World of Warcraft, Eh?

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That's an interesting concept for a death knight. The baby "quirk" is rather unique, I think. Well done!

Below is the origin to my third death knight, Archaies Rimeheart ( ark-EYE-yes RIME-hart ). This snippet is actually part of Lessons from a Blademaster: Path of the Warblade, but told from Archaies's point of view as opposed to Garikhan's.  I'll most likely have the third part of Lessons from a Blademaster: Path of the Warblade up this coming week on Netherbane.com, but I post this version here for you all now. I've linked Part 1 and Part 2 so you can look a little further back in the character's history.

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Archaies swung his sword as the felguard charged him.  The steel of the blade met the thick flesh of the demon, the resistance against the cut forced the warrior to adjust his balance as the upper half of the demon's torso fell behind him. Archaies Lightheart grinned as the warm tainted blood splattered across his face.

The battle for Mount Hyjal raged viciously.  Horde and Alliance alike defended the night elves' world tree from the invading Burning Legion. The demon lord, Archimonde, was near, and he sought to consume the power of the tree and the Well of Eternity that sat beneath it.

Such a thing could not be allowed.

"HUMAN!" A loud orcish growl rang out from behind Archaies. "TO YOUR LEFT!"

Archaies ducked instinctively and spun to his left in time to dodge a bloodsoaked axe swing. He stabbed his sword forward into the belly of the doomguard, killing the winged beast as he drew the weapon upwards through its torso.

The warning had come from a former orcish blademaster Archaies knew as Garikhan Fireblade. The two had met twice before on the battlefield, as enemies both times. However, both warriors had shown each other honor, and it was this honor that allowed them to meet on THIS battlefield as allies today.  Archaies watched as Garikhan danced between the attacking demons, his thick warblade cutting limbs and heads from the Legion soldiers.

The orc was a skilled warrior, and Archaies was glad that Garikh had spared his life that first day on the field outside of the internment camp. Death had been almost certain, and it was only the respect for the opponent that caused the blademaster to spare the young human.  But both warriors were old now. Both warriors felt the wear of the battles behind them. Both warriors knew the uncertainty of the battles ahead.

Striding next to the blademaster quickly, Archaies Lightheart gaves a quick salute.  "Thank you, Garikhan."

"By our honor, human," responded the orc as he severed the head of another demon. "And for our survival!"

As if to mock the orc's words, a withering shadow fell over the fight. Archaies and Garikhan both spared a glance upward, and both felt their blood run cold at what they saw.  Above them loomed Archimonde, his magically enlarged body lumbering towards Nordrassil.  The giant eredar paid no attention to the soldiers fighting beneath his hooves; they were little more than insects. His gaze was locked into the trunk of the immense world tree before him.

"FALL BACK!" came a shout across the din of battle. Archaies recognized the voice as that of his commander. Apparently, Garikhan heard a similar order from his superiors as well. Both of them began to run away from the massive demon, cutting their way through any Burning Legion demons that stood between them and their retreat.

"I do not intend to die today, Garikhan!" Archaies shouted over to the orc as they ran through the churning mass of violence.  "I intend to see my wif–"

A distant blast of a horn made Archaies stop and turn around. He had heard mention of something like this–had been told that the horn was the final attempt at victory.  He glanced upwards at Archimonde, who had stopped at the base of the tree and had begun channeling. However, as if to answer the call of the horn, hundreds upon hundreds of tiny points of light began to materialize from the forests around them. These forest spirits, these wisps, began to gather around the ancient demon as Archaies watched in fascination.

Archaies Lightheart grinned. The wisps appeared to be distracting the great demon, clustering around him tightly and drawing away the immense creature's energies. Archimonde swatted at the annoyances, the expression on his face turning from irritation to fear as his skin began to break apart.

Victory! Archaies felt a rush of excitement. He had not noticed how far he had fallen behind the retreating group. He had not noticed the incoming mass of demons charging towards the world tree's roots.  He did not notice the felguard that struck him until after the demon's wicked pike was protruduing from his chest.

