remembered that same concern when Eonthane knelt before the priests of Silvermoon and swore the oaths, when Akedas presented him with a token to remind him, always, of his new calling.

The pendant was under his robes. Renew, Protect, Give, Heal. And he had made a mockery of it. Perhaps that was why his brother regarded him as he did now, with a caged, dangerous look. Haunted. Akedas knew what it was he was going to do and how much suffering it would cause. It was tearing him apart and so he had grown cold, distant, and was mentally reminding himself of his loyalties, that this was the black sheep of his family, that Eonthane had brought it upon himself. That Eonthane DESERVED it. And Eonthane only looked up, tilting his head up just enough so that their eyes met, and smiled.

Let them do what they must. He was no stranger to pain and he knew that any suffering inflicted on him would only wound his brother that much more. Let Akedas suffer under guilt… and when he was damaged enough, then… then Eonthane would give them what they wanted.

“Your loyalty is to the Remnants of Honor, is it not?” Akedas asked, his tone detached and impartial. There was another Magister in the room, presumably overseeing the interrogation in case Akedas could not bring himself to harm his own brother.

“My loyalty is to myself,” Eonthane replied, “Apparently yours is to Silvermoon. Did you suggest that I be brought in, blood of mine?”

“You only answer what we ask,” Akedas said and gestured.

It was a signal to the guards that stood over Eonthane. One drove the hilt of his sword into Eonthane’s sternum and the priest collapsed, unable to breath. He knelt there, trembling, trying to hold onto the pain for all it was worth. It focused his mind. Let Akedas see him suffering. For a brief instant his eyes flickered upwards to his brother’s face. Yes. There it was… that cold, impartial look. He knew it very well.

“There are many reasons we have brought you in,” Akedas said, “Your disloyalty to the family is not one of them for Silvermoon does not concern itself with internal affairs of blood. Turning your back on the priesthood is not one either, for they only teach and it is up to others as to what you do with those powers.”

He paused for a moment.

“And what you have done is the reason you are here.”

A half-truth. Eonthane stood, slowly, watching the guards warily to see if they were going to knock him to his knees again but they remained put, waiting for orders. So Eonthane pushed back his hair and again looked his brother in the face. Oh, it did matter that he had turned his back on his family and the priesthood. Perhaps if he were an obedient and loyal sa’Lara he wouldn’t have been suggested for this. They would have taken another.

They did not consider his murders a crime. Not the ones against the Alliance… those were acts of war. But Eonthane knew what was in his heart when he killed them. It was murder. And only he knew about the one in the Ghostlands, when he’d first tasted what wild intoxication it was to take another life, to listen to the breath shudder out of someone in their last agonizing moments. He suspected they might overlook that one as well, for this went beyond just whom he had killed and why.

“No,” Eonthane whispered, “You voiced my name because I gave up on redeeming the family name. Nevermind that our sisters have done little to help, with our dear youngest hiding with the rangers and pretending our parents will return home… nevermind you, I, and anyone else could have killed them as the Wretched are indistinguishable from each other… you voiced my name because you have finally realized there is no hope and wish to redeem us in another way. So you give me up for sacrifice.”

“Enough.” The other Magister stepped forwards. “Your insolence will not be tolerated here, Eonthane sa’Lara, even if it is kin that you address. You stand before the Magisters of Silvermoon for your association with the Scryers and the knowledge you hold about the Outlands and the activities of the Remnants of Honor. We give you one chance to cooperate – after that we will take what we wish to know by force.”

And for a moment Eonthane saw a pleading look in his brother’s eyes, as if he were on the verge of speaking. Silently begging him to cooperate. Sacrifice himself for his family. And Eonthane closed his eyes and remembered that time on the bank… with the Wretched dead on the other side and the realization that there was no hope, that his parents were truly lost, and that this was a foolish game he played. That the priesthood offered no hope.

He remembered how the holy light burned in his veins like fire now, so lost to the shadow he was. Nastin could not save him. Silently, he let go of whatever it was that was holding him so close to the surface of the river and let the tide carry him away into the depths.

“No,” Eonthane said, “You’ll only have what you want by force. I do not doubt I will tell you everything you wish to know but it will take some effort.”

The Magister glanced between the two brothers, a bemused look on his face. He smiled softly.

