ceruszael

[ceruszael]

Silence.

Of all that had transpired in the months since his seclusion, that was his constant companion. Not the wispy, transparent half-forms of ghostly apparitions. Not the eerie unlight of a realm without life. Not even the contemplations and scribbled recordings of his observations.

No. Ceruszael’s existence was dominated by silence.

In the grand scheme of things, it had not been so long since he all but locked himself away in his observatory. What was the passage of days, weeks, or months to that which every hour was equivalent? Each day. Every day. Awake, or the closest equivalent to that state one can have without an alternative to compare it against. Awake for years, which themselves seemed inconsequential when considered in the long term. What great and terrible things could be achieved by such a being with the proper motivation? What heights could they achieve? What anguish could they unleash?

Ceruszael recalled a sense relief that he held no such motivation. He did not, either at that moment nor for some time since, feel it. But the memory was enough.

For now.

The Death Knight stood facing the glossy, pitch-black surface of the observatory’s central chamber. It had been days, he estimated, since he had arrived at that precise spot. Months had passed since he had stepped foot from the tower he built. Secluded in Deadwind Pass, warded against prying eyes from both the living and the dead, with bound wraiths steering away any who would happen upon it incidentally, it was a manageable arrangement. Perhaps, he mused, once was the war settled some cavalier group would deem his abode a threat. Intolerable to the powers that be either for what it represented, for fear of the past rearing again, or simply thoughtless hatred. It mattered not. He had been left to his own devices, content to watch. Listen. Record. Think. Keep an active mind as a bulwark against a potentially inevitable descent into madness.

His latest study was not so far removed.

It was not in the depths of the Shadowlands, nor the far reaching shores of Zuldazar or Kul Tiras. Not the frozen wastes of Northrend. No, this was a land undergoing a slow transformation to match its ruler. As she dabbled in a pond she barely comprehended, the ripples swept out all around her. Perhaps she understood. Perhaps she didn’t. Ceruszael thought the latter more likely but, as with so much else of late, he had been content to watch. Through the vast engine of souls bound to the observatory, there was truly very little he could not glimpse if he had a mind to. This was made all the easier when so very few had the knowledge, let alone the means, to detect his reach. Yet this case had become unique, if only because Ceruszael found within himself a desire to… inquire.

Lichfire pulsed within his eyes. Witchlight, ghostly and pale, flickered along his armor’s runic inscriptions. The scene before him, displayed in shifting hues of gray in the black surface of the observatory’s walls, was of a dying man suffering a final torment at her hands. As the unholy magics he mustered accumulated, color began to seep into his vision. That which he viewed through a lense appeared closer. More vivid. More real. At the spell’s apex, an apparition of Ceruszael’s form coalesced within the chamber. It hovered half a foot off the floor, peering down at the dead man for a fleeting moment before regarding the woman.

“Cordelia. You’ve changed.”

The rustle and clink of metal upon wood stirred her from listless reverie and only the flutter of her irises gave any indication she had noticed their coming.  For the majority of the time, day in and day out, the allure of a sickly and frost-bitten horizon captured her attention without fail; today, however, the thrum of a racing pulse won the observance of a vacant expression.  

Warm vapor heaved from his breast as he labored to breath, body slumped forward in an effort to open up his airway.  She noted the dents and fractures in his armor whilst nurturing the silence between them.  Dents, fractures… smears of rust, and slight discolorations peppering the parts of his flesh visible.  A soft ‘hmm’ of contemplation rumbled across her lips and it brought the man’s gaze from the floorboards.

She watched him struggle to breath life into words, observed his mouth tense and spasm with each syllable, until frustration gave way to anger.  A loud, metallic clang emanates throughout the day room when his plated fist met wood.

A loud, audible click of disapproval fell from her mouth, accompanied by the roll of her eyes to the right.  She wasn’t about to explain her reasoning or give a lengthy explanation as to 'why’; she had none, and no justification for the horrors she helped usher into this world other than the fact it was fun.  So, there was truly no need to paint upon an already beautiful picture.

Another crash of steel rang out from the floorboards as the knight’s sword twanged and hummed upon impact, having been dropped from the behemoth looming behind him.  

She, on the other hand, gave her slender fingertips the opportunity to drift along the jeweled pommel sheathed in bone.  

“Win and I’ll let you go…��  The second half of her proposition hadn’t touched her lips before the armored man mustered his strength and lunged for his sword.  Victory was in sight, just at the edge of his fingertips—all he needed to do was cut this woman down and he’d be free of this nightmare.  

Shhhhiiinnkkk.

He felt a sharp, undeniable pain pierce his right shoulder followed by an influx of warmth trickling through the pierced armor.  He choked back a startled cry and once again found himself slumped forward, left arm reaching up to cling to the blade impaling him to the floor.  

“Tch..Tch..Tch…” It couldn’t be denied that his palpable anguish brought a sense of delight; her countenance lit up and she felt electric tingles nip at the base of her spine.  A few giddy, bouncy steps found her hunched in front of the knight, his face cradled in her frigid hands.  There, a mixture of pity and excitement animated an otherwise emotionless expression.  "…You didn’t really think you’d be fighting me, did you? Silly paladin.“  

With his snarl, she dropped his head and birthed a hauntingly cacophonous giggle.  The melody continued, a familiar chord of two years past, though now given new life with foreboding words.

And now I lay you down to sleep,

Your soul is mine and mine to keep;

If you should die before you wake,

I’ll find another soul to take.

