(Warcraft) They Sang
Posted: 2006-09-14 05:52pm
The Scarlet Crusade, front and center. I mostly wrote this story today and the day before after a bit of inspiration. They main character of the story is the sister of my own character in World of Warcraft.
They Sang: A story of Lara Nightreaver
Throughout the entire ordeal, they never stopped singing. You have to understand that. They trusted me that much.
I had never joined the chorus. I was not a singer. I honored God in different ways. Yet I was not unappreciative of their presence.
The cathedral was silent except for their song. Had it not been for them, the place would have been stagnant and empty. Oppressive. Yet their voices built and twined together to fill the air with their clear music, their song a tribute to God to rival the very building we took shelter within.
I was praying. Two hours of prayer daily were mandated by the Crusade, though many spent far more time doing so and none reproached them. More was a virtue. Less was a sin. And despite the warnings, there was on occasion one or two who thought they could indulge in a bit of sin and skimp on their devotion. Inevitably, they were punished. No one ever needed to be punished twice.
It was cold in the cathedral, despite the warmth of the light through the great windows that faced west. Days like this were rare and I loved to come to the cathedral on such a day, for the light made the building beautiful. As I sat, I was idly grateful for the thick wool shirt I wore beneath my armor and I spared a prayer of thanks for the chorus, whom I knew had to be freezing in their simple habits.
I was tempted to spare a glance at them, but I resisted. Temptation was the root of sin, and anyone who didn't recognize and respect that simple fact was dead. Or worse, damned. I was not to count myself amongst their number.
I thumbed one of the beads out of my palm and gently took hold of the next on the string as I began a new prayer. I didn't rush. Going through my prayers faster would not get me out of here any sooner, only the ringing of the bell at the end of the hour would signal my departure.
I smiled as I thought of the bell. Large enough for three strong men to stand within, on a clear day it could once have been heard across the plains all the way to Lordaeron City. How the sound of that tolling had to gall the scum that infested the place now.
I dropped the smile as well as the train of thought. Such reflections were not worthy of a holy place.
I heard footsteps upon the tile and finished my prayer before glancing towards the center aisle.
It was her. The Inquisitress. High Inquisitor Liska Whitemane. She wore a simple habit as white as her skin and her namesake hair spilled freely down past her shoulders. Only her fathomless rose-colored irises, blood red lips, and a brooch bearing the sigil of the Crusade provided any color to her at all.
I looked back down at my hands as I felt the heat rise within me. Temptation is the root of sin, I reminded myself over and over, determined to fight back the impure thoughts. Whitemane was a woman of unimpeachable character and to think of her in such a fashion was degrading, especially in a house of God. I drowned out any sound but the song of the chorus in my determination.
Time passes quickly when you are concentrating.
I pleased myself when my only reaction to the sudden tolling of the bell was the opening of my eyes. The great instrument had rung out with the force of a cannonball striking an armored ship. Indeed, the wooden pew beneath me vibrated and I felt the power of the single note within my chest. Instead of getting up, I was moved to say another prayer for the bell ringers. No wonder the poor men all went deaf eventually. They gave their gift of hearing for the privilege of ringing God's news to the world. I wondered if I could make such a sacrifice and felt a twinge of embarrassment deep within me when I hesitated in answering myself.
The bell tolled a second time and I began to rise. A shadow passed in front of the sun-
-and masked by the tolling of the great bell the sound of the window shattering was nearly lost to my ears.
Swinging through the great pane like some figure from a tale of high adventure, a heavily-armed form deposited itself upon the cathedral floor with a thud. Even before it had come to rest I had seen and noted the graying flesh, the lank, unkempt hair, and the sinister glowing eyes.
Scourge. Undead. Ghoul.
In the house of God!
I had no time to don my helmet and instead bolted forward as the walking heresy began to draw its great sword. Its choice of weaponry had been poor, as the ponderous weapon was not even halfway out of its sheath when my own blade lashed out and struck the monstrosity's head from its shoulders.