“You subject yourself to this to spite Magister Akedas?”

And Eonthane laughed softly and finally Akedas had to look away. The overseeing Magister only shrugged.

“Have it your way. Guards, remove him of his robes and any other magically imbued armor he may have on him. I shall summon the priests…”

The elf walked past him as the guards seized his shoulders and yanked the ornate cloth off to hang loose at the belt around his waist.

“You aren’t the only one to study shadow, Eonthane,” he said, “There is no reason to subject yourself to this.”

“Reason enough,” the elf replied quietly, his gaze still fixed on his brother, who still could not meet his eyes.

If he had not been given to them by Akedas he would have nothing to hold him back. Let them know everything he did about the Remnants, about the Scryers, about their leader Nastin’s own loyalties and weaknesses. They were trying to protect their precious city and their precious illusion and Eonthane knew he would be a fool to fight against that. The Remnants could be betrayed.

But this was a matter of blood now, and Eonthane would see that his brother’s hands were sullied before it was over. So as the guards threw his robes aside like trash and bound his arms behind him, forcing him to kneel in the middle of a runic circle that dominated the room; Eonthane smiled.

[Raineigh Dravenholdt]

*applauds and can't wait for more*

[warraven]

They gave him a reprieve from the pain simply to keep him conscious. As much as Eonthane prided himself on his resolution he had reached his limit and was sliding into the embrace of darkness. He knew, dimly, that he had screamed from the sheer agony of the spells, but had not broken to them. He knew them all. When it became apparent that the fear of mental assaults was not going to affect him they used physical violence, and this too, Eonthane was used to.

He would last long enough to make his brother suffer.

But he was drawing too close to the brink. He felt cold inside, his body numb to the tiles of the floor, heated only by the small tendrils of blood that laced his torso where the guards had beaten him. He knew his limits and apparently, so did his brother, for he could hear Akedas talking quietly with the other Magister off to the side, even over the voice of the man that was in charge of interrogating him. He had no name and no title – at least – none that would be given to Eonthane. But he knelt above the priest, quietly asking something that Eonthane would not focus on. He wanted to hear what his brother was saying.

“You’re treading the line of treason already, priest!” the man hissed, suddenly grabbing hold of Eonthane’s long hair and forcing his head up.

His head swam at the movement. The room went dim around the edges and he struggled, weakly, but the man’s hand held him fast and his attention on his brother was broken and brought right back to where his interrogator wanted it. Those questions.

“We’ll not hold back much longer,” he said in a whisper so that only Eonthane would hear, “Your brother’s name won’t protect you. Since you care nothing for your own self-preservation I’ll gladly order the priests under my command to rip open your mind even if it kills you.”

“Not the best way to get answers,” Eonthane replied. He knew the method. Taking control of one’s body was one thing – taking control of their thoughts was another thing. Risky and unstable.

“I’ll have something for my efforts.” The man smiled. “And you’ll die. Isn’t that what you want?”

Eonthane was silent for a moment and the man let go and let the priest’s head slump back on the tiles. Eonthane exhaled slowly and waited for the spinning on his head to stop. He was too weak to allow them to continue with their torture. Perhaps he was ready to die. It hadn’t been much of a life anyway, and Akedas’s hands would be forever stained because of it.

But there was a quiet nagging in his soul… wondering… what would happen if he chose to live? If that fine line was broken and he succumbed to the shadow he had embraced long ago? What then? He weakly turned to regard his brother and Akedas glanced over, met his gaze for a moment, and then quickly turned away.

Eonthane rolled onto his side, gasping with pain at the effort, and struggled to kneel. His interrogator noticed the movement and returned to his side, waiting for Eonthane to bring himself to one knee on his own, making no move to help or hinder. For a moment the priest knelt there, panting, cursing his own physical frailties that had reduced him to such a pathetic state.

“The Scryers have yet to trust me much,” he said and coughed, finding it hard to breath. The man gave orders for water to be brought and Eonthane accepted it before continuing. “I can’t speak much on their activities for I remain an outsider. They are engaged with petty squabbling against the Aldor-“

“We know this already,” the man interrupted, “The Remnants. Any of them have close ties?”

