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"You really are the very image of your father, you know…"
The stars above the Loyalist Necropolis were reflected in the scrying pool on the broken runic altar at the centre of the room, like a myriad of tiny diamonds. High above it levitated a marvellous blade of elven craft.
As the words were spoken the pool of blood rippled, which in turn disturbed the ghostly figure meditating in front of the altar, for the San’layn had stood watching for many hours and there was no wind to cause such a thing.
The undead tensed, widening his crimson eyes as the pale familiar face of a lean Thalassian woman reflected in the now settling
blood. Silver haired as her nephew, dark and royal in undeath, the projection of Countess Areis Drak’ash emanated nothing but a glimpse of her magical aura as she stepped through the scrying pool.
"The wards stand…yet you arrive, unannounced." Said the knight, hissing his words.
"And remind me, who taught you those?" The projection paced gracefully towards the small balcony, looking around with malicious curiosity.
"You cannot fully materialise, speak."
The apparition turned her gaze to stare at her nephew. He was clad in an onyx and crimson armor, with skeletal draconic details all over it. The cloak, dark as night,was kept wrapped around his figure. His silver mane let free to fall onto the shoulders, and on his forehead he wore a circlet of otherwordly iron, ever glowing of a dormant, dark aura.
She smiled, wafting one hand and about to speak…only she did not. Instead, her gaze moved behind her scion and above the altar, atop which floated the sword Drauk’hain.
Five feets long, Drauk’hain’s aura was testament of its age. A weapon made for Hatar’xi Drak’ash, when power flowed much more strongly through the world and when elves lived in eternal awe of magic and their Queen. One could tell that magic had been more abundant when Drauk’hain had been forged the first time.
Fabled to be blessed,tempered by the dying breath of the Emerald companion of a dragon-rider, the runes over the blade had been carefully inscribed, to release its power and be wield by no one else than a member of House Drak’ash. It was a weapon forged through grim determination, meant for a single reason and one only: to slay the demonic invaders.
It had been passed down from father to son for generations, until Nadhrion Drak’ash disappeared in battle against the Amani, when the crazed energies of a Witch Doctor’s spell reached their apex. Only the sword, part of his armor and steed were recovered and returned to his wife, for one of his sons to wield in defence of Quel’thalas.
But Xotrios had failed, he died, he knew…and through undeath, resentement and hatred Drauk’hain had changed, as its wielder did.
If the shape had been untouched, unchanged on the surface…its roaring aura of blood and shadows betrayed the nature of he who reforged it: Dread-Captain, Baron Morsteth Blightreek.
"Speak!" Xotrios pressed on, his voice cutting through the cloud of memories filling Areis’ thoughts.
The Countess’ projection straightened, her words filled with indignation.
"One of Az’ghol’s consorts found us. A succub bearing the Mark infiltrated my court and managed to communicate with her Matron. We found her in the sewers, when it was too late". Areis grimaced.
"The demon is dead, and the curse has been broken. They seek our souls no more in undeath". Xotrios turned away from his aunt, determined to keep the conversation short. He had much to think about nowadays, and his personal rewards were abysmally low, if existing at all.
"They won’t attack for pacts or duty, they seek vengeance. You have been sent here to forge alliances, dear, not to peer at the cosmos, alone and rotting in servitude." There was hidden worry mixed with ancient pride as the Countess’ projection shimmered forth, about to continue.
Xotrios amused laugh echoed through the scrying chamber at her words, his ever calm expression twisted by hubris and satisfaction. As he outstretched his arm, Drauk’hain darted towards the knight and into his grasp. The Countess could only observe as shadowy tentacles of forbidden magic wrapped around her immaterial legs and arms, like snakes constricting an harmless prey. What was immaterial, the Void was able to touch.
Areis Drak’ash raised her chin, immobile and harmless, yet refusing to accept her newfound condition.
"Worry not, aunt." The san’layn snapped his fangs at air. "The cosmos are vaste and a God is with us. Tell your group of noble trash to ready the defenses and wait."
As he commanded the void to receed, it seemd to Areis that the shadows of the room themselves desperately crawled towards the magical sword, until she was freed.
Her form now disassembling, she asked as she departed.
"Is your heart still with us? Will you fight for us?"
"In life and death."
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A grimace twisted his pale visage as the memories of his last encounter with Countess Areis Drak’ash had resurfaced.
Atop Splendor, Xotrios strode through the fog, causing it to swirl in small vortexes that split into moaning visages as the souls of deceased Thalassians reacted to the San’layn’s presence.
The woods around the lone knight wrapped in crimson were nothing but a ghostly spectrum of what they once were, or of how Xotrios remembered them at least.