Archaies fell to his knees after the demon ripped the spear back out.  Blood poured from the open wound profusely, and his vision began to fade.  I do not intend to die today… not … today…

The darkness closed around the man known as Archaies Lightheart swiftly.

* * *

The flames still smoldered across the battlefield as the unseen creature glided silently across the forest of death. The allies of the dead had not returned to reclaim the bodies of the fallen yet, which meant they were fair game to the scavengers of the Scourge.

The nameless lich gifted the dead warriors–orc, tauren, human, troll, and even night elf–with the Lich King's power of undeath. Most creatures, ripped apart from the explosion that sundered the world tree, were fit for little more than the unlife of being a ghoul. Some, however, could be resurrected as something more. Some were fit to serve the master in a greater capacity…

* * *

Archaies gasped, but no air filled his lungs. His throat croaked instead, taking in what felt like cold air into his dry mouth. It was very cold here; unnaturally so.

Your will is mine now, came a haunting voice from the depths of his mind. Archaies did not recognize the ethereal sound. Surprisingly, he felt no fear towards the speaker. You will serve me in death as you served others in life.

Instinctively his hand went to his chest. He felt crude stitches holding together a half-healed wound. A chilled fluid seeped from the ragged cut, as if his body were still attempting to mend itself.  Archaies knew better, however. He had seen what had become of his homeland of Lordaeron before the Third War began. He knew what he had become.

I rename you, Archaies, spoke the voice in his head. I rename you Rimeheart, servant of the Lich King.

"Rimeheart," he spoke aloud as he saw his surroundings for the first time. The ancient stone walls surrounding him were alien in their carvings and markings. But he knew it was home now. He was home now.

Archaies Rimeheart was home.

Post edited 3:26 am – July 10, 2009 by Kissless

Thought I'd give it a shot. ^_^

This is a little long, but after bebuzzu's post I feel better about it. I'm afraid I don't have any cool images for it, though!

___________________________________

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“My Lord.” Bowed the Baron Mograine. The Lich King not much as turned as tilted his helmet slightly in his direction. It was the signal to continue.

“One of the prisoners in the torture holds seems to be of interest, my Lord.”

The King was silent, so Mograine took it as sign to continue,

“A tactician of Silvermoon.”

Now the Lich King's attention was on him, and he felt the shiver down his spine as ice-cold eyes settled on him. What went on behind that steady glow, he couldn't begin to imagine.

“Quel'Thalas must fall.” Said Arthas, his voice the hymn of death itself, “You think this one tactician will make a difference in the face of the Scourge?”

“He claims he can tell you how to get to the Sunwell and past the three gates of Quel’Thalas with minimal losses.”

“What delays you from getting this information, then?” He demanded, making his Baron cringe before answering,

“He's been… impudent.” Before his King could command him to tear the man's heart out were he not to concede, Mograine continued, “He claims he will reveal it all to you in person, My Lord.”

“You captured him?” The King asked.

“No, My Lord. He came here of his own volition.”

“To betray his people? Interesting.”

The Lich King turned on his heels and started his march to the torture chambers.

The screams of the victims, a nigh constant backdrop to Acherus in those days, were howling their terrible song as the Lich King’s plated boots gave percussion down the stairs.

“Such a morbid song.” Said the tactician, hanging limp in his chains. The frail body of a high elf was no match for the expert tortures of the Lich’s men. Still, when he looked up Arthas saw a shard of determination in the blue eyes. Mograine, at his side, noted with some interest that the glow was quiet different. “An honor to meet you, oh Betrayer.”

“Tell me, insect, why should I not crush your life right now?”

With a weak tilt of his head, the tactician gave out a bark of laughter,

“Well, for one, your lackies are enjoying their work on me. For another, I can get you into the city.”

“And why, prey thee tell, would I believe you to betray your own people?”

Here the man’s face hardened, he lifted his chin and stared the Lich King square in the face. Mograine noted that the man was terrified, but held on nonetheless. Why did this remind him of something? Why did it stir something in his cold innards?