“I-I think Raineigh… Camia… many of the others have chosen the Aldor, even Nastin, our leader.”

“We know of Nastin. Tell us of their actions, then.”

“There is one… Molinu, an orc of Durotar, loyal to Thrall, who has mentioned missions against the mana forges in Netherstorm. A joint operation between the Aldor and the Scryers, although a reluctant alliance as I understand.”

“Is Molinu high up among the ranks of the Remnants?”

“An officer, yes.”

“How loyal to Thrall?”

And it clicked. They weren’t really investigating the actions of the Scryers but rather of the Remnants. Trying to decide if they were a danger or not. Of course they would be concerned about anyone who had been to Outlands. Someone with the right knowledge and the right voice with the right people could be devastating to the alliance between the Blood Elves and the rest of the Horde. That the elves still followed a hostile leader? It was a delicate illusion they were holding and Eonthane was certain that it was not for the benefit of the other faction leaders. Thrall was not stupid, nor were the others. They had to know by now. It was Silvermoon they were trying to protect… Silvermoon they were trying to hide what had become of their Prince from…

His beloved city.

“Just Thrall. Very much so. An absolute idiot when it comes to the Sin’dorei. He is a close friend of the shaman Warraven from Mulgore, who seems to hold little in the way of traditional loyalties and remains silent at most things…”

The man turned and nodded at the two Magisters.

“You aren’t needed, Magister Akedas. I think your brother understands what it is we desire to know.”

And Eonthane watched his brother leave, the cold in his heart only deepening. Akedas had been there when he had taken the oaths to the priesthood. He had not been there when he’d turned his back on them. He didn’t understand, just as he hadn’t understood as their parents fell deeper and deeper into madness, finally being driven from the city to join the ranks of the Wretched. His youngest sister had never been the same since that day…

There was a soft prodding at the corner of his consciousness. A priestly spell. Eonthane ducked his head and focused on it, recognizing it as the same he used against others. He quietly accepted it, allowing the spell to simply bypass his normal defenses and take hold on his mind. He felt the priest’s intrusion into his mind keenly, a remote puppeteer that held all the strings and was completely obscured from his own senses. It was hard to keep the screaming panic at feeling so vulnerable down and his interrogator must have sense Eonthane’s fear for he started speaking again, drawing his attention away from the spell.

“He’ll do nothing more than-“

“Ensure I am telling you everything, yes, I know this,” Eonthane interrupted. He too had learned much from the priesthood. “Then let’s make it fast because I don’t like his presence in my head.”

“Fair enough. The other officers then… if you will.”

And with as much detail as he could muster Eonthane betrayed the Remnants, one by one, listing their allegiance, their weaknesses, and any possible threats they might pose to the security of the illusion that lay over Silvermoon.

Somehow, it failed to bother him. This information was very valuable and could be used to tear the guild apart, piece by piece, but there was nothing that compelled him to refrain and keep it to himself. He would accept death, yes, and take these secrets with him and he had indeed considered it.

But there were things he wanted to see. He remembered the moment at Uther’s tomb and quietly and willingly betrayed those that had done nothing against him and wondered if there would be forgiveness.

The torture he had endured simply to punish Akedas for his actions. His betrayal he would endure to see if he was right and there were depths from which a person could never be redeemed.

[Raineigh Dravenholdt]

Wow... I understand a lot more about what's going on, that's for sure. I like it, its awesomeness.

[warraven]

They let him rest, cold and alone, guarded by impassive Silvermoon guards who knew their orders and did not care anything about what happened to a lone priest. And Eonthane slept, exhausted, and was troubled by his dreams once again. The river again, as always, only it was dark and he drifted near the bottom of it, feeling like he was being washed out to sea in a murky tide of thick liquid that wasn’t fluid enough to be water… he saw the faces of those he’d killed, of the paladin he’d murdered in Tranquillien, and woke with a scream.

It dissolved into a hacking cough, for his interrogator had woken him by a sharp kick to the ribs. The priest doubled over, feeling some of his wounds open again and swam on the edge of consciousness, wondering how long he could keep this up. But did he have a choice? Would they give him one? Of course not.

“Raineigh and Natalyia,” he said simply, “Go over everything you know about them again.”

What was this? Eonthane struggled to stand but was quickly knocked back to his knees by a well-aimed blow.