What once was warm, welcoming Eternal Summer, was now a grave scarred by a straight, single path of pitch black ash and bone’s remnants leading towards north. The very trees bearing the mark of what tragedy had occured, bleeding of emerald ooze, reeking of death. Where birds had sung, now rats were screetching, spiders clattering and ghosts howling in the far distance.
A flock of bats pinnacled from a dying tree, a small hurricane of dark figures soaring towards the night sky, screeching in hunger. They circled above the undead rider at first, then descended, swirling briefly around him like a macrabe recognition before darting away and into the dark night.
"Those at least…they recognize, rever us even." Xotrios Drak’ash spoke the words with dark resentment, leaning forward and just enough to gently pat the exposed jaw of his steed. As he did, a strand of silver hair fell out of his hood, pulsing brightly once a Moon’s ray bathed it. The Moon…it was as if slowly dying too, descending beyond the sea in that hour; It shimmered of a ghostly pale tinge, like a blind eye looking down onto the misery of what once were proud Thalassian’s lands.
Xotrios closed his eyes, like two crimson spheres shutting down in the night. He wondered what it would be like to breathe again, to feel the blood freezing in his veins at the sight of the disgraced groves. What the night would look like if observed through the limited senses of a living. He could see and hear now beyond comparison. He saw how the swirling mists of dark, latent magic already started enveloping him, like a protective shroud, celebrating the return of a “Dark one” like Tuskarr folks had named his kind. In his ancestral lands, at the darkest hour, sorrounded by death…he placed clawed fingers onto Drauk’hain’s blade: he felt invincible.
Riding through the ruins he noticed how the road was still the same as in his memories.
Ruins and graves were all that remained of one of the spots where “Ban’dinoriel”'s Mooncrystals had been placed ages prior, when the intersection of ley lines stemming from the ancient stones kept the magic of that impenetrable magical shield, pride of the elves, active.
"An’owyn." The knight spoke as he gestured with unnatural grace, bowing his head instinctively once he trepassed.
An ocean of memories, some pleasant some not, kept the undead unaware of its sorroundings for a while. He found himself atop a small hill and from there, after years that felt like millenias…the city was visible, far in the distance and glowing like a shining star on Azeroth, its towers reaching for the night sky: Silvermoon.
Xotrios barred his crimson eyes, his mouth half opened in awe. He had let go of the reins, adjusting on the saddle as if to better witness to that spectacle. The city of the Sun, gem of the Sunstrider’s dinasty, immortal like the Phoenix carved on the aegis of kings and princes…standing as the testament of elven pride against all the odds.
He motioned to take hold of the reins when a small, shadowy magical stone pulsed of dark magic, hidden under a plate of his armor. A small signal that brought great realization, for when the malefic charm pulsed it meant the will of his Sire was to be imposed.
"Dwarves" Xotrios hissed, snake alike, while turning his steed. He gave one last grim glance to the city, his silent promise of twisted reconciliation.
With a snap of his fangs he darted towards South, ready for blood.
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It hasn’t been too long since the path of Thelenadras has changed, especially for an Elf of her age-- Or agelessness, as she no longer had the life of a living. It was time to fight actively once more, to take the battle to the frontlines of a purpose, just like before her death.
For long, she had stood true to the last order she had seen from her High King, Anasterian Sunstrider, during the Third War: to bolster the lines of Elven defense against the Scourge, and look out for any survivours and bring them to safety, an order she heeded as a Farstrider. After she had earned her freedom from the Lich King, she once more saw to that. The lands of Ghostlands, the Eastern part of the Plaguelands and surrounding areas had seen this ethereal, ghosty ranger of the woods in them, a ghost of the past, as Xotrios thought her to be, to which she agreeed as well.
And now, the order was recovered: For all forces of Silvermoon, especially Farstriders and their Lieutenants to rally with Sylvanas Windrunner and those still loyal to her. Fate can be cruel, yet it’s never untrue, it was time for a new beginning… The Past, must walk in present, to see to the future. What will this future entail? Will the blood of Sunstrider rule over her kingless, yet beloved homeland? The very homeland she fought for, thousands of years and eventually, died for. Will Anasterian’s glory return, and will Quel’thalas part it’s path from the lowborn mongrels of the Horde, after all they did to them in Second War? Time will tell…
She thought all of that, standing over a wall of Caer Darrow, as her hands rested on the pommel of her Runeblade, it’s tip on the floor. A common way for a Knight to stand, and she was one too, one of Death. Sheathing the blade, she hummed with herself, descending the wall. It was time to feed, to hunt, so she drew her old, trusty Elven Bow, dragging her hood on, and advancing towards nearby wilds in the shadows, ready to have her arrows fly towards the heads of whatever she encounters.