“Quel’Thalas will fall, whether I help you or no, King of Death.” His face showed resignation and determination. What was his intent? “Sylvanas cannot hold off the Scourge alone, and our ‘allies’ have turned from us.” He shook his head, finally looking away, “My people  mocked me when I warned them, called me names and expelled me from the war council.” He took in a breath and exhaled it slowly, “No, Quel’Thalas will fall. There is no hope.”

“And you wish to turn to the Lich King’s favor?” Asked the Baron, somewhat surprised. The idea of an army of Death Knights had occurred to himself and the King, but volunteers so far have been… scarce. Especially from the yet-resistant High Elf kingdom.

“No, I care not what happens to me.” Said the prisoner, looking weary again, the strength draining from his eyes. “I will help you, but I want something in return.”

Arthas had heard these pleas before.

“Immortality, power and money?” The Baron rolled his eyes.

“What need do I have with those?” The Elf wearily asked, then answered the unasked question, “My family. My family must not be harmed!” When they silently regarded his request he elaborated, “The city will fall, my people will die. I care not anymore. I tried to save them, to warn them.” He drew a ragged breath, “But they laughed me out. Called me names. I care not for them! My family! My wife, my two sons and three daughters, they must be safe.”

The self-proclaimed King of Lordaeron approached the prisoner, picked up his chin with two massive, armored fingers.

“You are a good tactician? You will get me past Sylvanas and into your lands?”

“I am the very best tactician in Quel’Thalas, save Sylvanas herself.” He tried to keep himself from shaking. Whether from the Lich King’s icy grip or from fear, the Baron could not tell.

Letting him go and turning away, the King turned to Mograine again. Immediately the man straightened in his spot.

“See to it that he tells you all that we need to know. Then kill him before the attack begins. I want him knighted and provided with a mount before the month’s end.” He started out of the torture chamber.

“And my family? What of my family?” The elf yelled out after him, frantic and desperate.

“They shall be spared.” Said the Lich King and left.

He arrived in the ruins of Silvermoon well after the attack was done. He was clad and in the black and blues of Arthas’ most feared Knights and dubbed one of his master tacticians. The position that had eluded him so long in life finally granted to him in death.

His light frame could have never bourn the plate-mail that covered his body now. Death and ice flowed in his veins now, giving a strength he never had. He cared nothing for it. His mind was still his sharpest weapon, despite the runeblade at his side. His boots trampled half-dead flowers and debree as he wove his way through streets once filled with banners and gardens and life. Streets that were a way home, to his family, to his life.

He found the door to their residence smashed open. Fingers as cold as death prodded the door aside, and he entered.

When he found his wife, she was long dead. A few dead ghouls scattered the hallway leading to the children’s bedrooms. Silently and without expression, he followed the trail.

Nothing left. Destroyed room in a mess, blood spatters on the walls and floors. His wife’s remains would prove that the ghouls to came through here were hungry. He foot nudged a stuffed troll-doll that used to belong to his youngest.

He left.

His people were dead. He cared not.

He family was dead. A part of him knew it all along. It was over. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered. Let the world fall into the same ruin he saw here. Let the pain he felt wash the world away. The dead cannot be tormented so.

Let him discard a name that meant life to him and pick up the one they gave him when they mocked him. When they said Quel’Thalas would never fall, when they forbade him to remove his family from therein as to not cause ‘panic in the populace’. They said he was a doomsayer, and gave him a monicker to match. One that even in life he had his family adopt in defiance to the council’s arrogance.

Let those who would remind him of life fear the name ‘Stormkrow’.

___________________

Long, I know!

And yes, it’s misspelled because the name ‘Stormcrow’ was already taken on the server I play on. ^_^;

1,000,000 points if you can guess who this guy is!

Post edited 4:23 am – July 10, 2009 by Bebuzzu

This is a little long, but after bebuzzu's post I feel better about it. I'm afraid I don't have any cool images for it, though!

Sorry, but as the Mythbusters always say.

“If it's worth doing, it's worth OVERdoing.” Then again I only abide by that when convenient to me, of course, being the lazy bum I am. Good storys everyone!