“Stay where you are, dog,” the man snapped, “Two of our guards are dead. Tell us about the Forsaken beast.”

“De-dead?”

The interrogator’s lips twisted into a thin smile.

“They were sent by your leader to find you, apparently. Magister Akedas did not appreciate their harassment, especially at so late an hour, and so called for the guards to have them removed. Apparently your… Remnants of Honor… cannot handle diplomatic releations without the use of violence. And if that’s how your guild works then that’s how they shall be treated.”

No. No. They didn’t do this. Eonthane groaned and clutched at his head, his long hair a tangled mess. He had to think but it was difficult – he had to think. For their sakes. What did he know of the two? Rain, he knew much, but Natalyia, not as much. He could use that to his advantage perhaps.

He focused on what he had been given. The hurt, the misery… and used it hone his mind. It was a trick he had learned, drawing from the suffering of others, and now he would use it to focus his own. Give him a chance to think and possibly feed this man some lies.

“Natalyia… is unstable,” he finally said, “A Forsaken warlock… what do you expect? I’m amazed Nastin sent her, but he has never been known for his good judgment, only for his overwhelming sense of trust for others.”

The man wouldn’t give him anything. He’d have to guess. Raineigh knew better. She had a sharp tongue on her and so did Akedas but she would not be the one start a fight. Not at all.

“Raineigh can be controlled – easily,” Eonthane finally said, “I’ve done much the same.”

The interrogator’s expression changed from hostility to curiosity and allowed Eonthane to continue with a slight nod.

“She is prone to the arcane addiction – I have mentioned this before. I have threatened her with it, used it to control her as I wished… keep her silent about some things… and I could easily do the same again. Just give her to me as a spy and I’ll be able to get her to do anything you want.”

“She will be our spy,” the interrogator corrected, “We do not trust you either, Eonthane.”

The priest’s lips narrowed. Well, it was something. He could still work with this.

“And the Forsaken?”

“Unstable. But Raineigh wishes to protect everyone and that too can be used. If you kill her, Raineigh and I have far too much to answer to. Better to silence her, keep her magic – which she cannot control – bound and under control. Raineigh holds the same delusions as Nastin and will do anything to protect her friend, even one that hast lost her sanity beyond the point of redemption.”

The interrogator studied Eonthane for a moment. It was hard not to tremble. That was a lie. He knew little of Natalyia… but the Sin’dorei knew of Eonthane’s past. They would use that.

“And she wishes to protect you.”

Eonthane nodded slightly. The man stood and smiled broadly, looking down at Eonthane like one would a favored dog. Eonthane felt the hate twist in his gut and he breathed slowly. He could not touch the shadow magic here – the room was warded – but he longed for it keenly. It burned for him.

Then he was left alone again, to wait, to wonder, and to know that there were two more lives he’d destroyed. Willingly, yes, but what unnerved him the most was that this time he had done it out of desperation, in an attempt to save him. He had lied about Natalyia. And he felt very cold, knowing that some line had been crossed and that there would be consequences beyond just what he had done.



The priests were methodical in their ways. The guards bound Natalyia so that she could not fight back. They traced the rune in blood against her skin, cold-eyed and uncaring, and invoked the arcane arts. It wrapped around her voice, around her magic, binding her to silence. It was a simple shadow spell, one that Eonthane knew well. He had cast it many times, a crude burst meant only to interrupt for a few seconds. This was more elaborate, more permanent, and fueled by Silvermoon’s elite.

They did not question. What must be done must be done and the integrity of the city was first and foremost.

They were just as cold and uncaring with Raineigh. Again, the guards held her and the rune was drawn in blood. There was a small hesitation from those performing the spell, a quiet sense of unease, for all felt keenly what it was they were about to. Another priestly spell, meant to drain the victim of their mana until none was left… only prolonged over the space of a month. It was a cruel spell and briefly they wondered what this girl had done to deserve such a thing. But again, they did not question.


“Natalyia has been silenced,” Akedas told Eonthane, who sat up against the wall, feeling keenly his injuries. He had not been allowed to heal himself, nor had anyone given him any relief, “She will not speak of what has happened. In turn she will be used as a means of keeping Raineigh silent – if the girl speaks of any of this the Forsaken will die. I’m sure you know we have our methods.”

