kalenedral | Inkblots

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This scene is in third person past tense, after discussing it, because we both prefer it. Third person present tense is fine in game, since it matches the built-in emotes, and both of us can do it just as easily, but neither of us likes it as much for long-form RP.

Starting location and time: The Ebon Hold, early morning.

Timeline note: Very soon after the Ebon Blade defected from Arthas.

- - - - -

It was strange, to not smell snow in the air. Odd, that the light coming in through the huge balcony was so yellowish and hazed, instead of blue-green-white from ice and an overcast, darkened sky. Icecrown had been the first 'home' that Kalenedral remembered, and spending so much time under a yellow sky was a new experience.

This had been just as weird before, but less... pressing. A lot of things were less pressing when the Lich King devoured your thoughts.

Kalenedral was aware on an intellectual level that everything would take adjusting to, but it was still different to actually experience it. He wasn't the only one having these very same problems, of course, and he hazarded a glance aside at the Knight riding beside him. They were riding the slow, small patrol around the inner circle of the upper floor of the Ebon Hold, and the former elf had noticed early on that his partner for the night -- morning, now -- kept his helmet firmly on his head.

He himself had only just begun to work with it off, and that was another odd sensation, but it only underlined the fact that he was having an easier time adjusting than some of his brothers and sisters in arms. Even now, Kalenedral couldn't quite make himself find less... iconic armor, not just yet, and so he still looked as any Scourge Commander would, minus his helmet. Others, like Thassarian and Koltira, had shed their old armor as quickly as they could find replacements.

Some adjusted faster than he did, he supposed, and went back to scanning their rarely-changing surroundings. Daybreak meant their shift would be over, soon, and then he would have to go out among the living once more. The quest to foster allies for the Ebon Blade was one he was barely suited for, but he would not fail the Highlord by not even trying.

"Kalenedral."

A third rider had joined them, smaller of stature than the patrolling pair: Visolela, without her helm. If she was perturbed at their newfound freedom, she gave no sign... but she had given no sign of discomfiture when she'd come under Kalenedral's command, either. Very little ever seemed to move her.

"I won't interrupt your patrol, but do you have a moment?"

Kalenedral's Deathcharger gave a soft snort at being boxed by two riders now, but gave no other sign of caring. After all, the dead mare had done more in formation than simply plod around in large circles.

"I have many moments," Kalenedral replied dryly, "I would imagine."

"I, too, but the subject of my concern does not." She sounded neither amused nor annoyed by Kalenedral's humor, and despite her words, there was no apparent urgency to them.

"I must request a favor from you. But I will understand if you decline."

"There is no longer a need to prod so carefully, sister," was Kalenedral's reply, eyes continuing to skim the interior of the Ebon Hold as they spoke. It was unlikely that Arthas would attack them outright inside of the necropolis, but... better to be safe than sorry with their former master. "We are of equal rank, now. Say what you have come to say."

Not that he had ever required much in the way of careful prodding, but others of his rank (and above) had been known to take offense if they overheard. Varathanda's lack of a tongue was proof of that.

"I speak of my brother... brother." Not you, her tone however implied, though it barely changed. But he was undoubtedly used to picking up her faint nuances by now. And, as he requested, she spoke forthrightly.

"The destruction of the Sunwell was particularly hard on him, and even with its restoration, he is somehow not whole. His mentor believes that he may yet become Wretched, and we cannot seem to prevent his... descent. But he is my House's only living heir, and I do not like the thought that Arthas will have destroyed its future as well as its past." She stared straight ahead as she spoke, her posture ramrod-straight. She had been a soldier before her death, a soldier after it, and she was a soldier still.

"Fondness clouds my judgment, and my uncle's. But your judgment would not be clouded. Sentimentality would not stayyour hand."

Ah, the living past. Kalenedral had no such ties, but he was well aware that he was in the minority in that. Many of their bretheren had gone out and tried to... reconnect with what they had been before. Even Visolela, it seemed.

Foolish, but he wouldn't fault them for it. Had he any memories of life, he knew full well that he would likely do the same. It seemed, at least from outside observation, to be an irresistable pull.

"I see," Kalenedral shifted his weight in the saddle incrementally, and his steed veered off to the side at the same slow pace she had been circling at. The other Knight, helmet and all, did the same. Just ahead, another pair began to circle instead; the changing of the guard.

"You are not asking for a simple execution," he said, "and you know full well that I am not a healer." Thus: what did she want him to do, exactly?