[ceruszael]

Recluse

The passage of time is a curious thing, when one is left to observe it objectively. Not in and of itself, of course, but how the various realms interact with it. Azeroth turns on and on. Its denizens conquer the dangers which threaten their ways of life, build civilizations, develop cultures, are deemed a danger to another, and so on. A cycle of rising and falling kingdoms. That was not curious. Historians know as much, people are simple too arrogant or too short sighted to learn from it. The Pandaren and Zandalari, perhaps, are the best students of history. No, the curiosity arises when one lessens the scale of observation all the way down to the individual. Mortal races, in particular. The Elves and Draenei are almost too removed from the natural order, in and of itself an irony for the former. Humanity, as will all things, extolls virtue and vice through the clearest lens.

I am fascinated by the fact that men, without failure, seek to eliminate the circumstances which raise them to greatness.

All noble families are guilty of such. Recent events in Kul Tiras reinforce the observation. Empires, kingdoms, townships. Any civilized organization, traced back to its foundation, will prove this to be true. Whether it be inclimate weather, roving beasts, dangerous neighboring civilizations, or magical influence, some small number of men will be forged greater than their fellows. Hardship strengthens them. Toughens them. They become paragons among their people. With sufficient might to challenge their perceived enemies, these men will tame their surroundings. Build walls and lodging, put beasts to the blade, war against neighbors, and either embrace or abolish the occult. They will write of their victories, or others of the time will, and be praised by all. Time will pass. Years, decades. A generation. An age of heroes withers as the great men die. Kin, or honorbound friends, take up the mantle. Swear to uphold that which their founder fought for. They do so, to a lesser degree, as they had not the mettle to be a paragon in their own right. A generation passes again. People forget the strife. The slaughter. The pain. Another kin, this one having suffered not at all and merely heard stories of his family’s accomplishments, takes power for granted. Squanders it, for he is a lesser man, forged by naught but arrogance.

Here, or in two generations’ time, men falter and fade away. Hardship returns, for none remain to tame it. And the cycle begins anew.

Such is not true of the Shadowlands. Time means nothing to its denizens, but to mark new arrivals within its bounds. I have watched for several months now. I see the various forces of that realm vie for power as do mortals, and a cycle of their own form. Power shifts, but only suits to influence those beyond the land of the dead.

What good is ownership of a graveyard, when there is no more life left to fill it?

I have watched bands of ancestors retrieve the souls of their fallen. Seen Loa tend to the faithful, and torment the sacrilegious. Witnessed agents of the Light shield its children from horrors so ingrained among the Shadowlands. Souls of the living is the currency by which the dead mark power and influence, in turn used to bargain with the living and claim more souls.

Azeroth turns on and on.

Months of silence pierced only the scribbling of quill on parchment were now broken with the thunk of an opening door. Ceruszael continued on as if nothing had occurred, for nothing took place in his abode without his knowledge. His observatory was shielded and shrouded, with eyes all around when its master had need of such. Few knew of its location. None, of its purpose. The man who came to him now was a messenger dispatched from Addlewood. His tabard spoke as much, but disguises were far from the uncommon methods of infiltration. Ceruszael knew his allegiance for certain because the man’s will was no longer his own. Spirits circled the grounds around the tower, at the behest of he who bound them would learn all their was to know about visitors. Possessed, the messenger strode to the table at which Ceruszael stood and deposited a letter upon it. Pausing, the Knight reached for the envelope to scan its contents.

Kaidren Holt now leads by Adhelin’s grace.

Azeroth turns on and on.

Slowly, Ceruszael lifted his gaze to meet the messenger’s. Though no obvious act took place, all of a sudden awareness flooded the man’s features. He shuddered, panicked, stepping back from the table in a hurry as he looked all around. All that greeted him were black walls, a solitary table, and twin icy blue irises glowing in an oppressive darkness.

“C-C-Casttelan! I was disp-p-patched to you… what…. Where?”

“I know.”

I haven’t heard my own voice in two months.

“Everything w-was dark… cold… I c-c-couldn’t.”

“Silence.”

The command echoed within the room, Ceruszael’s eerie reverberating tone demanding obedience. The messenger dropped to his knees, lip quivering, though remained quiet.

“Return to Kaidren Holt. Inform him my reclusion is at an end, and that any changes he intends to implement will be discussed with me first. If he disagrees or is displeased, he is free to speak with me.”

And just like that, Ceruszael looked back down to the parchment and continued writing. He did not exactly know how long it was before the messenger mustered the mental faculties to flee. Nor, in truth, did he care. Some small part of him questioned the interaction. Queried whether it was course, unfitting a man of his station, or had crossed moral boundaries. Asked how he was different from monsters condemned by the kingdom he supposedly served. Yet another part of him recognized that this used to be a dominant influence on his actions, not six months past. Solitude had peeled away a facade of humanity the more it was unused.

Curious.

(( Tag Lineup: @householt @adhelin @kaideholt ))

[ceruszael]

In fact already a thing I do. Horn has been in my TRP at a glance for a while now. 😁

Death Knights and calling their Wyrms: a headcanon

Just threw this little thing into an RP I’m doing with my death knight Dastryn calling for his Frostwyrm. It was sort of spur of the moment, and I’m not sure if something similar already exists, but it sort of works off the way the dk starting zone works with calling for the frost wyrm, or generally anything in the Scourge. 

BATTLE HORNS!!!! 

