Survive
Shattrath.
Wings beat as fast as they could; as fast as he could possibly fly in his condition.
A portal.
He cared not for the gazes as the ancient wyrm flew through Shattrath - to the portal that he cared most deeply about:
Stormwind.
It was strange to feel happiness seeing the portal room within the City. In most cases, he detested the place; the stench, the memories, the people. He was fortunate enough he shifted to his visage before he landed through the portal. The fatigue he felt was affecting his ability to shift between his two forms, and eventually it would take its toll on him. Stuck in one form, or the other.
One more… He was determined to go home. To rest at the Citadel; to bathe in the caldera close by. To recover, unharmed and unbothered. Feet trailed behind, but the dragon mustered all his strength; he must return home.
Valdrakken.
The Seat of the Aspects. The area where all who visit Valdrakken must first walk through. Mortals and immortals alike wandered through the Seat; drakonid guards stood either side, and a dragonspawn held the portal between the two cities open. Two Obsidian drakonids stood before Isilaithion as he manifested through the portal.
“Obsidian One…”
The wyrm heard the call from one of the drakonids under his employ, but it was hard to understand. Muffled. As the wyrm perked his visaged head to peer at the drakonid, he noticed his employee blurred, unstable - as though he was looking through the portal himself.
“Am I…?” Isilaithion muttered in the native tongue of the two. Narrowed eyes attempted to inspect the drakonid - to check if his servant was truly there, or perhaps a facade upon him from the Void. It did not take long; the dragon collapsed to his knees, and eventually to the ground, his weakness had finally caught up to him. The last thing that the dragon saw were several drakonids of all different employ rushing to him.
“Rest well, all of you. You did well.”
The ancient dragon had spent the week in Eredath, on the destroyed planet of Argus. A dangerous territory, beset by a war still between the Shadowguard and remnants of the Legion, joined by beings he thought he would never trust. If it were not the ongoing war that concerned him, it was the world itself. It pained him; if Azeroth stabbed needles into him, Argus plunged a sword right through his scales. Fel and void both scarred the land still, and every pulse he felt upon his back, was as though the corruption lingered upon the flesh. A constant throb and ache as he remained upon the world’s back. It had affected him and his temper; he had to lug the blade around in his back in every situation he fought. And eventually, the pain had caught up to him.
The final confrontation; the final time for this ‘heist’ the Shepherd planned all along. And he moved sluggish; caught in the stomach by an Ethereal’s blade - who swiftly met his demise after. It was not until the final Ethereal that Isilaithion had failed. Void shards impaled him front and back, and he was stunned. Blood remained inside his body, thankfully, but he felt the corruption seep into his body - into his mind.
You cannot outrun this.
Your sins will catch up to you.
Life seemed so kind to you…
And the elf remained there, paralysed by the sword in his back and the shards in his chest. Alive, but barely; suffering for what felt an eternity.
If only he were not a coward.
A little something after the conclusion of the Shadowguard Heist!