Golem Clutchshift was his name. He remembered his former days only vaguely now, like a passing dream or a old legend. What he did remember was disjointed, and occasionally jumbled, but after some time free of the lich kings grasp, he was able to piece it together. His first memory was of his laboratory in Gnomeregan, working on the new defense system the mecha-engineer had requested, the alarm bot. He worked for days planning, testing, building, adjusting. Long hours with little communication with anyone was the mode of operation here. When he finished he presented it to the Mecha-engineer. Only then did he find out why the urgency of the request was there. Lordaeron had fallen. The leaders of Ironforge and Gnomergan feared that Arthas may be coming for them next and were preparing defences for the onslaught of the undead that was sure to come.

A year passed, and the assault never materialized. But one day while tinkering on a new invention, Golem was summoned to Ironforge. While the new trogg menace was beginning to be a problem, the newly formed Argent Dawn were looking for some new ways to keep an eye on the undead in that area. They had requested Golem specifically because of his expertise with alarm and warning systems. The plan was simple, ride gryphon's to chillwind camp then continue mounted to Lights Hope Chapel. Early the next morning Golem, 2 dwarven hunters, a gnome priestess, and a human paladin set off for chillwind camp. Arriving mid-day, they felt that they would be able to make it to lights hope chapel before sundown.  As they rode past andorhol, they heard a muffled scream from a house on the outskirts of town. Unsure of the source, the party decided to move closer and see if they could discern where it came from.

After that he could only remember bit's and pieces of what had happened. …One of the hunters being swallowed up by the ground… The priest being slashed in half by a ghoul as she tried to cast a spell to attack the multitude that surrounded them… golem on the ground, blood in his mouth, barly able to see the paladin continue to fight as the undead kept coming…. Then he remembered the words in his head "Arise champion of the Scourge." After that the service of the lich king began. Renamed neuropox for the way his intelligence infected others, he soon began his march towards destiny, not caring, not living, only serving him….

That was some time ago. Now he was free. The highlord now was fighting arthas in icecrown. And as for Neuropox, he  had a passing wish for the life that was. He was now a new person, and would make sure the lich king paid for his crimes. Looking up into the spires of Dalaran, he vowed that he would keep remembering his past, for even though he was made anew, it was his past, and the past is one thing that he had saw must never be forgotten. Getting off the bench, he picked up his sword Necropaxx, and walked towards the flightmaster, and icecrown.

I finally finished this.  I appologise for the lenght and I even cut the ending short. 

He had been left alone after the raid on the town.  It made him uncomfortable to be alone.  He  had been ordered to kill the prisoners that were unworthy to join the Lich king's forces.  Such trust had been placed with him, he did not want to fail.  There had been rumors of knights failing the Lich King before and how they suffered for it.

He opened the door to the barracks where they had chained the prisoners.  He unsheathed his sword and looked in the eyes of the first prisoner.  The spark was not there, it was not worthy of joining.  He raised his arm to strike when he heard the sound.  It was an odd sound and something about it made him uneasy.  He halted his swing and  looked for the source.  A young troll girl was sitting in the corner slowly rocking back and forth.

Her long black hair didn't hide the scars on her face.  Her green eyes were vacant lacking the spark  needed to become one of the Lich King's minions.  The sound came from her mouth, it kept time with the jingle of the chains as she rocked.  He had seen this before, the living sometimes became broken when the death knights took them.  Their frail minds shattered, clung to words and phrases.  Thats all the sound was, a death cry from a broken mind.

Satisfied he turned back to the prisoner and lifted his sword again.  Yet he paused at the top of his swing.  The sound kept tugging at his mind.  Shaking his head he returned to his task.  He began to swing then paused.  What was his task?  what was he doing?  Why had he been left alone without the comfort of his death knight brothers.  He looked down at the prisoner and couldn't remember what he was supposed to do.  That sound struck at his mind, snippets of scenes flashed before his eyes.   The sound hurt his head, he needed to get away from it.  He stumbled and with a clang he and his sword dropped to the rough wooden floor, as his world went black.