Imagine with me, a battle horn with runes etched into it matching specific runes that you have etched into the bones of your trusty frost wyrm. Like a dog whistle or a calling spell or some other kind of enchantment. Instead of just summoning a giant frostwyrm out of thin air, WHY NOT LITERALLY CALL IT FROM THE HIGH HEAVENS WITH YOUR BATTLE SONG!!!

It would be greatly inspired by actual IRL horns of war obviously, so something like this:

they can range from as ornate as all hell, to literally the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen cuz, you know, Death Knights. 

I also imagine they could be made from any kind of horn, including a horn from the very Frost wyrm you’ve enchanted it to!!!

Death knights would easily wear them on their person, strapped to their belts/girdles, what have you. Can be located anywhere on their flank, or even behind them. I imagine Dastryn would wear his on the back of his belt, out of the way of everything and under the cover and protection of his giant fur cloak, kind of like this:

ANYWAY. Thanks for coming to my TEDtalk, and please feel free to disregard this if this headcanon already exists!!!! I’m just really excited about dks ya’ll…

[ceruszael]

At the Banshee’s Gates

Fighting men and women stood arrayed in their thousands. Soldiers of Stormwind, Ironforge, Gnomeregan, nomads of the Exodar, and the fallen kingdoms of Gilneas and Darnassus. Then, even more subsects. Ceruszael beheld them all around him. Addlewood, Braemar, Embris, Dirae, Neverbloom. Allies draw from Kul Tiras among the Baradin Free Company. These were not people prepared to give their lives. Oh, he was certain they were willing and some might even have considered it a possibility. But it was not at the forefront of their minds. The Alliance had come to Tirisfal for one reason alone.

Vengeance.

The Gilneans and Kaldorei wore it on their sleeves. Some among the assembled bannermen of House Holt did as well. The forces who had marched north beneath Francimar Reavers bellowed their approval at the Slayer’s cries. Others kept a cold rage. Brimming just below the surface. Those of Neverbloom with Baron Miljardas at their head, as well as those who had circled around from the north with Vladimir Darkmoor. Ceruszael wondered which spectrum he would have fallen on in life. The former, he thought. Now he stood before the mustered might of House Holt and all its subsidiaries before the capital city’s walls of his former home, on the eve of its reclamation, and felt….

Nothing.

Not that they could know. Nearest the Castellan were the veterans of Addlewood and Dirae, those who knew him best and some who had fought beside him or seen his personal command. These looked to him, while others were more uncertain. Such was now his duty to assuage the doubts and stir hearts for war. Arrayed in his crimson battleplate trimmed in bone, serrated runeblade in one hand and a banner held high in the other, Ceruszael strode forward. He turned after several paces, planting the banner before him. On the right fluttered the colors of House Holt. On the left, the Alliance. A mustering point for the soldiery during the battle as well a motivator.

And an identifier, so overzealous men do try to kill me.

“Sons and Daughters of the Alliance! Sworn bannermen to the noble family of House Holt, which serves at the behest of the House of Wrynn. Hear me!”

Ceruszael’s words carried easily across the arrayed forces, though he had raised his tone only slightly.

“Today your High King calls for war. He calls for vengeance. For recompense against crimes committed by the Banshee Queen and her ilk against the Alliance. In this, WE ARE HIS VOICE!”

He paused. A lifetime ago, oratory had been core to the teaching he had received. Despite his aversion to leading men in death, such was his destined path in life. The weight of his words grew heavier when allowed to settle.

“Forsaken guard the walls of Lordaeron. Orcs, Trolls, Tauren, Goblins, and Blood Elves stand beside them yet we are in the land of the dead. You have marched to bring an end to them all. Yet here I tell you - though you come to inflict it upon your foes, do not fear Death. Do not fear Death for I am its herald and I march beside you. I do not come for thee this day. I COME FOR THE HORDE!”

A roar of approval met his words.

So I haven’t lost that touch.

He turned away from the masses, waiting now the horns and drums. It did not take long. Cannons boomed, shouts issued, and the surge of bodies pressing forward was nigh-instantaneous. Ceruszael ran with them, banner held high with his runeblade at his side. The clash of forces occurred shortly thereafter. It was, by all accounts, a clash of epic proportions. The full might of the Alliance arrayed against that of the Horde. So soon after their war against the Legion, there were countless battle-hardened veterans on each side. Units, companies, and regiments bound in the crucible of war fighting with a cohesion unmatched. The ferocity and thirst for revenge shown by the Alliance matched against a resolve for survival with deep roots among the Horde. In the midst of it all Ceruszael fought. A throat cut, a rib cage punctured, limbs hewn and bones shattered. A tauren bore down on the banner-bearing Ebon Knight. A pulse of dark magics distended and ruptured the chests of several fallen soldiers, bone shards leaping into the brute’s back. Now bleeding profusely with his internal organs shredded, he fell flat before ever reaching Ceruszael. A moment was taken to survey the surroundings.

Corpses already littered the field. Soldiers pressed against each other all around him. Men and women fought with a tenacity unbound. And through it all, he felt merely constricted. A gelid wind could have surrounded the Death Knight, robbing all of their constitution and haste. The fallen could rise again to take up arms against those he presently fought against. Wrathful spectres torn from the Shadowlands could rip among their ranks, unraveling morale and plunging them into despair. Yet any such measures would have seen him branded as much an enemy as the Banshee Queen and her ilk. Dark forces wielded here would see him mistaken for and targeted.

Or they would see me for that which I truly am, and so brand me an enemy.

“BLIGHT!”

