corpseknight: (bitebitekiss)
Another day, another Legion assault.

Azeroth is a world under siege. What began as small-scale invasions, precision dagger-strikes aimed at the hearts of Horde and Alliance territory, has erupted into a globe-spanning storm of demonic fury. There's nowhere safe from the demons, nowhere anyone could hope to hide and ride it out.

Lark doesn't wonder anymore at the wasteful short-sightedness of Legion tactics: they don't need to be better than they are. The demons are ultimate masters of the war of attrition, grinding down whatever stands in their way with an infinite immortal army. Whispers have it that only boredom and bloodlust are keeping the Legion from their deathstroke--that they're toying with Azeroth's defenders, like a cat with its helpless prey. The very thought of that makes Lark furious, even as the sadistic part of him has to admire its sheer cruelty.

Certainly there's every reason to give in to despair in the face of the odds against them. Even the Ebon Blade, near-immortal themselves, face a daily litany of permanent losses that the necromancers can't quite make up. (Acherus is daily growing stranger to Lark's senses, full of new voices and new scents as the battlefield dead are raised to replace the lost.)

It's rage that keeps Lark going--rage, and a leavening of irrational hope. It's rage that's kept him out here in the Barrens since sunrise on the longest day of his undeath, tireless in defense of the Crossroads and Ratchet and all the little outlying farms.

It's rage that's kept him out here trailing a wounded shivarra from the Crossroads nearly to the Wailing Caverns. The six-armed demoness had vanished from her attackers' sight when the odds against her grew overwhelming, intending to slip away and lick her wounds before rejoining the fray. The Caverns seemed like an ideal place to hole up and disappear, but her blood trail can't be so easily hidden from Lark's unnaturally keen nose. He hadn't been in the original group to attack her--she shed those quite handily--but came quite fortuitously across her fresh spoor, and yelled for anyone who'd help him take the demon bitch down.

That landed him in the van of an irregular, mixed-faction group of soldiers, all of them hungry for revenge. It's only grown in size as they traveled and the trail become fresher and easier to track.

The oasis is swarming with felstalkers and imps when the ragged troop arrives. Most of them splinter off to deal with the immediate threat, wary lest the lesser demons rally and come at them from behind in force--but Lark stays on his quarry's trail, intent as a dog with a bone. It leads straight into the upper parts of the cave system, and that should spark caution in his heart, the fear of an ambush once he's out of shouting distance of anyone who could help. But--he simply doesn't care. The shivarra's down there and she's injured, and he's going to find her and he's going to dismember her and he's going to enjoy every moment of it, because the Legion deserve no better for what they've done.
corpseknight: (zzzzz)
What began with a single moth spread rapidly to the others.

They seemed ill at first--sluggish, uninterested in the usual stimuli that stirred their insectile curiosity. Those that did eat stopped eating. Those that seemed to exist on air alone failed more quickly, progressing from sluggishness to total immobility in a matter of hours. They hid themselves first, seeking out the darkest places they could find and curling up within their own wings before they ceased moving.

And then they began to die.

((OOC: Hiyo. ._./ Of course no one's moth needs to die if they do not wish it to die, but it is an option if one wishes a plot hook or the removal thereof.

Dead moths will disintegrate into dust when touched.))
corpseknight: (zzzzz)
It was cold at night in the desert.

Not the bone-snapping, life-sucking cold of Icecrown's unending winter; it was not freezing cold, winter-cold, but it was enough. It was enough, and he lay in the sand on the floor of the cave, and bled in silence.

It's my fault. (my(myfault(your(my(faultmyfault)fault)my fault, stupid)traitor, stupid Larkspur)stupid fault, stupid Larkspur) mine. Too weak. Too (slow, stupid(gullible,trusting)) (stupid) (traitor(whore)) little.

He curled around the pain in his chest, burying his hands in his hair; clawed at his skull as if it would have any effect on the storm of self-recrimination inside.

A hank of gray hair pulled free and fell aside, ignored, to shiver into dust.

Not good enough (smart(fast(strong(loyal(good))))) for them, for (krenyn(orikhaav)(kae)(ben)(adra,'vali)jiel(embersong)((meros))ria((dynast(((mother)))) anyone. My fault. i(failed) (failed) (hurts)(can't even keep going anymore(can't keep your WORD(stupid)(worthless))(traitor)

He gave a helpless, mewling hiccup, shuddering hard enough to disturb the flock of moths clustered around him for what little comfort they might share. "'M sorry," he managed by rote. "S, sorry. I c--can't--" Shoved a knuckle between his teeth to silence the words, as he tucked into a tighter knot of misery.
---

One of the moths had stopped moving with the others. Not long after Larkspur had fallen back into a fitful sleep, it too fell to pieces, reduced to little more than rainbow dust on the sand.
corpseknight: (love<3)
[Krenyn] says: [Thalassian] Better?