The shattering of another pane announced the arrival into the game of another player. Even as the armored corpse slumped to the floor, this new, lithe figure hit the ground and rolled, leaping up into an acrobatic spring that carried it directly towards me. I reacted instinctively, and that was all that saved me as the metal bulwark of my shield stopped its descending mace. With a ring eerily similar to that of the great bell I felt my arm go numb. I kicked out at my opponent and it – he – drew back to avoid a crushing strike to his groin. He smiled and his sharpened tusks gleamed with menace. "Dosh'a do'shoi, d'oshar'a, sweet thang," he said in a mix of his language and mine. I felt my stomach roil more at the bastardized combination than at the gruesome compliment.
I put my weight behind my shield and drove at him. He hopped back nimbly as a dancer and struck at me again. His mace caught my shield arm on the elbow and as I was twisted, I let out a cry of pain. Had I not kept my head my life would have ended there and then as he brought a wicked dagger down towards my throat in a tight, cruel arc, but I let my body's momentum carry me into a roll made awkward by my armor and so avoided the blade.
The shattering of more glass alerted me to yet more company. I knew in my heart I had to finish this opponent or my life would be over.
I faked another cry and the bluff worked. He moved in to finish me, bringing his mace up high for a crushing blow, and I drove my sword into his exposed belly, burying it up to the hilt. The instant before he fell, I saw a cheated look come into his eyes. "Dat's no fair, mon!" he stage-whispered as he toppled over, the weapons tumbling out of his hands.
I planted a foot on his torso and wrenched my sword from his body to face no less than five more opponents. Two of them were damned souls. One was a statuesque elf woman who was undeniably attractive but for the look of rage in her eyes and the crackling magic around her fingertips. Beyond her stood one of the mythological bull-men, his height and massive form disheartening to merely look upon.
And then there was one.
My mind took in the elements of his appearance one at a time, as though registering all of them at once was too great a task. His skin was the color of rich jade. His hair was raven black and he sported a short beard of the same color. Eyes glowed like rubies in the light of a dying sun. Monster. Killer. Murderer. Daemon. Orc.
The horror of the invasion compounded itself, and compounded again. I felt the rage boil up inside of me. What blasphemy! What sacrilegious filth! What impudence to profane the cathedral of God in this base and blasphemous way! In an instant I knew for truth that all of them were damned beyond salvation.
"HERESY!" I shouted (or something like it) as I charged at them. One of the ghouls fell first as I impaled it through the heart on my blade while it chanted, its knife doing little more than nicking the flesh of my midsection. The second clawed at me with dirty fingernails the length of daggers and I felt hot pain erupt as a sharp object sliced into me through a jamb in my armor. I felt my stomach turn and on pure instinct lashed out with my shield. The force of the blow was such that the head of the walking corpse was caved in and it fell without protest to the ground.
I had no time to charge the elf as she brought her hands up, burning like the symbol of the Crusade. The blasphemy was tangible and in that moment before she loosed her impure flame I was inspired to raise the twice-dead body upon the point of my sword in such a way that the consuming blast struck its shoulders.
Immediately the corpse felt lightened and the stink of burning meat filled my nostrils. I rejoiced in the scent and shook the body from my weapon. Working the sword around my gauntlet in an infinity loop I advanced on the spellcaster only to have the bull man interpose his great bulk between us. I quailed and halted my advance just out of his reach. Even to defend the temple of God I hesitated in fighting this mountain of muscle and sinew.
Fate – and a woman – intervened. I heard her voice like a whip-crack shouting damnation and behind the bull I saw the elf burst into flame. Her screams as the righteous fire consumed her unsettled the great creature and in his last mistake, he began to look back towards her. I stuck without thinking, driving the point of my sword through his ear and the plates of his skull directly into his brain, killing him instantly.
And then there was one.
The orc faced me square on and a mysterious grin played across his ugly features. Somehow, I knew that all I had done amounted to nothing when faced with this twisted parody of nature. If I did not slay him, all would have been for naught.
He raised a dagger to his free hand and cut himself across the tips of his fingers. The moment his blood hit the air it burst into flame; and this was not even the clean flame that the elf had wielded, but a dirty, corrupted flame the kind of which only burns in the lowest pits of Hell. He coughed out a sound and the flame erupted across the distance between us. I brought my shield up to deflect it but even through the worked and blessed metal I felt heat enough to make me bite off a cry of pain. I lowered my shield only to see the orc wind up and hurl a globe of blackness at me. Before I ducked back behind the barrier I managed to make out the vague shape of a skull within the shadow, complete with empty sockets and laughing, fleshless grin.