Ceruszael’s eyes turned skyward. True enough, canisters trailed through the air with green contrails behind them. The first collisions scattered bodies with sheer concussive force. Those were the good deaths. Any who remained were destined slow, suffering ends. Horns sounded. Undercity’s gates opened if only to unveil ranks of apothecary-troopers from its bowels.

“RETREAT!”

Just the call he had expected. An admirable tactic employed. Sylvanas truly knew just how much power she wielded. How quickly and easily she could end this incursion. Ceruszael held his ground. As ranks thinned all around him, frigid winds rose. A howling gale the envy of Northwind’s peaks circled around the Ebon Knight, pressing back against the deadly gas. Before long he stood alone.

Almost.

One figure who had not yet met true death was with him in this silent eye of the storm. A Forsaken soldier, lying in the blood and dirt. Ceruszael’s efforts had damned him. The Blight had already taken hold. He merely delayed the inevitable. Slowly, he moved to kneel beside the soldier. A man, or once was at least. He scrambled for a weapon. The Ebon kicked a nearby axe aside before kneeling low. A gurgle from the prone form issued forth the ichor substituted for vital fluids. Ceruszael jammed the banner’s haft into the dirt, cradling his head with a now free hand.

“Rest now. It is long past due. We are but echoes, persisting long after silenced voices. You have earned an end.”

Bringing the tip of his blade up, he thrust it up and through the bottom of the Forsaken’s jaw and through his skull. No dark magics here. That soul, or whatever was left of it, would be preserved for its passage. The Castellan stayed kneeling. Blight pressed in all around him. Its concentration would soon be enough to press past his protective veil. That, however, was far from his mind. At this moment, cradling the physical memory of his countrymen, he contemplated long suppressed emotions running rampant through him. Despair. Anger. The former at taking up arms against kin and country for a second time, though now without even the ability to lay blame on others’ control. The latter drove a desire to take up arms against all who would sully Lordaeron’s soil. Let the Orcs, Trolls, Tauren, Goblins, and Blood Elves meet their ends. Let the any human not born of this kingdom, the cursed Gilneans, Draenei, Kaldorei, Dwarves, and Gnomes join them. Lordaeron was not theirs to war over.

Unleash.

No.

In one smooth motion Ceruszael rose, again taking up the banner. He hurried toward the Alliance lines, a spectre moving through a rolling green fog. It was the colors he carried that spared him friendly fire upon emerging. Those scattered withdrawn forces held firm as the Castellan rejoined them. It was just as well, for moments thereafter they all beheld a sight to stir even the dimmest of hearts. A massive ship sailing on currents of raw mana. Kul Tiran in origin, as the Baradin Free Company’s cries quickly confirmed. Jaina Proudmoore captained it, her incomparable mastery freeing the battlefield from the grip of the Banshee Queen and shattering her battlements in one fell swoop. The Alliance rallied beneath the Archmage and their High King. Forward again they surged, sensing imminent victory. They should have known there would be no victory here. If Sylvanas Windrunner did not win, she would assure that none ever could. Such was her away.

The rest of the battle past as a blur to Ceruszael. He marched as long as Holt forces partook of the battle. Fewer and fewer, every minute. Either by death, injury, or in aiding the escape of others. He channeled his despair and anger, directing it solely at the Horde by sheer force of will alone. All the training and experience born of a lifetime beneath a militant family and wars wages, all the unholy power amassed and refined in undeath. His blade weaved faster than any should have been able to wield it, flickering between the realms of the living and the dead. It cut the souls and spirits of those before him as easily as flesh and bone. It was only hours after the killing had ended that conscious pierced the veil of the Ebon Knight’s mind. Hours after that he thought to see which of those men and women he had led to Lordaeron merely added to its sepulchral soil. And yet, as he walked the docks of Stormwind, he still did not know whether or not he would truly care if even all had perished.

I think not.

(( Tag lineup; @householt @francimar-reivers @vladimirbaustent @imordnir for direct mentions & @rinohaholt @khemra-reivers @cordeliaeresholt indirect ))

[ceruszael]

For the..... Blight?

A profound silence fell over the formation as the air swelled with anticipation.  Each individual standing here was an extension of the various facets of their world all joining together for their common goals…. Today that goal was to survive.  For both sides despite the events that had led to this moment the ambition remained the same, and yet they staged for their tragedy to unfold.

No matter the station of those around today they were brothers and sisters.  Today they would spill blood, die and survive by one another’s hands. From the King on down to the common foot soldiers, they all faced the same threat, a common enemy. The Horde.

Rinoha’s attention was pulled from her speculations as the first cannons rang out. Her muscles tensed as the path ahead was cleared for the siege weapons to move towards the once proud city of Lordaeron.  A brief survey of those that served under Dirae ensured her soldiers were ready and only waited for her command to move. Ceruszael sat ahead of their lines as head of the Holt armies and it was he Rinoha would take her ques.

Speeches were called out rallying the men and though Rinoha could hear the words none were registered. Her gaze never turned and her attention did not waver from the Castellan. As soon as the order was given to move she raised a dagger above her head to signal Captain Lenah to call for the march into battle.

Keep reading

[ceruszael]

"I consider my leadership of forces arrayed against my former home a hypocrisy. I share more in common with the Forsaken than those of Stormwind. Yet when lines of battle are drawn, I feel no sense of anger or remorse. No protective nature for either side. I merely watch as a graveyard fills."

Ceruszael

[ceruszael]

Forward Operating Base: Andorhal

“Stay safe,” he said to the mage before closing the lines of communication.