[Larkspur] says: [Thalassian] Not in a cage anymore.

[Krenyn] says: [Thalassian] And enemies to slaughter.

[Krenyn] says: [Thalassian] I'm sure you'll feel better soon enough.

[Krenyn] says: [Thalassian] ...Is it just the cage?

[Larkspur] says: [Thalassian] Might as well be.

[Krenyn] says: [Thalassian] Let's finish this.


You sniff Sun Priest Iset.

Larkspur shifts, uncomfortably. "So."

Krenyn follows, without any particular expression. "What was that, earlier?"

Larkspur ducks his head--then raises it again, straightening his shoulders. "Just meant the cages were the only part of it I could do anything about."

[Larkspur] says: [Thalassian] So the rest didn't bear dwelling on.

Krenyn snorts and gestures sharply, indicating that Larkspur should walk with him to the pillar, out of sight of the felinoids.

Larkspur trails after, obediently.

Krenyn is certain that camel riding bandit behind will die for witnessing this. Nevertheless, he reaches out and places hands to either side of Lark's face.

[Krenyn] says: [Thalassian] And nothing I could do for you?

To [Krenyn]: (IC) *faint, humorous intimation that they're alien enough here no one would really know what they're doing anyway--among the cat-people, that is*

[Krenyn] whispers: (IC) *takes the humor in fair account, though there is the undercurrent that this is about old habits, old customs he can't bring himself to drop*

Larkspur eardroops, reaching to cover Krenyn's hands with his own. "It's hot here," he says, simply. Then, in a smaller voice: "And everyone who could do anything about that is gone." A traitor and presumed dead. Or off on other business. Or--

Larkspur huffs, again. "...probably fine, though." Right.

Krenyn briefly darkens, both in expression and presence. "Enough. I will not let you stay here long enough to suffer." His fingers tighten slightly, as if wanting to clench possessively tighter. Instead his hands cool. Then chill, though in the desert heat the slowly forming ice as that chill reaches his armor begins to evaporate nearly as quickly as it forms.

To [Krenyn]: (IC) *accepts this as a fair point* *responds with somewhat tangential imagined-images of Ben's cats cuddling shamelessly; maybe they're expected to pile on top of each other*

Krenyn lets out a short bark of laughter, dropping his hands. Though he has yet to lose the chill. "There are some uses for this discipline, after all." he mentions. Not without humor.

[Krenyn] says: [Thalassian] ...During the evening, the desert will grow steadily colder. It will not take long.

Larkspur noses blindly against the palm of Krenyn's hand before his partner has a chance to pull away--then hunches back into himself, raising his shoulders and flattening his ears back. "Right."

[Larkspur] says: [Thalassian] S...suppose it wouldn't be so bad to be warm in the end, though. All things considered.

Larkspur says this with a blank expression.

Krenyn turns to Larkspur again, his expression somber. "That I can promise you will have."

Larkspur lifts his head, ears rising. "Even now?"

To [Krenyn]: (IC) *the frail layer of good humor collapses inward and vanishes* <i'm(sosorry)(sorry)(i(failed))>

Krenyn slowly draws closer. The smell of ice on the air begins to fade, though his hand is still cool when it touches Larkspur again; it is warming though. "If you wish."

Larkspur reaches up to take that hand, clutching at it like a drowning man. "What would you do? If I did--if I asked for that?" His voice is very small.

[Krenyn] whispers: (IC) *instantly THERE, a presence to lean on, to try and ease the pain by sharing it as much as the sharp spike of emotion* <You did not fail.>

Krenyn lets his hand be taken, crushed if that is what Larkspur wishes. "You will only receive that," he says carefully, "...when it is time. No sooner."

To [Krenyn]: (IC) *is a morass of pain and hate--self-hate--like static turned to fragments of razors, a hail of tiny, blood-thirsty mites tearing each other apart* *they all cling, anyhow, desperate to stop hurting* <i(failed)(failed)(failed(i(failed(you)))>
To [Krenyn]: (IC) <failed><failed>(failedfailedfailed)(ican't)(can't)(ican't)(...i'm so sorry)(i hurt)(i'm sorry)


Larkspur can't seem to bring himself to face his partner, so he'll settle for trying to drag Krenyn closer by the one-handed grip he's got on him. "When?" he asks--begs.