Memories started to trickle back.  Standing atop one of the many windmills and singing as the dawn caressed Thunder Bluff…A sad aria at his sister funeral as he light her funeral pyre.  Hers was one of many at Silvermoon.  He had lost many friends and lovers…Drumming with that cute troll wench at Raventusk, her hair had smelled like apples.  They had watched the sunrise together before…

He woke up and looked at the unfamiliar roof.  He slowly raised himself to his feet.  The prisoners backed away from him in fear.  They hid behind the rusted beds and under threadbare blankets.  He looked down at the unfamiliar armor he wore, it's black metal stained with blood.  He looked franticly for something to anchor his reality.  At his feet lay the corpse of a young troll warrior his ice frosted hand wrapped around the hilt of a great sword.  The runes on the sword called to him begging to be picked up.

He reached down moving aside the trolls warriors hand.  He pick up the sword from where it lay.  As his hand wrapped around its grip he heard the familiar call of the Lich King.  A discordant series of notes falling from atop a frozen glacier.  They spoke of an endless snowy grasp that could not be defeated and would trample any in it's path.  His vision cleared and he felt renewed in his duties to the Lich King.  Kicking aside the corpse he walked outside to ready his departure.  He would kill the slaves and rejoin the main force before dark.

As he patrolled the camp before leaving he paused.  Like wisps of smoke questions began to swirl in his mind.  Why had he blacked out?  What had that sound been?  Surely no young girl could cast a spell that could topple a mighty knight of Arthas?  If she could would it not be prudent to discover how?  Yes he thought, I will keep the prisoners alive till I unravel this mystery for my king.  His tardiness could be excused and maybe rewarded with command.

He returned to the barracks and opened the shabby door.  The prisoners began to shake at his entrance.  Why had he not killed them yet, when would that horrible blow come?  He strode purposefully into the room and spotted the girl sitting in the corner.  He marched up to her his boots striking a deep slow tempo.  She stared at the floor not making a sound, eyes glazed over detached from the world.  She did not see his mighty form before her.

He wondered how to make her reveal the secret of her power.  Would she make the noise again if he threatened her?  He growled and unsheathed his wicked sword.  She sat unmoving.  He raised his arm to strike her, she sat unflinching.  Odd, how might he get her to react?  He thought to threaten her in the common tongue of the living.  He tried to speak and found that only croaks emerged.  There was no need for talk amongst the death knights.  They all felt Arthas's will and obeyed.  He was confused, He knew the languages the living used.  His hand went to his throat and found a scar he could not remember.  Had he ever sustained a wound in battle?  Why couldn't he remember?  Large cold blocks froze his memory.  He remembered the warmth of the memories the sound had unlocked before.  What had this girl done to him?

He sheathed his sword and sat down on the rough wood floor before her.  He couldn't fail, he would be found lacking and sacrificed.  The Lick King suffered no weakness in his army.  Frustration welled up within him, a sob escaped from his throat.  The girl looked up at him seeing him for the first time and recoiled in fear.  Sobs continued to shake the imposing figure of the death knight.  The girl looked at him sadly and slowly inched forward and put her hand on his.  She didn't know what troubled him but whenever she cried her mother would always sing to make her feel better, so she sang.  Warmth flowed into him as she sang.  His sword cried out and he could feel it's icy call but it held no power over the feeling of warmth and growth the girls song held.  A smile crept about his lips as his world went black once again.

His name was Khor'eal he had wandered Azeroth as a bard.  His singing has ensured his safe travel wherever he went.  He had sung on neutral ground with the night elves.  He had even managed to join Sylvanas in song for a moment before her grief forced him to stop.  He received no monetary payment when he sang the open road and a good tavern at the end of the road were all he required.

His feet had brought him to Raventusk village to hear their legendary drummers when the attack happened.  He had preformed most of the evening eventually trying his hand at the drums to a humorous outcome.  A troll woman had been eyeing him all night and he decided to fall back on his other charms for the rest of the night.  They had spent the night and watched the sunrise together when the alarm sounded.  At first it seemed to be an alliance raid  not uncommon and easily dealt with.  Soon sentries were running through the streets shouting about the undead.  Someone thrust swords into their hands and ran off when he tried to protest he knew nothing of fighting.  A scream from the woman caused him to turn.   A corpse had just risen from the ground and had grabber her.  Its rotting arms held her fast as she struggled to get away.  The imposing figure of a tauren covered in plate walked around the corner and quickly ran her through.  The tauren turned to him and gave him a strange look and a icy call beckoned him.  He recoiled in horror, screamed in defiance and clumsily charged at the tauren.  In a flash it whipped its sword around and a burst of pain erupted in his throat.  As he fell into the cold mud he felt the presence of many minds grasp him as the darkness fell.