"Cannot hide forever, girly," the orc said mockingly. I felt a bright burst of hate explode within me and I lowered the shield to meet him gaze to gaze.
"How a blasphemy like you manages to live I will never know," I spat. Rage contorted his brow and I charged at him. He regained his composure faster than I had expected, however, and I was forced to duck beneath another searing tongue of flame and lash out blindly. My sword struck nothing as I ran past him and kept running, praying that I would not receive another blast of fire to my unprotected back. My prayers were answered and I once again turned to lock gazes with the foul creature. His smile was back on his face.
"Too slow, girly," he taunted. A moment later his mockery was erased as an eruption of pure light shattered his left shoulder. He bellowed and coarse flames belched from his injuries. For the first time, I looked past him and felt my heart rise. Whitemane stood opposite me and, with the background of the chorus, she looked like one of the saints of old. The orc raised a hand to her and again his hellfire burned forth, yet long before it reached the inquisitress it had sputtered and died. I took a sliding step forward, but the warlock raised his battered arm – still dripping burning blood – and halted me.
It was a standoff. He couldn't hurt either of us, but neither could we act without him taking advantage. Something had to break.
One of us had to do something drastic.
That same smile as before crawled onto his face like a worm and he deliberately inhaled before snorting and spitting on the cathedral floor.
I cannot describe the depths of my rage.
The blood running down my side from where I had been stabbed became as nothing. My fatigue was burned away in an instant. Fear and revulsion were swept away in that tide of all-consuming hatred.
I did not charge, which was no doubt what he was expecting. Instead I reached back and then flung my sword with every ounce of strength I possessed. The orc's eyes widened in fear and startlement as the weapon flew towards him, tumbling end over end. The pommel crashed into his nose with enough force to knock him backwards and an instant later I was upon him. Before he could recover, I let my shield slip from my arm and gripped it in both hands before driving the edge of it down into his throat. One blow was all it took. I heard a cracking sound and the orc let out a gurgle before all the strength went out of him and his head lolled back.
As the adrenalin left my system, I found myself panting. My heart thudded in my chest like a battering ram against a keep's gate and I took a deep breath to quell it somewhat. The furor of the battle fading, I suddenly realized that I sat in a spreading pool of corrupted blood that sizzled and smoked upon contact with the air. With not the least bit of dignity about me, I leapt away and gathered myself.
The chorus sang.
The orc had fallen across a portion of the floor whereupon the light from the great windows streamed down and to my sweat-stung eyes, the light appeared to be baking away the blood that streamed from his body. Only the sound of my name being spoken drew my attention away from the sight.
Whitemane stood beside me, her face stern as if carved from marble. In her outstretched hand she held my sword, blade down. "Retake thy weapon," she said firmly, and I did so. As I closed my gauntlet about the hilt my hand brushed against hers and I lowered my gaze to the tiles to hide the fluttering of my heart. Suddenly feeling intensely formal, I hung my shield back over my shoulder and presented the blade to the inquisitress, holding it perfectly horizontal at shoulder height.
"An unclean blade reflects an unclean soul, crusader," Whitemane said, a touch of arch in her voice. Though I knew the words were ceremonial rather than personal, my face still burned as, military-precise, I wiped the blade with a cloth and again held it out for her approval. This time, she nodded.
I breathed out in thanks and as I did so all the energy seemed to flee my body and I fell to one knee as though a string holding me upright had been severed. My hand instinctively touched the wetness coating my armor and I remembered that I had been stabbed.
Before I could despair I felt another hand pushing my own away from the wound. Whitemane knelt before and I felt her gently rest her hand at the nape of my neck and even as she did so I felt the last strength leave my legs and I collapsed into her. She absorbed my weight without flinching and let me rest my head against her chest, seeming to take strength from the chorus above us. She gently, but firmly, probed the outside of the wound and when I raised a muted cry of pain she squeezed my neck in reassurance.
I felt her press her cheek to mine and her lips brushed my ear as she whispered Crusader's Prayer. Her breath fluttered against the taut skin of my neck and I shivered as my heart raced. Weakly, I joined her in the recitation.
I felt the breath driven from me as heat suddenly infused me, radiating out from Whitemane's touch at my side. Between the heat, the aftereffects of the adrenalin rush, and the lessening of the pain in my side, I began to lose consciousness. I slumped under the weight of my armor.