"He has no need of a healer, he is one. You salvaged the newly-dead, I'm asking you to salvage the nearly-dead. And if you cannot, then render him dead. I will not see my own blood become Wretched... He may as well have become a ghoul."

Her disdain for the creatures was not personal; she didn't dislike them. But the lines between the ranks of the undead were clearly defined: Death Knights were better. It would be beneath her, an affront to her pride and honor, to be known as the sister of a Wretched.

"I would do this myself, but I am too weak. I cannot turn my blade upon my own family." Not again.

Leaning back for a moment in his saddle drew his Deathcharger to a halt, for probably the first time since yesterday evening. The dead did not need rest like the living did, and that included dead horses.

"The ways of salvaging the newly-dead differ wildly, I would imagine, from the nearly-dead," Kalenedral noted mildly, "my experience with the living is narrower than your own. You would have me take charge of him, and see if he breaks?"

And breaking while under his control, of course, had only one logical outcome. At least he'd make it quick and clean.

"Despite all of our experience, we have failed." Visolela now looked sidelong at him. "You, with none, will not." Death, she implied, was not failure.

"Very well," Kalenedral agreed, "if he is salvageable, a healer would undoubtedly be a useful ally for the Ebon Blade."

And that was really all it took, when one got down to it. Darion Mograine wanted him to find allies for their order, and so he would. His lack of experience with the living (other than experience in making them dead) made him a poor diplomat, but perhaps he could do this instead.

At least, while looking for other ways to further their cause. A single healer would perhaps make a less dedicated Knight feel like they had followed the letter of the command, but Kalenedral wouldn't be content with that.

"Where am I to find him, then?" The answer was suspected, but he would rather be sure.

"Silvermoon City," confirmed Visolela. "He will be at the Spire. My uncle, Ardeth Vale, will be expecting you." Evidently, this had been planned! "And, ah, regarding Limbface... Please keep him on a short leash. My uncle is not fond of ghouls."

Kalenedral didn't snort, nor make any comments about how many living elves were likely not fond of ghouls. Similarly, he didn't sigh at the confirmation.

Another on the list of things he did not do: he didn't ask about how certain she had been that he'd take her request. Instead, all he did was frown, just the tinniest amount, at the idea of riding into Silvermoon.

"Very well," he repeated, "although I will not stay there longer than necesarry." It would be counter-productive to the Highlord's orders for him to linger in the city he himself had helped decimate.

"They almost ate him alive. He survived by will alone." Visolela replied to what he did not say. "Despite my cousin's present condition, my family is not weak-minded, nor easily frightened. And I expected no less; it's better anyway. That place is still full of... corruption. You'll know what I mean when you get there. Just look up."

She drew her fist up to her chest in an elven salute-- a proper one. "Thank you, brother. I will not forget."

Kalenedral returned the salute almost automatically, but not with any elven variation, and then turned his mount toward the balcony and the waiting bone gryphons. There was no need to waste time, after all.

- - -

Silvermoon City. Kalenedral didn't know, just yet, about the teleporter from the Undercity, and so he approached it the old-fashioned way. North through the Plaguelands the Ebon Hold itself hovered over; through the Ghostlands, and through Eversong Woods, riding alongside the Dead Scar full of ghosts and ghouls; followed by his own. It was, after all, the most familiar path, and had there not been something of a time constraint he probably would have slain much of the mindless undead on his way north.

But there was, and so he didn't. It would have been a pointless exercise, anyway; he knew full well that a simple slaughtering would not fix the Scar. It wasn't his charge to do so, regardless.

The original main gate to the city was, of course, a lost cause. Kalenedral followed the trickle of (somewhat nervous) foot-traffic to and through the side gate now in use, Limbface shuffling along at the Deathcharger's side. Silvermoon City was still a place of bright golds and reds and elegant architecture, and the former elf paused once inside. He couldn't help at least a moment or two of staring at the place he was probably from, originally, even if it was much like a tourist to a country they had been born in but had no memory of.

As with many things, he'd been... preoccupied the last time (and first time) he'd seen it. This time, there was no Arthas in his skull, and so he sat still on his Deathcharger, looking rather like a violet blot of ink in contrast to his surroundings, and took in the strangeness.

Not for the first time since starting north, he privately wished he could get away with wearing his helmet. But it would do nothing but make his already-worrisome presence even more worrisome, and so the helmet remained hooked to the side of his saddle, his face exposed. Perhaps, at least, his physical heritage would be of... use, in this place.