She was alone in being Farstrider unlike before, but she was no longer truly alone, once more she fought alongside allies of the past. The Oath of Thoradin saw itself reformed, in Undeath…
Many things changed yet, she remained a Ranger, an Elf and Loyal. Her name will forever be Thelenadras, In life and death.
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Sylvarus, The Stygian Star…
The Loyalist’s Necropolis was a pitch black monolit half hidden by obscure clouds at that hour…lit only by the myriad of unholy faerie fires visible through the structure’s many cracks and holes provoked by the crash that happened months ago, in Northrend.
Command center and last bastion of the Loyalist’s forces, the Stygian Star was proof of what power they could still muster, even in those desperate times.
Streams of boiling ichor flowed down the big marmorean altar in the middle of the Scrying Chambers, filling the big scrying pool built around it. The unspeakable power of the Blood magic at work filled the air with dread and a fragance of roses, for the ichor with which the spell had been conjured belonged to a peculiar Master of the Arts.
Alone in the middle of it stood Duke Xotrios Drak’ash, immobile as if eternally stuck into a supplicant pose, like an olympian statue of old. Head bowed, facing the many ripples caused by his own ichor as it kept cascading into the pool, filled enough to bath his bare abdomen. The San’layn knew he was taking a terrible risk, for he was vulnerable in this state of trance, unable to fight or flee should any treacherous follower had managed to sneak into the chambers…and nowadays…there were many.
Yet…it was necessary.
Inside one of their crimson, thorn planes, he had battled the Nathrezim’s cultists that night and each wound he suffered from their ethereal blades was enough to draw the attention of their demonic Commander…he knew.
Yet…it was necessary.
The undead knight was used to losses, burdens, responsibilties, but that one fight took its tool on Xotrios. He cursed himself for his weaknesses, his planning, him being unable to prevent the death of Ithillon Starbrand. Its tortured body found at last, long dead, in the realm of the Demon.
The Starbrands accepted his offer to help disrupt the Nathrezim’s attempt at infiltrating Silvermoon’s nobilty months prior and now…they payed the price for courting with the undead knight and opposing the Fiend.
The undead focused, concentrating all his fury and frustration into his spell. For a moment, the pool stopped rippling, the crimson glow fading out…but only for that moment.
As his magical aura exploded manifest, silver mane moved by infinite currents, rivers of ichor spyralled upwards and all around Xotrios, each shaping into a serpentine crimson wyvern, coiling and snapping fangs at air. The rest of the ichor contained in the pool shaped in bright sparkling ruby orbs, ever orbituaring around the raging conjured wyverns.
Xotrios closed his crimson eyes while blood infuriated all around him, weeping ichor as his nose began bleeding too…
He gave himself whole to blood, as sacrifice to the one being he knew, that could have granted him the power to best that Nathrezim and his servants. Dark tongues of flames erupted from the ground beneath the pool, cracking the marmorean altar and joining the magical wyverns into their furious dance.
Admist the inferno of Blood and Shadows he invoked the name:
"Xa’sugoth".
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Among the Cold, dark mountains of Tirisfal…
The fallen Ranger Thelenadras stood vigil, overlooking the fallen, death-stained lands of once-glorious Kingdom of Lordaeron. Her hands, covered by gauntlets which rested on the pommel of her Runeblade Sorrowbane, the tip of which was planted into the rocky ground of the Mountain.
Sorrowbane, a second name of hers, which she shared with her accursed Runeblade. Despite her memory loss, she could still remember when this name was bestown upon her in Undeath, by the very Undead Scourge she died against, was beckoned back, in the service of it. In the service of the Frozen Throne…
A dark, foul Runeblade, forged in the unknown was bestown upon her. While different from the Vampiric ones, those of the Second generation of Chivalry of Death like Frostmourne itself, it wasn’t without similarities, and was more than a simple Runeblade, and Thelena knew it too well, too well.
An eternal curse of torment, agony and sorrow was inflicted upon her. Her life was long, the life of a protector of Quel’thalas, a Farstrider, a Ranger of the Woodlands of Eversong. Loss, was common for one like her, against the brutal Amani. The Scourge knew it, and added that, besides the torment of Third War to her, to have her suffer for defying them… And have her inflict the very suffering upon the living, feed on their emotions, and let them know fear, know despair… that there is no hope. Now she thought, is there truly no hope? Is it an illusion?..