“I do,” Eonthane replied, “Our dear sister employs them.”

Akedas’s lip’s tightened. Here it was again.

“You were supposed to be better than this.”

“Oh, I know,” the priest replied, “I was going to redeem our name. A pity it didn’t work out that way. I suppose you’re still bitter that your own magic is only half-rate and the only person with true talent among our household rejected carrying on the family line… our elder sister will not marry… our younger will marry into someone else’s household because everyone abandoned us when our parent’s left… whose fault was that? I recall the eldest being the head-“

His brother struck him then. For a moment Eonthane could only gasp, his fingers up against the split lip and feeling the blood that trickled forth.

“You’re a disgrace,” Akedas said tightly, “Yes, I had hoped that you would somehow redeem our family line. Restore it to what it once was. Instead, you leave Silvermoon and squander your talents on the Remnants. You’re nothing but a traitor and a murderer.”

Eonthane found the strength to stand. He faced his brother, his eyes burning.

“The Remnants was more of a home than you ever provided, dear brother,” he hissed, “You have driven us all away, one by one. I’m not surprised you resort to force, when you know everything is slipping away and no one – not even your own kin – will help you. May the sa’Lara name rot.”

Akedas took a step back. Glanced at the guards and then back at Eonthane.

“I do not wish to listen to him any longer,” he said casually, “See to it the priest learns proper respect when addressing a Magister. That is all.”

And he turned to leave as the guards closed in, Eonthane pressed against the wall, feeling the cold stone against his back and the tightening of his lungs in anticipation.

Nothing would ever be the same.

[Raineigh Dravenholdt]

Yay! Awesome sauce! I feel bad for him, I mean, yeah he betrayed them and all... but he actually found that he wanted to live. That there's something out there yet, even if he doesn't know just yet what it was. May not excuse him, but its enough of a step for him that I still sympathize with him.

[warraven]

In some ways, he should not have been surprised. Wasn’t this what he deserved, after all? Wasn’t this what he was, all along? He knew Nastin was avoiding him. Prolonging the decision. That only affirmed what it would be and so Eonthane quietly made his preparations to leave. There were things he had to be done… and this time there was little that would hold him back.

Just the holy magic in his veins. He hissed as there mere thought of it sent agony coursing through his blood. He wasn’t sure if it was the remnants of what had been done to him by the Silvermoon priests or if it was his own doing, drawing off of shadow for so long, but either way, it felt like the last line he had. Keeping him from drowning. Well, whatever had been holding him back was gone.

His hands trembled slightly as he packed his things. He’d leave his notes behind and hope Raineigh took his advice and submitted to the Silvermoon authorities. She had little choice and he knew he’d revel in killing her. That was what he’d been trying to avoid all this time, that feeling of exultation. He’d managed it, somewhat, but deep down Eonthane knew that he’d finally succumbed.

Before the Remnants… he swallowed hard. There had been a paladin, injured, in Tranquillien. No one had been around. And he’d asked for help and Eonthane had instead felt his pain, felt it so keenly, and felt the pain of his own addiction. And quietly, without a sound, he’d ripped the elf’s mind apart where there was no one to hear him scream.

The first of many deaths by his hand. And he reveled in their suffering. That was before the Remnants.

Eonthane took a deep breath to steady himself. He had the holy magic now, burning in him like fire, and that might be a reminder to keep that part of his personality under check. He was vulnerable to the addiction as well and vulnerable to his own addiction that he used to supplant the arcane one. And part of him keenly remembered how it had felt, picking at the nerves and fibers of Raineigh’s mind, feeling the power that came from forcing her to reveal to him the location of her notes.

She was a traitor as well. Eonthane frowned and shut his backpack. Worse yet, he wasn’t sure if she was a watchdog or a victim like himself. He knew they wouldn’t trust him. It was only his brother… and his sisters that was keeping him in check. And the threat of what they had done to Raineigh.

He didn’t know what threat had been given to Raineigh. But no doubt they were watching each other. He certainly was, but for entirely different reasons. He smiled, remembering the notes he’d burned. He’d be their watchdog. But he’d betray them in the end.