Nudging Shadowmane into a walk, he rode over to one of the nearest guards, asking to be pointed towards the Spire.

Somehow managing to look down his nose at the Death Knight whilst looking up at him, the guard gave him directions. "Ihope you're expected," he sniffed. "I still can't believe who they're letting into the Spire these days."

The guard next to him nodded disapprovingly. Not a very welcoming bunch, these guards. But the apprehensive glances sent his way by the few residents walking the streets undoubtedly explained the guards' distaste; many intellectually understood that Death Knights had not committed atrocities out of their own free will, but to look upon Arthas' former elite was, often, to remember their relentless advance and the horrors that they wrought.

Even a Death Knight with an elf's face was not exempt; in many ways, it only made things worse.

Every guard up that long, crimson-carpeted ramp toward Sunfury Spire glared at him, though some of the priests beyond it did not. Those who did still made way for him; he was expected, after all, if not precisely welcome.

If it even registered to the Knight -- and it may not have, because what did he know of the living and how they behaved? -- it certainly didn't show.

He continued on his way, Shadowmane's white-fire hooves barely even leaving indentations on that carpet despite the weight of her and who she carried. Kalenedral only dismounted once he was at the base of the building, leading the Deathcharger out of the way and then leaving her there with no apparent worry about thieves or troublemakers. Of course, either of those would probably find more trouble with Shadowmane than the other way around -- a Death Knight's steed was hardly a mere horse, after all.

"I am looking for Ardeth Vale," he said calmly to another guard, now that he was here. The dark blue armor on him contrasted as sharply with his surroundings as his mount did, and more than a few of the nicks and dings on it had probably come from defenders of this very city. The ghoul at his side said nothing, though it stared at the guards' Very Shiny selves with large, dead eyes.

With a belated glance up at the glowing green crystal overhead, and my -- that thing looked almost as out of place as hedid -- Kalenedral added mildly, "I am expected."

Those defenders looked inclined to give it a few more nicks and dings, though they did not. "He's inside," the one whom Kalenedral addressed stated coldly. "He said," as if it was in doubt even now, "You were expected." Mess with our priests, Death Knight, and we'll make you wish you stayed dead.

And the priest in question was inside, stepping past the gauzy violet veil that shielded the priests' wing from view-- no,floating past it. He didn't look down his nose at the Death Knight; his face was almost as pale and gaunt as one of Kalenedral's brothers. He held the curtain aside with one frail, gloved hand. "Kalenedral, no surname, I presume," he said softly, almost as neutrally as his niece. "Welcome to Silvermoon City."

Kalenedral stepped past the guards and inside, since that seemed to be what was expected of him, his ghoul close in tow. Limbface, perhaps following some previous order from the Knight, did not stare at the priest. He stared at other people instead, faintly-glowing eyes practically gleaming with all the shinies he was seeing.

"None that I have been informed of," Kalenedral replied almost absently. He sized Ardeth up with a glance, and took in their surroundings almost as quickly and efficiently. It was doubtful he would have to fight his way back out, but it was still habit to treat strange surroundings as such.

There wasn't much of Ardeth to size up, though he was tall; his unhealthily-thin form was swathed in heavy robes from just below his chin, the only flesh that was visible was above it. His hair was as white as his niece's, but his eyes glowed green, not blue.

He led Kalenedral through a circular room filled with many overflowing bookshelves and strange curios, and then into a smaller room. This one was much more spartan, though there were books here, too, and a curtained alcove; beyond the gauze was a bed, and a figure reclined upon it. But Ardeth didn't lead him there, yet. Instead, he paused by a small table; on it was a teapot, kept magically warm, and two cups. "Would you like some tea?"

He could not be comfortable, under the circumstances, with such a guest and the reason for his being there, but his voice was tranquil and his expression controlled into placidity.

"Shiny," the ghoul at Kalenedral's side said of the teapot. The Knight pointed at the door, more for Ardeth's benefit than for the ghoul's, and Limbface shuffled away to stand 'guard' beside it, peeking out of the room through the curtain.

"There is no need," the former elf replied. "Your..." he searched for the word for a moment, "niece," yes, that was the one, "indicated this was a matter of some urgency."