In her arms I felt...
...safe...
They Sang: A story of Lara Nightreaver
Throughout the entire ordeal, they never stopped singing. You have to understand that. They trusted me that much.
I had never joined the chorus. I was not a singer. I honored God in different ways. Yet I was not unappreciative of their presence.
The cathedral was silent except for their song. Had it not been for them, the place would have been stagnant and empty. Oppressive. Yet their voices built and twined together to fill the air with their clear music, their song a tribute to God to rival the very building we took shelter within.
I was praying. Two hours of prayer daily were mandated by the Crusade, though many spent far more time doing so and none reproached them. More was a virtue. Less was a sin. And despite the warnings, there was on occasion one or two who thought they could indulge in a bit of sin and skimp on their devotion. Inevitably, they were punished. No one ever needed to be punished twice.
It was cold in the cathedral, despite the warmth of the light through the great windows that faced west. Days like this were rare and I loved to come to the cathedral on such a day, for the light made the building beautiful. As I sat, I was idly grateful for the thick wool shirt I wore beneath my armor and I spared a prayer of thanks for the chorus, whom I knew had to be freezing in their simple habits.
I was tempted to spare a glance at them, but I resisted. Temptation was the root of sin, and anyone who didn't recognize and respect that simple fact was dead. Or worse, damned. I was not to count myself amongst their number.
I thumbed one of the beads out of my palm and gently took hold of the next on the string as I began a new prayer. I didn't rush. Going through my prayers faster would not get me out of here any sooner, only the ringing of the bell at the end of the hour would signal my departure.
I smiled as I thought of the bell. Large enough for three strong men to stand within, on a clear day it could once have been heard across the plains all the way to Lordaeron City. How the sound of that tolling had to gall the scum that infested the place now.
I dropped the smile as well as the train of thought. Such reflections were not worthy of a holy place.
I heard footsteps upon the tile and finished my prayer before glancing towards the center aisle.
It was her. The Inquisitress. High Inquisitor Liska Whitemane. She wore a simple habit as white as her skin and her namesake hair spilled freely down past her shoulders. Only her fathomless rose-colored irises, blood red lips, and a brooch bearing the sigil of the Crusade provided any color to her at all.
I looked back down at my hands as I felt the heat rise within me. Temptation is the root of sin, I reminded myself over and over, determined to fight back the impure thoughts. Whitemane was a woman of unimpeachable character and to think of her in such a fashion was degrading, especially in a house of God. I drowned out any sound but the song of the chorus in my determination.
Time passes quickly when you are concentrating.
I pleased myself when my only reaction to the sudden tolling of the bell was the opening of my eyes. The great instrument had rung out with the force of a cannonball striking an armored ship. Indeed, the wooden pew beneath me vibrated and I felt the power of the single note within my chest. Instead of getting up, I was moved to say another prayer for the bell ringers. No wonder the poor men all went deaf eventually. They gave their gift of hearing for the privilege of ringing God's news to the world. I wondered if I could make such a sacrifice and felt a twinge of embarrassment deep within me when I hesitated in answering myself.
The bell tolled a second time and I began to rise. A shadow passed in front of the sun-
-and masked by the tolling of the great bell the sound of the window shattering was nearly lost to my ears.
Swinging through the great pane like some figure from a tale of high adventure, a heavily-armed form deposited itself upon the cathedral floor with a thud. Even before it had come to rest I had seen and noted the graying flesh, the lank, unkempt hair, and the sinister glowing eyes.
Scourge. Undead. Ghoul.
In the house of God!
I had no time to don my helmet and instead bolted forward as the walking heresy began to draw its great sword. Its choice of weaponry had been poor, as the ponderous weapon was not even halfway out of its sheath when my own blade lashed out and struck the monstrosity's head from its shoulders.
The shattering of another pane announced the arrival into the game of another player. Even as the armored corpse slumped to the floor, this new, lithe figure hit the ground and rolled, leaping up into an acrobatic spring that carried it directly towards me. I reacted instinctively, and that was all that saved me as the metal bulwark of my shield stopped its descending mace. With a ring eerily similar to that of the great bell I felt my arm go numb. I kicked out at my opponent and it – he – drew back to avoid a crushing strike to his groin. He smiled and his sharpened tusks gleamed with menace. "Dosh'a do'shoi, d'oshar'a, sweet thang," he said in a mix of his language and mine. I felt my stomach roil more at the bastardized combination than at the gruesome compliment.