Eonthane could not help but think of Uther’s Tomb as Nastin asked for him to leave. It was a place he had visited often, a place he had gone when he had finally forsaken the shadow. That had been painful, made even more so by the knowledge that there were no heroes left int his world. That even Nastin would not forgive… and now he was right. Nastin would not forgive this. Part of Eonthane wanted to beg forgiveness, tell him he had no choice, that they had won out… but no. He wanted to see if there was someone – anyone – in this world capable of such a thing. Apparently not. So he picked up his staff and left the hall, a quiet resolve on his soul. Let Raineigh do as she will. He would kill her, quickly if he could, when she succumbed. The others were no longer his concern.


Two days passed. It was time for him to report to his brother, as had been the agreement. He would watch Raineigh and some of the more ‘dangerous’ members of the Remnants. It wasn’t so much as they were a threat but Silvermoon wanted to know his loyalties. Well, he would show them. Eonthane took a deep breath and paused outside the door of his brother’s house in Silvermoon.

It was warded. Eonthane smiled softly, knocked, and his older brother answered and silently let him in. There were refreshments laid out and Eonthane settled himself, putting his staff by the door and arranging his robes.

“I’m glad we can sort this mess out,” Akedas said, sitting opposite his brother, “This will go a long way towards redeeming the sa’Lara name.”

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Eonthane asked softly. Beneath the table, he gently caressed a knife.

“Partly. You understand our situation… but Silvermoon is concerned. I only did what I could to help. I wish you had been more understanding.”

His brother frowned severely. Eonthane returned the glance with a faint smile.

“I see you have your house warded,” Eonthane said mildly, “You’re getting paranoid. But of course, you always were only a second-rate mage, shamed by your brother who has squandered his power.”

Akedas turned aside quickly at the jab, his frown deepening. Eonthane laughed and stood, the knife hidden in the folds of his robe.

He had much to settle and nothing holding him back anymore.

“It’s a shame, really,” Eonthane continued, “Our sister has devised her own methods of surviving and they will not benefit our family. Our younger sister is hiding with the rangers and will someday marry outside of our household. That leaves you and I to continue the family heritage, no? A pity.”

“You’ve taken steps,” Akedas said stiffly, “Although reluctant you finally did acquiesce. I hope you continue to cooperate. Now, do you have the report I asked?”

His heart fluttered. This was the line. He remembered the pendant his brother had given him, when he’d first taken the oaths as a rpiest. Things had been different then… they’d hoped they could save their parents. Keep them from descending into madness. And he’d failed. Eonthane had failed and realized as his household crumbled around him that no one kept promises, even if they had the best of intentions.

The broken house of sa’Lara.

“It was wise of you to ward your house,” Eonthane whispered, “I burned Raineigh’s report and I have none to give you myself.”

Akedas took a step backwards, surprised, and then a grim mask settled across his face.

“I’ll have no choice but to-“

“Hand me over to the authorities to be tortured again? Because that went so well last time.”

And Akedas stumbled, at a loss. There. He’d been hit where it hurt the most, because despite his grab for power, Akedas did want to see his household prosper. Even Eonthane.

The priest took two steps, holding up the pendant that was given to him. Renew, Protect, Heal, Give. Akedas’s eyes flickered to it, dim recognition in his eyes. He did not see the knife until it was too late.

The Magister gasped and doubled over and Eonthane gasped too, the weight of his dying brother suddenly falling on his arms. He was not very strong. He quickly slipped the dagger free of the lungs and stabbed again, aiming for the other one so that they’d quickly fill with blood and Akedas would drown in it within seconds. Then his brother slumped at his feet, trying to speak, to say anything, but his mouth was filled with his own blood. Eonthane dropped the knife, breathing hard, and held his brother up by the back of his robe. There was blood on his pendant.

“You may have warded this house against magic,” Eonthane panted, “But I’ve been practicing. Just for you, dear brother. Let our house remain broken… it’s better this way.”

And he let go of his brother, who died as he hit the floor, and became what he feared and hated the most. No one meant anything to him anymore, not even his own family.

[Raineigh Dravenholdt]

Aww! I love the imagery of the blood on the pendant. Kind of a nice place to end their relationship, as he had given him it and in the end his blood coats it. Its like one of those moments that give you goosebumps.