I was inspired to write a thing, and posted it on the Discord server. Hungaro invited me to post it up in this thread for other people to read, also, which was cool of him. Itâs a bit long but it wonât let me use the external link.
The living. Oh, how she despised them. An unceasing, unending, unbridled hatred that threatened to unleash itself at even the simple sound of a beating heart. The living. With their little worries about themselves. Aching to know from where their next meal comes. Pursuing debaucherous pleasures to satisfy their momentary, fleeting whims in an effort to add some small speck of meaning to the monotony of their pitiful existence. Lost in their blissful ignorance to the truths of their lives, they never truly appreciate such a precious gift. They squander it. Life⌠Is wasted on the living. None of them deserve to have what she does not. None of them have earnt the right to draw their next breath when she let out her last so long ago. Her rage boiled with such intensity that, had she blood left, she would have burst. Like a pan of stew, left on the fire for far too long that threatens to knock the lid off⌠This was her constant state of being. She had been left incapable of feeling anything but that. Hate. For what she once was, and what she now is. The living. Those that cast her out for the simple crime of being raised from the grave into torment-filled slavery. For the crime of becoming an unwilling soldier of the deathless army that ravaged the world. She had never asked for this! She had screamed and begged and sobbed and whimpered as her soul was dragged from the afterlife and twisted into a violent spirit. It was not her fault she had been condemned to this tortured state. It was not her fault she had been forsaken. It was not her fault she was such a horrific monster. It was not her fault! But⌠The living. The living hated her all the same.
The worst part, of course, was that in some ways she did not blame them. The atrocities she had committed as a soldier of The Scourge were irredeemable. Defenceless families slain, their flesh stitched together into new forms, their souls afflicted and consumed. And she had to bare witness to every tear shed, every scream bellowed, as a helpless observer to the massacres she was forced to have a part in. Every drop of blood spilled in the name of the Lich King haunted her to this day, so many years on. She could recall the face of all she had slain with perfect clarity but, despite fighting to be free of the Lich Kingâs control and despite knowing she should be wracked with remorse and guilt, she had felt knowing as she did these things. Even now, she felt nothing. She had been hollowed out. All that was good had been wrenched out of her spirit and replaced with sheer, black malice. There was no mercy left inside of her. No pity. Not even a sadistic joy, because even a shred of happiness no matter how darkly it was obtained, could ever be felt again.
But where was their sympathy? Their compassion? In life, she possessed that. She remembered. Yet now, the living do not. They spit on her. Figuratively, and literally. Her own family had turned their backs on her plight. Her fiancÊe had turned her away at the door, screaming what a mockery of his beloved she now was. Such pain. Such dreadful pain. She had become free, had the tiniest chance of some semblance of life despite her affliction, yet she had been tossed into a pit of abject sorrow simply because those she had loved, and those who had loved her, could not understand⌠The living. They can never understand. They can never know what it is like to be so hated. To hate oneself so very much. But, she was intent on trying to make them understand. They were capable of comprehending a small fraction of her endless agony, at the very least. She would show them how much she hurt. She would show them all.
With a single motion she plucked an arrow from the quiver on her back, knocked it on her bow string, drew it back and released. The process took just over a single second, and her aim was perfect. Centuries of training in life now benefited her unlife to an extreme degree. Her wretched form was much stronger without a living brain to put limitations upon her muscles. She had no need for air, she had no heart to fuel, so she could never run out of breath. With no lactic acid to build up, no need for food nor water, she could never tire. She could do this day in, day out, with neither pause or relent. As she fired off a second shot, the arrow bathed in a shadowy miasma that left a lingering trail of smoke in itâs wake, her first had hit her target. Lodged within the humanâs eye socket, the arrowhead had passed through the thin slit of the footmanâs helm and he was dead before he hit the floor. An unfortunately quick death, he had not suffered nearly enough. Valestra wore a vicious sneer as she fought this pathetic excuse for a patrol, her utter disdain for their continued lives plain to see as her pale lips peeled back to reveal her snarling teeth.
Framed by the still burning homestead at her back, her shadowy silhouette moved with grace and poise. She was no shambling corpse. No. She was Quelâdorei. A noble High Elf cast so very low, but an elf nonetheless. Her long, tattered cloak swooped like the wings of a predatory dragonhawk, swishing amongst the floating embers as she danced the dance of death. The crackling blaze drowned out the distant yells of the next two to fall to her black arrows but as she knocked her next missile the final trio were upon her. A support beam of the thatched cottage collapsed and, with a great roar, the roof caved in which kicked up a tsunami of throat-searing smog and lung-clogging ash. Just as planned. With lips sealed she dropped her bow and drew her blade, slashing at the closest soldierâs throat as he gasped for air. He fell to his knees with a desperate gurgle, clutching at his throat whilst his life-blood bubbled out from the horrific wound. Valestra spared a moment to watch him die as the last two living recovered from their coughing fits. His, was an almost satisfactory death. But she could never inflict enough suffering to make them truly know her own.