With a disgusted shake of his head, Vladimir turned and made his way back into the camp. Among the ruins of Andorhal, he and his men had found a welcomed reprieve. The relatively intact buildings were free of the Forsaken forces that normally roamed their halls, likely pulled back to the remains of Lordaeron in preparation for the Alliance’s siege on their walls. Hearth fires burned and laterns lit as the boys of Braemar crowded into the buildings, free of the rain that had plagued their steps since the Wetlands and safe from the eyes of the Horde.

As he approached the outpost, the Duke of Braemar was met with a quick salute as the crossbow was lowered after spying his golden visage in the sun’s dying light. Brow furrowed and threatening now to tear the stitching over his left eye, Vladimir gave the man a scant nod as he moved past their layers of patrol and into the inn’s shell where the majority of his forces rested. Careful footing allowed the large man to pick his way around the men until he gathered in-front of the hearth alongside his Sargent and others speaking in hushed tones.

Whilmers looked upon his commander, his face again mirror the ex-mercenary’s consternation. Lowering himself to the floor alongside his men, Vlad smiled as a bowl of thin soup; chocked with hunks of rough turnip, potato, and rabbit, was handed to him almost immediately. The Sargent stayed silent for a time, sweat rolling down the ample folds of his face as he listened to the gnashing and slurping of the Duke trying to wolf down the first meal he’d accepted since the march had begun.

With a heavy sigh, he set the bowl off to the side, its wood bottom clacking lightly against the smooth worked stones of the hearth. Whilmers thought long and hard as he watched the Captain stare into the fire’s dancing flames, irritation masking his normally stoic visage. Finally, with a small shake of his head in realization that he was likely making an error, the aged fat man bounced on his rear closer to the man so they could speak in whispered tones.

“Did something happen to the other forces?” he asked furtively, sunken eyes darting about like a street rat trying to peddle his illicit wares in broad daylight before a guard happened past.  “Is that why we got here before them?”

Grimly, the Duke shook his head; ebon locks slowly rippling about his disquieted countenance. Tongue finally finding and working free his discomfort, Vladimir hocked a gobbet of rabbit and spittle into the flame, causing it to hiss violently before he answered. “The other troops will not be meeting us,” he said plainly, he voice as calm and quiet as death itself. “Francimar has taken the main Holt forces into the heart of Forsaken territory and they are camping there for the night.”

“Has he gone mad?” Whilmers choked out loudly before realizing the increased volume of his voice. Looking about in hopes it hadn’t been noticed, he quickly lowered it again with narrowed eyes and repeated his question in a harsh whisper. “Is the boy mad? Has he never actually seen a real battle before? Never mind the fact that he’s taking Holt nobles to go camping in territories where the deaders live and call home, but that means he had to march the troops past two fortified Banshee Queen strongholds! The man can’t be as foolish as to think the deaders sleep or something.”

Vladimir waved off the Sargent’s misgivings about the situation, his eyes showing he was already feeling the same way but dared not say it aloud in fear that it would not show solidarity with the rest of the Holt forces.

“Francimar will likely double his guard for the night,” he responded diplomatically, his voice still soft, “And we will meet them before the ruins of Lordaeron in the morning. Now get some sleep… We have a long day ahead of us.”

( @francimar-reivers @sarahniholt @ceruszael @adhelin @rinohaholt @cordeliaeresholt @householt for vague mentions)

[ceruszael]

Loud snaps and crackles illuminate the milieu as the fire casts its orange and yellow glow into the murky haze of Silverpine’s lower regions; light rainfall masked their approach, though the subsequent slaughter that followed left a sour taste in her mouth. Luckily for her, she was spared the sight of it and only witnessed the aftermath when their troops caught up with the rest of the forces. The view turned her stomach; corpses littered the moss-covered earth, more and more continuously brought to the bonfire and thrown into its consuming flames.  She didn’t have to voice her distaste… her expression spoke more loudly than her voice ever could.

It wasn’t long before a straggler was found hiding in a nearby building; a forsaken woman with only her skirts to cover her, was drug out into the open and made to face those gathered. They all bickered amongst themselves on what they were going to do with her.  Few suggestions flew from their mouths, yet all shared a common theme: the forsaken woman wouldn’t survive.

“If you’re all so fearful of her returning with an ample number of soldiers, put her under guard in the building you found her.   I’ll sit with her, and when we march forward, she can walk the other way.”  Her voice carried on the breeze, but its gentle intonation found only deaf ears.  Rinoha was poised to strike and only awaited word—and Ceruszael simply stood as a bystander.  Long, dark lashes lowered to momentarily regard the earth beneath their feet; was she the only one with a shred of decency?

Her eyes lifted at the sound of Ceruszael’s two-toned voice, asking questions of the woman’s past and where she once lived.  Cordelia only heard fear and pleas of mercy; here they were, extensions of the Alliance’s will… ready to gut this creature without a second’s thought.  Silence fell from the Castellan’s lips… and he simply watched.  He watched.  This man she looked up to, respected…watched.  

Despite her opposition, the Kul'tiran barbarian, this monster, severed the Forsaken woman’s head clean from her shoulders—he didn’t hesitate, nor did he flinch.  How was he, or the she-wolf he called a wife, any different from the Horde they were now hunting?  Again, that sour taste pervaded her mouth and she had to step away, though instead of finding comfort in Owen’s presence, she only found distance; the forsaken, he said, were the enemy, and marching our soldiers back home won’t do any good– we still have a duty to the King.  But how are we any better than the savages you condemn?