"Amadei will not become Wretched in the next few moments." Ardeth filled the cups, and gestured for Kalenedral to take one. The scents of honey, jasmine and oolong wafted toward the Death Knight: the scents of civilisation. And civility. "Or even the next few hours. I have put him in a trance. You and I will speak, and I will decide if this notion of hers has merit. I am only part of the Syncline family by blood, but I am her elder and his, and he is presently in my care." His low, deep voice was still very soft, even a little short of breath, but the steel in it was inflexible.

He was aware of every movement of the ghoul's, but he gave little sign of it; like Visolela, he didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve.

"Then speak," Kalenedral said simply, "I have all the time in the world, and more."

That it was close to impossible to bait him, and nigh impossible to manage him without his consent, was perhaps hinted at when he ignored the tea. Or perhaps he just didn't take hints? Either way. "It is just as well; if you must speak, you can also be informative. What, exactly, is 'Wretched'?" Kalenedral made a vague gesture that encompassed the room, and perhaps the city beyond it, with his dark gauntlet. "I am completely unfamiliar with your ailments."

"When an elf succumbs to his addiction to magic, or, rather, his thirst for it, he becomes Wretched." Ardeth took a sip of his tea, and drifted over to a pile of cushions to sit. "Many of us suffered this fate after the destruction of the Sunwell; many more did so in service to Kael'thas, when we were given free rein to gorge ourselves upon the demonic energy that he, and his masters, offered to us. Our bodies change, and our driving hunger is to consume more, more, more. It cannot be reversed-- or, at least, I have only heard of a reversal in one case, and I have not yet verified it."

He gazed at Kalenedral levelly over his teacup. "As we are creatures of magic, being cut off from it was... devastating. Many of us went mad... mad enough to do all sorts of things, and become all sorts of things. Even after the Sunwell's restoration, this hunger still persists in some. Fel energy's hold, in those who've consumed too much of it to cope, is not easily shaken."

Kalenedral turned to watch him, but less out of worry of attack and more because he'd been told quite a lot, recently, that the living looked at one another when they spoke. He wasn't one such, of course, but he would emulate them in some things if only to make his mission from the HIghlord easier and quicker to accomplish.

"I am expected to slay him only if he breaks and becomes Wretched," the former Commander said, "these physical changes are obvious, I would hope." If he had to count the elf's teeth every hour, he was going to be cross with Visolela.

He did not remark on Ardeth's wording in regards to Kael'thas' servants, nor on the destruction of the Sunwell. it was not yet his way to allow much in the way of curiosity.

"Very obvious. A Wretched becomes gaunt-- moreso than I. His arms and legs blacken, his face becomes hollow. He'll look something like your... geists, I believe. I remember their twisted forms shambling about, leaping... If he looks like himself, he won't be Wretched. The hunger consumes our own bodies and mind, and a Wretched can no longer truly be considered an elf. Of some intelligence, yes, but..."

Ardeth finally looked at Limbface. "...Somewhat more limited." His glowing gaze was weary.

"I was the Knight-Commander in charge of your niece," Kalenedral said, mildly, without glancing at Limbface. The ghoul's back was to Ardeth, at least, as it was quite interested in peeking through the gauzy curtain outwards, "among quite a few others. If she has spoken of me," and he didn't assume as much, but one never knew, "you surely know that I do not play games."

Translation: if you have questions, get on with it. He had all the time in the world, yes, but if Ardeth expected him to prompt for whatever he wished to speak of, at least beyond this, then he would be disappointed.

"She's spoken of you in great detail." That's nice, Ardeth's matter-of-fact tone said. "You are precisely what I expected." Whether that was good or bad, it was hard to tell; it simply was.

"Take charge of my nephew, then. Return him to me whole, or cleanly dead. I cannot help him. Neither can she. He weeps at the sight of us both. He turns from the Light. He turns from his family. From this empty, soulless city, where one only has to look up to see the ruins of what we once were. Even restored, the Sunwell has not yet cleansed this place of temptation. He will not find his redemption here and I am too unwell to take him elsewhere."

Ardeth gestured toward the alcove, where the sleeper stirred groggily, the hold over his mind broken. "Go north," he said to them both. "As Visolela said you might. Strike Arthas down, if you can. Avenge yourselves, and me."

One of Kalenedral's eyebrows rose a little, but that was all the indication to be had of what he thought of Ardeth's dramatic flair.

"Very well," the Knight stepped toward the alcove, and then at the stirring figure, "Are you coherent?" It wasn't, at least, the first time he'd had to take charge of someone of this blood-line, although he supposed mangling this one would render him less useful.