I put my weight behind my shield and drove at him. He hopped back nimbly as a dancer and struck at me again. His mace caught my shield arm on the elbow and as I was twisted, I let out a cry of pain. Had I not kept my head my life would have ended there and then as he brought a wicked dagger down towards my throat in a tight, cruel arc, but I let my body's momentum carry me into a roll made awkward by my armor and so avoided the blade.
The shattering of more glass alerted me to yet more company. I knew in my heart I had to finish this opponent or my life would be over.
I faked another cry and the bluff worked. He moved in to finish me, bringing his mace up high for a crushing blow, and I drove my sword into his exposed belly, burying it up to the hilt. The instant before he fell, I saw a cheated look come into his eyes. "Dat's no fair, mon!" he stage-whispered as he toppled over, the weapons tumbling out of his hands.
I planted a foot on his torso and wrenched my sword from his body to face no less than five more opponents. Two of them were damned souls. One was a statuesque elf woman who was undeniably attractive but for the look of rage in her eyes and the crackling magic around her fingertips. Beyond her stood one of the mythological bull-men, his height and massive form disheartening to merely look upon.
And then there was one.
My mind took in the elements of his appearance one at a time, as though registering all of them at once was too great a task. His skin was the color of rich jade. His hair was raven black and he sported a short beard of the same color. Eyes glowed like rubies in the light of a dying sun. Monster. Killer. Murderer. Daemon. Orc.
The horror of the invasion compounded itself, and compounded again. I felt the rage boil up inside of me. What blasphemy! What sacrilegious filth! What impudence to profane the cathedral of God in this base and blasphemous way! In an instant I knew for truth that all of them were damned beyond salvation.
"HERESY!" I shouted (or something like it) as I charged at them. One of the ghouls fell first as I impaled it through the heart on my blade while it chanted, its knife doing little more than nicking the flesh of my midsection. The second clawed at me with dirty fingernails the length of daggers and I felt hot pain erupt as a sharp object sliced into me through a jamb in my armor. I felt my stomach turn and on pure instinct lashed out with my shield. The force of the blow was such that the head of the walking corpse was caved in and it fell without protest to the ground.
I had no time to charge the elf as she brought her hands up, burning like the symbol of the Crusade. The blasphemy was tangible and in that moment before she loosed her impure flame I was inspired to raise the twice-dead body upon the point of my sword in such a way that the consuming blast struck its shoulders.
Immediately the corpse felt lightened and the stink of burning meat filled my nostrils. I rejoiced in the scent and shook the body from my weapon. Working the sword around my gauntlet in an infinity loop I advanced on the spellcaster only to have the bull man interpose his great bulk between us. I quailed and halted my advance just out of his reach. Even to defend the temple of God I hesitated in fighting this mountain of muscle and sinew.
Fate – and a woman – intervened. I heard her voice like a whip-crack shouting damnation and behind the bull I saw the elf burst into flame. Her screams as the righteous fire consumed her unsettled the great creature and in his last mistake, he began to look back towards her. I stuck without thinking, driving the point of my sword through his ear and the plates of his skull directly into his brain, killing him instantly.
And then there was one.
The orc faced me square on and a mysterious grin played across his ugly features. Somehow, I knew that all I had done amounted to nothing when faced with this twisted parody of nature. If I did not slay him, all would have been for naught.
He raised a dagger to his free hand and cut himself across the tips of his fingers. The moment his blood hit the air it burst into flame; and this was not even the clean flame that the elf had wielded, but a dirty, corrupted flame the kind of which only burns in the lowest pits of Hell. He coughed out a sound and the flame erupted across the distance between us. I brought my shield up to deflect it but even through the worked and blessed metal I felt heat enough to make me bite off a cry of pain. I lowered my shield only to see the orc wind up and hurl a globe of blackness at me. Before I ducked back behind the barrier I managed to make out the vague shape of a skull within the shadow, complete with empty sockets and laughing, fleshless grin.
"Cannot hide forever, girly," the orc said mockingly. I felt a bright burst of hate explode within me and I lowered the shield to meet him gaze to gaze.