This is war, they all clamored, as if those words would do anything to rid herself of the dirt she felt all over. She’d carry this forever, this formless guilt of which she’d never truly atone; even though her words rose in defense for the unarmed civilian, her hands were stained by association. 

And thus the cycle would continue—an eye for an eye until the whole world went blind.

@householt @owenthedeathknight @rinohaholt @francimar-reivers @mender-emilia @feathers-of-a-dove @tiomodm @sarahniholt @cypherlandon @vladimirbaustent @ceruszael

[ceruszael]

A Sacred Pact.

Long before the dawn rose over the southern Wetlands a faint stirring occurred within the encampment House of Holt’s primary host. Those that had been assigned nightwatch positions about the camp’s perimeter would see some one-hundred-and-twenty-odd men and their wardogs, the whole of the Baradin Free Company, march north with little to no explanation but a promise of summary return. Francimar was, of course, at the head of this detachment - grim of expression but overwhelmingly confident of stride. Likewise, those at his back followed his example.

Their purpose was one of an age old tradition Francimar had adopted and fostered within the souls of the men that followed his path. A sacred pact with the soil, and a display of fearlessness to whatever Gods of death that might circle like carrion-vultures above the killing-fields that Lordaeron would soon become.

Their march was a short one, perhaps little more than a half-mile, but the location had been scouted out previously by Khemra on Francimar’s orders. A small grove of trees that was willing to lend themselves to their cause. Woodworking and lumber-purposed tools along with a great many shovels had been brought and for a handful of hours, the men of the Baradin Free Company tirelessly, and all too silently, crafted for themselves what would be their final resting places should death claim them during the coming battle.

One-hundred-and-twenty-two graves had been dug, and one-hundred-and-twenty-two coffins had been crafted to fill them ‘til a body might return.

Francimar looked down at his own grave, the simple coffin that filled his plot bore his name but little else. Dozens of times prior had he fashioned his own coffin - and dozens of time prior had he come back triumphant to pull it from the earth-bones and re-purpose the wood. He looked down to the bare flesh of his left arm, where the words of credence spiraled about the muscled appendage in the blackest of ink. He recited them for what may very well be the last time.

“To the death, my beloved enemy.”

Shovel in hand he, and the other hundred-and-twenty-one began to fill their plots with the displaced soil. Silence had broken for now and t’was Khemra Reivers who lead the ceremonial song, each mouth present joining in as they collectively reveled in their tradition.

Now and only now, could the war begin in earnest.

@khemra-reivers, @householt, @ceruszael, @rinohaholt, @sarahniholt

[ceruszael]

Lordaeron should be reduced to rubble, not reclaimed. Its legacy is ruination. The Banshee Queen and her Forsaken are ultimately Menethil's creations. Fordragon's death and Hellscream's rise to tyranny, both results of the Northrend campaign. Naught but death will ever stem from that shadow of a kingdom.

Ceruszael

[ceruszael]

One of the great ironies of the living is how much they define themselves by that which they are willing to end life for.

Ceruszael

[ceruszael]

Frost Death Knight

[ceruszael]

Reap the Harvest

(( Previous: Here ))

(( Disclaimer: This post coincides with the beginning of the War of Thorns. ))

Silence reigned. Not the lie which passed as such among the living. When every day bore a monotonous din of which the composing parts are indistinguishable from each other, any abatement was mistaken for a reprieve. It was not so. This was true, utter, complete, silence. Standing in the darkness of the tower he had seen built, Ceruszael took a moment to appreciate it. Eyes closed, body as still as the tower all around him, he basked in it. In the back of his mind the Ebon Knight new this served only to further his descent apart from the humanity he once had. And yet, for the time being, it brought him a measure of comfort. After a measure his eyelids peeled open. Twin pinpricks of lichfire in the gloom of his solitude. They regarded his completed work.

The chamber he stood in was devoid of any adornments or accomodations beyond a large circular table in the center. Semi-glossy blackness reflected the cold gleam of his gaze from every angle as Ceruszael regarded the walls about him. Eventually he settled on the one feature which could perhaps be construed as an imperfection. In the center of the table, a thin slot marred the surface. The Knight reached back to slide his runeblade free from its sheathe. It shared the eerie glow from his eyes and sections of his armor, yet its reflection was far more complex. Myriad forms writhed and circled the edge, which in the umbral walls shifted from the serrated steelesque weapon he wielded, to a bone-adorned wickedly hooked weapon, to an ethereal cleaver, to a cold ironclad scythe into which the spirits were absorbed and regurgitated endlessly. All truths as to the nature of the Death Knight’s and his weapon. Ceruszael held it forward, the tip pointing across the table as if judging the macabre depiction in the tower’s walls. The blade then left his grip, lazily gliding forward and rotating until it hovered vertically just above the slit. When his fist closed, it descended, and the room lit with an empty approximation of life.

Eerie green luminescence danced across the chamber as a torrent of spirits were freed from the confines of the runeblade, finding new lodging within the intricate spellwork of the tower. They swirled around and around, at first swiftly and violently in revelry of liberation, then slowing as the limitations of their new prison became understood. But move they did. No respite for the restless dead. As they drifted below his feet, Ceruszael shifted his attention to the tower walls, beholding that which he had wrought. In contrast to the ground, a monochrome wasteland stretched all around him. No grass or other undergrowth clung to the dirt or shifted in the breeze. Just as well, for no wind blew to bend the branches of long-dead trees.