Perhaps it was, for with or without hope, she was doomed to damnation. The curse of Undeath still lasting in her, not much has changed regarding that. However… Hope, may be an illusion yet, it still exists in some forms. She sought vengeance and carnage, this meant hope… The hope to wipe out all Troll Kind from Azeroth, for all they did against the Elves… All, not only Amani, for they are all savages who live only for blood, and the world is better off without them.
She thought all this, as she peered through her Runeblade, in which, the soul of a certain Zandalari merchant was stored, one whom she took pride in inflicting pain and despair upon, one whom she wants for him to suffer. The day when she and her comrades raided, wiped out and burned the trading ship of Trolls… Trolls who DARED to come to Quel’thalas to add more gold to their foul piles. Unacceptable, it was for a patriot of Elven kind like her. And, it was relieving that the Gest accepted her proposal and trusted her reports, in order to attack and decimate it. A fine blow for what the kin of Rastakhan, Jintha and Zul’jin deserve.
It reminded her of who she was, of who she is. A slayer of Trolls, the worst entities of Azeroth, the terrors of innocent, and the most uncultured, brutal of all beings. In time, her blade and bow will feed upon all that has tusk, and none will survive. Thelenadras thought that, as she looked towards the tusks she had taken from the Zandalari whose soul she had… Those tusks will find throats of other Trolls.
A bane of the Trolls she remains, and an avenger of the fallen, In life and death.
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I know where you guys live.
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In Funville
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Attention everyone
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Had my blood stolen by Elves, 10/10 would recommend.
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Kump sent me;
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so many good looking members in this guild 
best looking guild on AD?? 
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Thanks Cro!
Yeah I heard one of them has a name beginning with T… 
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Tkoiffen…
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GRIIIIIIIM GAAAAAANG, the best void insaneoids this side of the server. Love 'em.
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In the wonders, Arathi Highlands
Thelenadras observed the ancient land of Arathor from atop a hidden, concealed hill. It was a usual, favoured habit of hers to gaze upon lands from a high ground. And now, she looked upon where Humanity built civillization, the first Empire of theirs, Arathor.
Ancient Allies of her people they were. When Thoradin, either by force or diplomacy had brought all of humanity under one banner, and banded together with her people, the High Elves under the rule of High King Anasterian Sunstrider, to defeat the armies of Amani Empire, led by Warlord Jintha.
The hatred Thelena had for Trolls surpassed measures and counts. Genocide is what she wanted for them, for all that Trollkind did do Azeroth, to her people. Not only Elves of Quel’thalas, but all Elves, to Humanity too. In her eyes, humanity was lesser to Elven kin, yet still they had earned her respect, for their efforts against Trolls. A respect she did not
forget.She had another glance, to Thandol Span. She could remember cries of battle, many years later at the Second War, not too far from the area, when the foul Orcish Horde came in action. A Footman had cried “Stormwind will be avenged! Death to the Blackbloods!” and meanwhile, a crazed Orc had let out a piercing roar, of conquest and bloodlust. A Dwarven Mountain King shattered the skulls of Orcs, and Shadow Hunter of Witherbark cursed various forces. In the sky, cries of Dragons on one hand, and Gryphon and Dragonhawk on the other hand echoed.
This was all while a Dark Rider approached, a Death Knight of First generation. She could recognize the body, she knew the Knight of Stormwind whose body now the soul of an Orc Warlock possessed. The havoc that monster brought upon the forces of Alliance was unimaginable, with how some of their dead rose. They had to retreat to fight another day. However, she could not remember what happened after.
She and the races, who to her eyes were lesser yet respectable, went through a lot, did a lot together before the fall of Quel’thalas. Though it barely meant anything now. Now it was all war, splinter, torment. They were enemy, and she was barely any different from that Death Knight she witnessed that day. Body was her own and she was of Scourge origin, yet, a monster is still monster. What made her different from those she fought? Little truly, in her eyes.
But perhaps, things can change. Maybe old allegiances can be restored. Humanity did not have the strength of old, nor they had the fury of Ignaeus and Lothar. They were far from what they were, but this does not mean it is meant to be the same.
Will Undeath have them return to what they were, just like how Vunlirr, the reanimated friend of hers from a bygone era was? Will they as Undead, have a might equal to the Scourge yet, a grace similar to the older era? How would be the East, reborn in Undeath without Scourge’s control?Nothing was clear. Nothing at all. Not even her fate in all this. She was a slave to the torment of Undeath, despite the freedom she sought for others. What Fate has in sleeve for her, and for her people, and the old, lesser, former allies? Tales shall unfold.
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Based Guild ngl
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Good guild, would burn off Xotrios his face again.
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A cool guild, would 100% recommend to any gamers looking to play an evil elf + undead / anything else Morsteth approves of!
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