Letting out a vengeful yell, one of the men charged her with his sword held high and his buckler covering his front. No choice but to parry. There was no satisfaction to be had in steel striking steel, and the ranger hissed in anger as her curved sabre swatted the humanâs very unrefined shortsword aside. Continuing her dance, she twirled to the side as the next blow was readied. As her tattered cloak swished before the humanâs eyes, itâs length so great as to conceal the hooded warrioress, it provided enough cover to conceal her retaliatory strike. Skilfully she plunged the sabre into the footmanâs ribs, slipping the tip of her blade clean through the join in the armour where breastplate met backplate. He stood there, bewildered for a second as to what had occurred, before falling flat on his face with a metallic rattle. The soldier twitch and spasmed a few times as he laid there, slipping between this world and the next, before finally letting go.
Then came a surprise. A touch too wrapped up in her attempts at educating these humans about her ceaseless torment, she felt a distinct coldness pushing through her back and out of her abdomen. This, to her, was more than a little odd. Physical sensation was a rarity at the best of times. This feeling certainly was not pain. It was not pain as she remembered it at the very least. It was akin to a distinct discomfort. Troubled, and confused, she looked down her body to see the tip of a sword jutting out from her abdomen just to the left of her navel. She had been stabbed. How woefully inconvenient. Grabbing a hold of the blade with her free hand, curling her gauntlet-covered digits about the cold steel to keep the thing in place, she turned around with a sudden burst of swiftness. Unprepared, the bladeâs handle was yanked out from the humanâs hand with the obvious snapping of several fingers. He stood there, aghast, as the grey skinned ranger peered at him. Her glowing red eyes shone out from under the shadow of her hood, lighting up her grey skin with the sanguine glow. Clutching onto his broken hand, tears streaming down his cheeks as this harbinger of death strode ominously towards him, the poor fellow was paralyzed with dread. Valestra let go of the sword that had struck her and, leaving the steel in place, stretched out her now free hand.
The same, vile, magic that once was used to dominate her heart and mind was at her fingertips. It could be used just as easily and as naturally as a fish uses itâs fins. A whip of pure shadow shot out from her digits and struck the man in the forehead, making his eyes glaze over and his arms fall limply at his side. He was hers. A fleshy puppet ready to do her bidding, willing or otherwise. She nodded over to the still burning remains of the home and issued a silent command. Walk. And walk he did. Every ounce of determination within him fought against the spells control but it was not enough. It was never enough. Heavy footsteps stomped forwards, legs quivering as he did his best not to take the next step. Every stride lead him onward to his fiery demise. A croaked whimper left his dried, cracked, lips as he pushed through what was left of the doorway into the all consuming inferno. With the layers of dense plate armour concealing him from the flameâs licks, it took a few agonizing moments for him to be cooked alive within the steel oven and although he felt every torturous second he could not even scream.
As the scent of cooked flesh rose up into the sky, Valestra flicked her wrist to scatter the blood that clung to her blade before she stowed the wicked thing back in itâs sheath. She retrieved her bow and looked back upon the carnage she had caused, casting a glance over her shoulder to watch the slowing blaze cast the long shadows of the corpses that had been left. Unfortunately, not all dead-men stay dead. The bodies claimed by the rangerâs black arrows rose from the blood-stained farmland with groans and moans. Mindless undead, husks that were once men. The shambling minions slowly retrieved their weapons then shuffled towards the horizon, dragging themselves forwards to sate their hunger. The living⌠Now, they knew her torment. Her sorrow. Now, as they returned to their families to slay those they loved or be struck down by them⌠Now, they knew her pain.
The blade made a clean, slick sound as she slowly yanked it out from her back. For a second, as it knicked a bone, she thought she felt a twinge of pain but it lasted for such a short time that she could not even recognize it before the sensation had vanished. She spared a moment to peer at the obtuse, blocky design. No blood. It looked completely unused. As if stabbing her was nothing. Dismissively she tossed the thing over her shoulder, leaving the clunky thing to go rusty in the fields, as she strode forwards. Westfall. Once, the breadbasket of the Alliance, was little but a decrepit dustbowl rife with crime and poverty.
Itâs suffering had only just begun.
Edit: Formatting.