The Shadowlands stood before Ceruszael, viewable all around him without him needing to bodily cross. Painstakingly applied runework and necromantic spellcraft all across the tower and its foundation served equally as protection from Azeroth’s intruders, as well as those who would assail this unwanted observer from the realm of the dead. Glancing toward the bottom edge of the walls, he could glimpse the ghostlight of the torches at the tower’s base, serving as physical manifestations of his protective weave. And yet, amidst this success, Ceruszael frowned. The dead were legion, outnumbering the living as they ever would. Yet he saw none here. Nor the wardens which jailed and tormented them. Nor even the periodic intrusions of Val’kyr, in any of the forms known to him. He did not long have to wonder as to why. In contrast to the immediate vicinity, in the horizon he beheld a great disturbance. Eyes narrowed, the Acheran gestured in its direction. The decayed landscape fled beneath him, shifting as his perspective flew forward as if on the wings of a frostwyrm. Realization dawned swiftly. An offender to the cycle for millennia, the outline of a massive tree, grew larger as the damned observatory closed in. Now, the Ebon saw the dead. A teeming mass of them which grew larger by the moment.

War.

Ceruszael turned away, an arm snapping out to his side. A keening wail, audible only to those who had an ear for the manner in which dead things spoke, was silenced nearly as soon as it began as the soul engine below him receded into the runeblade before it lifted free from the table and returned to its master’s grasp. The tower fell dormant again, only a shrinking reflection of its architect seeing to his departure.

(( Tag lineup: @householt ))

[ceruszael]

Secrets of the Castellan

(( Tagged by @adhelin ))

[ceruszael]

Seeds Sown

(( Previous: Here ))

The structure arose slowly, for its foundations needed to be made solid. Not only architecturally, though such concerns were likely equally important. A window to the Shadowlands would partially exist within that realm. Perhaps, as much as it did in Azeroth. Warding was thus required. A strong foundation from which his observations could be made unhindered. As black, glossy bricks emerged from mouth of a runeforge they were hauled off and stacked by myriad shambling forms. Ceruszael watched the work. His focus, however, was on the torches which began to dot the surrounding landscape. Cold iron, inscribed from their base in the earth to the top from which flickering flames wavered in a breeze that did not blow. He was attended by a pair of wraiths, hoods and cloaks fluttering in the same manner as the eerie turquoise fire. Stranger yet, no light was cast along the earth or the majority of Ceruszael’s crimson plate. The wraiths, as well as subtly gleaming runes in his armor, appeared somewhat brighter in their presence.

He could see it in his mind. A bleak tower amidst grey dead earth. Around it, ghostlit torches stood. Each reflected as a spot along the tower’s face yet did nothing to illuminate the area. When viewed from the ground, they appeared scattered without meaning. From above, equally so, though their true purpose might be guessed by one versed in the dark magics of death. Their pattern outlined powerful warding runes tracing back to the tower’s base. They drew fuel from it just as they served to protect it, casting a harsh gleam in the underworld despite being all but inept at piercing Deadwind’s gloom. A necessary measure to keep not only the living from trespassing, but also the dead. So did the Blood Dragon envision it.

And so too did it become a reality.

Ceaselessly did the dead work. Night and day, without pause. Such was their boon, though only Ceruszael among them was cognisant enough to recognize it. The rest were but animated puppets to carry out his will. The irony of the situation, given how vocal his opposition to the Lich King was, did not evade the Ebon Knight. The difference, he told himself, was that he did not slay these beings and slave their souls to their bodies. Dead men walked, yes, but they had been dead many years. Spirits who had wandered the Shadowlands’ wastes for some time and knew its torments. He was not yet delusional enough to imagine himself a liberator. But at least, he justified, he was not… as wicked. Not as evil.

Not yet.

Such musings would become commonplace in the silent halls of the tower he built. It neared completion. The magic was almost fully in place. The engine which would fuel it and allow for so much more, would be lit. Its structure reached just shy of the allotted height, imposing in its implacable darkness. Much like the blade he carried, it remained unnamed for the time being. Such was a tendency among his brethren in undeath. For all their grim demeanors, they were a poetic lot. Ceruszael was not entirely removed from them. Perdition and Strife, the steeds he rode, spoke to that. Perhaps it was time to submit fully to that inexplicable tendency.

Perhaps.

(( Tag lineup; @householt ))

[ceruszael]

Meet the Castellan

► Name ➔   “Ceruszael.” ► Are you single ➔ “Yes.” ► Are you happy ➔   “I am content.” ► Are you angry? ➔  “Rarely.” ► Are your parents still married ➔   “Deceased.”

NINE FACTS

► Birth Place ➔ “Present day southern Silverpine Forest, Lordaeron.” ► Hair Color ➔ “White.” ► Eye Color ➔ “Lichfire.” ► Birthday ➔ “No longer relevant.” ► Mood ➔ “Calculating. Inquisitive. Disillusioned.” ► Gender ➔ “Male.” ► Summer or winter ➔ “Winter.” ► Morning or afternoon ➔ “Morning.”

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

► Are you in love ➔ “No.” ► Do you believe in love at first sight ➔ “Yes.” ► Who ended your last relationship ➔ “Death.” ► Have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔  “Yes.” ► Are you afraid of commitments ➔ “No.” ► Have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔ “No.” ► Have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ “Yes.” ► Have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ “What’s left of it.”

SIX CHOICES

► Love or lust ➔ “Love.” ► Cats or Dogs ➔ “Dogs.” ► A few best friends or many regular friends ➔ “A few.” ► Wild night out or romantic night in ➔ “Neither.” ► Day or night ➔ “Night.”