He awoke with a start he remembered.  He felt such a rush of emotions.  He looked at the young troll girl and smiled.  He rose to his feet and looked around at the prisoners.  He smiled at them and tried to make comforting gestures.  They all still cowered in fear of him.  His hand went to his sword, he felt the icy song of Lich King and for a moment felt as is he might be lost under that avalanche.  The girl held his hand and warmth blossomed and he found the strength to ignore the swords call.  He smiled at her and brought forth the icy blade.  The prisoners trembled and whimpered as they saw him raise the sword to strike.  He brought the sword down upon the troll girls chains and freed her.  He moved around the room freeing the prisoners.  Helping them to their feet as they trembled in their renewed prospect of life.  He opened the door and led them to their freedom.

Several months later after delivering the troll girl safely to Orgrimmar he stood before Thrall himself with several other death knights.  He asked each one to help the horde defeat the Lich king.  When asked if he would join the fight he just slowly shook his head no and laid his weapon upon the ground and walked away.

They say that there is a hut on the plains near Thunder Bluff where a lone death knight lives.  Some say he is a spy for an invasion.   You hear many more stories of injured people saying he has rescued them.   Some days a young troll visits him and you can hear cheerful song's accompanied by the haunting sounds of a flute drift across the plains.

Post edited 6:32 pm – January 11, 2010 by Nellisynthia

Somewhere out there is a deathknight, whose name is Bavcatha.  Those with an ear for phonetics and old linguistics may be able to untangle the roots of her name.  A dark tale, befitting a dark warrior.

But perhaps not …

*********************************************************

It is like fall lightning, when the bitter thunderheads roll across the midnight sky.  A flash of light suddenly illuminating the winter-borne world, sharp in its clarity, a cruel black and white image that is there and suddenly gone.

It leaves an emptiness colder than ice, colder than nothing.

And that is all there is. No memories, just those momentary images.  Elegant towers reaching into the night.  A fair scuplted contenance, her young forever expression sun blessed.  A martial silouette in brigandine and finecrafted steel, looking into those bright child eyes; an image of trust and promises exchanged.  A reflection in the black surface of a frozen lake shattered like a splintered mirror, of that promise broken by too many scourgeswords.

Simply images.  Nothing else. A collection of alcedemic portraits.

It's all I have.

One cannot feel if one's heart is still.  Passion requires the flow of hot blood.  Perhaps once, if words hold true, in those tales bartered about in taverns before my shadow is cast across the camraderie by the dying hearth, there was a phoenix, a child of the Sindorei with sword bright and true of heart.  But words and steel are not enough to keep promises between siblings.  They say a firebird rises from the funereal pyre, but I reckon that is for heroes only.

From mine came a black crow of battle.

I stand on a hill, overlooking the tall, fanciful towers. I know they are white and gold and crimson, bedecked in banners of vibrant colors.  That the squares of light are saffron shattered into rainbows by stained glass.  In my night, however, all I see are shades of gray.  The rain clatters on my armour, slickening my sword, rolling off pale features, still and quiet.  My steed is restless, uncomfortable upon this pastoral rise, as if any brief moment of peace cuts him deeper than any blade.

Every now and then a flash of lightning turns all into an sharply contrasted engraving.

Behind one of those windows a little girl clutches her pillow, wishing for someone to protect her from the thunder.

I cast my eyes to Northrend, so far away, across mountains and forever frozen snow.

You broke me, Prince of Lordaeron.  Took my life.  Took my soul.  Left me nothing but a raven's carrion call.

You took everything, leaving me with only this sword and a reason to fight.

That was a mistake.

I may be no hero …

… but as long as my little sister lives …

… you will never win.