"How a blasphemy like you manages to live I will never know," I spat. Rage contorted his brow and I charged at him. He regained his composure faster than I had expected, however, and I was forced to duck beneath another searing tongue of flame and lash out blindly. My sword struck nothing as I ran past him and kept running, praying that I would not receive another blast of fire to my unprotected back. My prayers were answered and I once again turned to lock gazes with the foul creature. His smile was back on his face.
"Too slow, girly," he taunted. A moment later his mockery was erased as an eruption of pure light shattered his left shoulder. He bellowed and coarse flames belched from his injuries. For the first time, I looked past him and felt my heart rise. Whitemane stood opposite me and, with the background of the chorus, she looked like one of the saints of old. The orc raised a hand to her and again his hellfire burned forth, yet long before it reached the inquisitress it had sputtered and died. I took a sliding step forward, but the warlock raised his battered arm – still dripping burning blood – and halted me.
It was a standoff. He couldn't hurt either of us, but neither could we act without him taking advantage. Something had to break.
One of us had to do something drastic.
That same smile as before crawled onto his face like a worm and he deliberately inhaled before snorting and spitting on the cathedral floor.
I cannot describe the depths of my rage.
The blood running down my side from where I had been stabbed became as nothing. My fatigue was burned away in an instant. Fear and revulsion were swept away in that tide of all-consuming hatred.
I did not charge, which was no doubt what he was expecting. Instead I reached back and then flung my sword with every ounce of strength I possessed. The orc's eyes widened in fear and startlement as the weapon flew towards him, tumbling end over end. The pommel crashed into his nose with enough force to knock him backwards and an instant later I was upon him. Before he could recover, I let my shield slip from my arm and gripped it in both hands before driving the edge of it down into his throat. One blow was all it took. I heard a cracking sound and the orc let out a gurgle before all the strength went out of him and his head lolled back.
As the adrenalin left my system, I found myself panting. My heart thudded in my chest like a battering ram against a keep's gate and I took a deep breath to quell it somewhat. The furor of the battle fading, I suddenly realized that I sat in a spreading pool of corrupted blood that sizzled and smoked upon contact with the air. With not the least bit of dignity about me, I leapt away and gathered myself.
The chorus sang.
The orc had fallen across a portion of the floor whereupon the light from the great windows streamed down and to my sweat-stung eyes, the light appeared to be baking away the blood that streamed from his body. Only the sound of my name being spoken drew my attention away from the sight.
Whitemane stood beside me, her face stern as if carved from marble. In her outstretched hand she held my sword, blade down. "Retake thy weapon," she said firmly, and I did so. As I closed my gauntlet about the hilt my hand brushed against hers and I lowered my gaze to the tiles to hide the fluttering of my heart. Suddenly feeling intensely formal, I hung my shield back over my shoulder and presented the blade to the inquisitress, holding it perfectly horizontal at shoulder height.
"An unclean blade reflects an unclean soul, crusader," Whitemane said, a touch of arch in her voice. Though I knew the words were ceremonial rather than personal, my face still burned as, military-precise, I wiped the blade with a cloth and again held it out for her approval. This time, she nodded.
I breathed out in thanks and as I did so all the energy seemed to flee my body and I fell to one knee as though a string holding me upright had been severed. My hand instinctively touched the wetness coating my armor and I remembered that I had been stabbed.
Before I could despair I felt another hand pushing my own away from the wound. Whitemane knelt before and I felt her gently rest her hand at the nape of my neck and even as she did so I felt the last strength leave my legs and I collapsed into her. She absorbed my weight without flinching and let me rest my head against her chest, seeming to take strength from the chorus above us. She gently, but firmly, probed the outside of the wound and when I raised a muted cry of pain she squeezed my neck in reassurance.
I felt her press her cheek to mine and her lips brushed my ear as she whispered Crusader's Prayer. Her breath fluttered against the taut skin of my neck and I shivered as my heart raced. Weakly, I joined her in the recitation.
I felt the breath driven from me as heat suddenly infused me, radiating out from Whitemane's touch at my side. Between the heat, the aftereffects of the adrenalin rush, and the lessening of the pain in my side, I began to lose consciousness. I slumped under the weight of my armor.
In her arms I felt...
...safe...
.