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

► Been caught sneaking out ➔ “No.” ► Fallen down/up the stairs ➔ “No.” ► Wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ “Yes.” ► Wanted to disappear ➔ “Often.”

FOUR PREFERENCES

► Smile or eyes ➔ “Eyes.” ► Shorter or Taller ➔ “Shorter.” ► Intelligence or Attraction ➔  “Intelligence.” ► Hook-up or Relationship ➔ “Neither.”

FAMILY

► Do you and your family get along ➔ “None remain to get along with. Once, yes.” ► Would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ “A vexing existance.” ► Have you ever ran away from home ➔ “No.” ► Have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ “No.”

FRIENDS

► Do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ “No.”

► Do you consider all of your friends good friends ➔ “No.”

► Who is your best friend ➔ “What passes for it, Adhelin.”

► Who knows everything about you ➔ “None living.”

Tagged by: @adhelin

Tagging: Any of y’all nerds what haven’t done this and are reading it.

[ceruszael]

Absence

“You’re always busy.”

“So, you’ve been traveling then?”

“I miss our time standing outside the Embassy.”

It was true; Ceruszael had been largely absent of late. Or rather, absent from House Holt and its myriad bannerman. The fallout after the Legion’s defeat and Argus’ banishment from Azeroth’s skies offered a momentary respite amidst endless conflict. Naturally, the void had swiftly been filled. As more and more mercenaries and loyalists to either faction either flooded south to Silithus or began stockpiling arms and armor for the next battle, Ceruszael took a different approach. He could have returned to Acherus. Mograine and the Horsemen all but reigned there, and doubtless would dictate the actions of the Ebon Blade. Whether as jailors or generals, that was yet to be determined. He could have thrown himself fully behind his duties as Castellan of House Holt. One meeting with the new Marshal had already seen him exercise authority in dispatching the living to fight.

To die.

There was necessity in the task, but it was largely a distraction. He was uncertain if any among the House, even those Acherans who fought for Holt colors or others who considered themselves close to Ceruszael, knew the depths of his mind. How truly detached he felt from most of the events and people around him. That it was difficult to relate to them remained an understatement. How could one relate to another when they were so fundamentally different? No rest. No respite. No nourishment from food or drink. No fatigue from physical exertion. All day and through the night, he was aware. It should have been mentally taxing, but even this had changed. He neither grew weary nor did his thoughts become muddled, but the price remained. Its true nature remained hidden, though he suspected madness and denial to be the eventual end to that path. Presuming he had not already made too many strides down it.

No, Ceruszael’s focus was elsewhere. He needed… reflection. Insight. Such that the living could not provide, nor however would the damned bound to flesh. Walking among the living would ever impart their flaws, even on those who had seen the end of their cycle. Doubtless the Frozen Throne still had supplicants worth conversing with, but he had made a decision upon liberation to keep distance from the Lich King’s dominion. Thus the path remaining was to seek that insight himself. Frequent forays into the Shadowlands had become a dangerous gambit. The undead, truly, belonged there about as much as they did walking Azeroth’s surface. So Ceruszael needed a way to access that realm’s knowledge without traveling there directly. A window. Controlled, maintained, and stable. Enough spellcraft involved travel to and from the Shadowlands, or channeling its energies. Its myriad passageways allowed his travel via Death Gates. Adapting all of this had been his primary concern these past months. The Legion had given him more – from necrolytes and lesser dreadlords – for they had seen undeath on a thousand worlds over. One truth became abundantly clear; Ceruszael needed a medium and location from which to operate.

Both aspects received substantial research time. The former needed to be receptive to necromantic and shadow magics, moldable and conductive. Initially he had investigated the Necropoli of the Scourge, as well as Icecrown itself. These were largely materials chosen for durability, utilized for war and animated by vast soul engines. Then, more delicate instruments were considered. Blood orbs, scrying mirrors, and other elaborate tools of dark spellcraft. A merging of reagents and architectural practices would be required. Innovation, as well. At length, and after trial and error, Ceruszael felt confident he had found a usable substance. Grave dust from the burial of magically attuned individuals mingled with powdered Scourgestones, condensed and subjected to the roiling soulflame and select magics of a runeforge, created a uniquely capable necromantic attuned building material. A black, almost featureless stone-like substance which gave an eerie spectral tint to any light it reflected. The question remained; where to put it?

As it turned out, he didn’t need to go far. Deadwind Pass has long been inert to the activities around it. Only its southern end saw any travel, and even then activity among the Violet Eye had lessened. Though Karazhan had become somewhat of a focal point during the Legion invasion of Azeroth, once they had been pressed back to Argus it was again populated merely a handful of Dalarani guardians and intrepid scholars. Among the living, in any case. When one peered through the veil they saw the truth of the matter. So much death suffused the region. Spectres wafted in and out of solid rock, flickering between the realm of the dead and the living. More corporeal creatures gathered near Karazhan, but these were monitored and disposed of by the Violet Eye. Armed with such knowledge, Ceruszael traveled to the northernmost lip of the great ravine which split the Pass lengthwise. It was here, he began his work. Here, he laid the foundation for the structure from which he would delve the depths of death as he had never before been able. There was neither a shortage of bones to raise nor spirits to bind to them, not so soon after a war nor ever here in Deadwind. With supplies scavenged from warzones against the Legion as well as requisitioned from the Ebon Hold, and mindless animated forms shambling from the earth slaved to his desire, Ceruszael began his work.

(( Tag lineup; @householt, for vague mentions @adhelin @vladimirbaustent @rinohaholt ))