Visolela had always stayed in line, so it had never been an issue, with her. But how did one manage the living?

"...What...?" Sort of?

Amadei's eyes opened, and the first thing he saw was a Death Knight looming over him, so he scrambled back in an inelegant flailing of hunger-starved limbs. A bolt of shadowy energy zinged right past Kalenedral: bad aim? Or just disorientation?

"It's all right, Amadei, this man is going to help you. Don't fight too much, I understand he's cut out someone's tongue. No, you'll thank me later, I'm sure." Ardeth sounded tiredly amused.

"Help me?! What are you-- I didn't say you could-- This is absolutely unacceptable, I'm not going with some--"

Kalenedral's instinctive reaction to having magic fired at him was instant and well-oiled; the toxic green of his anti-magic shell lit up the room, perhaps one of the only things in here that was brighter than his unholy blue eyes.

"I assure you," he said mildly to the younger priest, not even reaching for his weapon, nor showing any sign that he'd wanted to for a second there, "that I am well-equiped to force the issue."

Amadei was leaving with him, one way or another. It could be on his feet, or it could be slung over Kalenedral's shoulder like a bag of skulls on the way to Noth.

"Look, Uncle Ardeth, I promise, no more crystals. Well, maybe only a few times a week. I can't help it, you've got to-- ofcourse you understand, you were with--" Amadei's tone was pleading, as he stared in horror at the older priest and then Kalenedral's frighteningly imposing form.

"Consider it my last lesson, Amadei. My decision is final."

"I'll call the guards, I swear I'll--"

"Do you want to risk more lives than just yours with your foolishness?" Ardeth's voice cracked like a whip, and his nephew flinched. "You're useless here. You remember those Wretched husks at the Magisters' Terrace, don't you? Even then, I had to drag you away from... Go."

But addiction did not allow some spiritual or even sensible awakening to one in its grips, and Amadei was in no sane mood to escape its grip. "You left me behind when you ran off to Outland," he hollered furiously. "Who do you think you are, telling me what to do now?! Do you think 'saving' me is going to atone for all the horrible things you did?!"

(( OOC: note for anyone reading -- spells and things used are cleared ahead of time. ))

"I am a more patient creature than I was created to be," Kalenedral said to no one in particular, probably barely heard over the yelling -- after all, he wasn't bothering to pitch it to carry as he could. "But even so, there are limits."

The strangulate spell (and it was named as such for a reason!) was instant and barely took a flick of his finger. "This is your last chance to come with me on your feet," he stated, "five seconds."

"Hrk--" Amadei was silenced, but he wasn't going to just meekly succumb to this-- this kidnapping! He tried to bolt off the bed, but then froze as his uncle's stronger will gripped his mind. What was he...? Why, who was this nice stranger in his room? Were they going somewhere?

"You'd better tie him up." Amadei should've been upset by this, but he wasn't. Who were they going to tie up? "It won't last forever, I can't do that to him."

"Happiness is mandatory," the younger priest sighed as Kalenedral's spell wore off, before he crumpled over in a heap.

"Limbface," Kalenedral said, only. The ghoul immediately scurried out of the room, apparently knowing what it was being sent to do. No doubt the creature running out to the Deathcharger's saddlebags thrilled the guards to no end.

The ghoul returned quickly, and flailed his way right over to his master's side, handing over a neatly-coiled length of rope.

It was simple enough to get the younger priest by the ankle and drag him over to be bound up. Having taken living hostages before -- if only for the scourge to experiment on -- he knew how to go about it.

"I am sure Visolela will keep up on his status," he said, after making sure to also gag the living elf, "she will know how to find me."

Ardeth closed his eyes and drank his tea. "I expect to hear that the Lich King is dead," he murmured in a rather prim tone, "And that both of you were in some way involved. From his own mouth, not yours, not hers."

He made no excuses for his nephew; not 'it's just the drugs talking', or 'he was such a good child', or 'where did I go wrong?!' "That is all," he said instead.

Dismissed.

"I have better men to avenge, I assure you," Kalenedral's reply was just as mild as everything else he'd said, and he hoisted the other elf over his shoulder, just like that, turning to go. His ghoul scampered off ahead of him again, just in case the guards hadn't already had heart attacks, to collect Shadowmane.

He was what he was. And that... was probably why he'd been asked to do this.

It was only a few hours later, after they were gone, that Ardeth noticed that his shiny teapot was missing.