[Krenyn] whispers: (IC) *must be receiving pain from the brain swarm, in the thick of it as he is. And yet he remains a solid anchor, something for each piece, little by little, to find and cling to. Something familiar, comfortable. Perhaps even safe. But it is when he>>*
[Krenyn] whispers: (IC) *when he glimpses 'i hurt' that he does more than remain a solid pillar. He becomes a virtual magnet, sheer force of will pulling at the pieces, trying to force them into a semblance of order so they will stop tearing at each other*


Krenyn steps closer, a strain appearing on his features, briefly, before flitting away again. With his free hand, he touches Larkspur's shoulder, strengthening the sense of contact. "Not yet, beloved." he murmers quietly. No, there won't be a time given. Even Krenyn doesn't know /when/. He simply knows he WILL know when the moment has arrived.

Larkspur seems almost to be straining for an answer, every rotted muscle tense, every dead nerve primed. And when he's given the answer--when it's clearly not what he *wants*--he collapses back against Krenyn like a puppet with its strings cut, folding himself against the taller man if he could vanish entirely by doing so. Doesn't make a sound as he does. Just presses up against the other death knight.

To [Krenyn]: (IC) *like iron to a lodestone the static fold up against Krenyn's mental presence, still aching and bleeding* (i can't) (i'm) (so) (sorry) <i love you(morethananything)&(ifailedyou)>

Krenyn answers this aloud, gathering up Larkspur as best as armor allows and hissing at him, more the intensity than anger. "You survived. Despite what he wanted you to do. You /came back/. How is that a failure?"

Larkspur is silent for a long time in the face of this question, simply *being* there as he leans against Krenyn in his misery. At last: "I never should have gone to him in the first place." Everything that happened, everyone who died--none of it would've if he hadn't been so -stupid- and weak-minded. Stupid, stupid Larkspur.

Krenyn gives Larkspur a slight shake- physical and somewhat mental, though the latter is softer.  "You did not know. /I/ did not know. Nor did your brother. The... priest was powerful," Krenyn allows.

[Krenyn] whispers: (IC) *still a strong presence, still seeking to hold Larkspur together by willpower alone, if only so his partner is capable of focus and some logic* <This... is not something you can blame yourself for being weak about. Must not. Cannot... fault>
[Krenyn] whispers: <...yourself for the weakness of others> *flash of Oriseus, of Weismann*


Larkspur flicks his ears again, and seems to--settle, surrendering for now into simply holding on and being held. "I should have fought," he repeats, voice quiet and sad. "Anyone else would have done that much." But having said his peace on the matter he lets go.

To [Krenyn]: (IC) *the static are dubious, but held so they cannot outright object; and there is truth in Krenyn's words* *but there's also images and emotions and hurt not being exposed here, not talked about* ... (help) (me)

[Krenyn] whispers: (IC) *soothes the pieces, the static, though the images and emotions shifting briefly to the surface before flitting away are too many to process. But the plea for help...*


Krenyn closes his eyes, whispering at Larkspur, though there is effort to make the command as much mental, as physically verbal. "Sleep, Larkspur."

[Krenyn] whispers: (IC) *does indeed seek to enforce the request, shaping it more as an order, attempting to use his solidified position in Larkspur's mind to force obedience into the static. Though there is love, a care... a desire to help his partner.*

Larkspur goes slack in Krenyn's grip; the habit of obedience is so strong with him that even if there had been no force at all behind the command he'd have given it his best attempt despite his distress. As it is, he shuts down entirely--though he doesn't lose his grip on the taller death knight.

To [Krenyn]: (IC) *perhaps that was just what was needed; everything goes immediately quiet under the force of the mental command* *the pain and conflict aren't forgotten, but laid aside, for now, and Krenyn's mental presence clutched close*

Krenyn is prepared for Larkspur's weight, supporting it and then lifting the death knight easily, despite armor. "Chillblaze," he mutters, the sound hardly anything but the power that summons the steed still behind it. It is not long before the shadows appear and stir to part for the undead charger's presence. Larkspur is lifted to the saddle, with Krenyn settling behind his unconscious partner soon after.
corpseknight: (love<3)

A runeblade was the seat of a death knight's soul, more than the rotting meat that bore his name when he was raised and bound to the Scourge. It made only sense to Larkspur to bequeath Terminus Est to Krenyn on the event of his second death; whether or not there'd been plans and oaths and orders otherwise, he knew which of them would die first--because while the idea of the Lord-Commander Bloodflame all alone was hideous and heart-tearingly awful, it was possible, while a Larkspur-without-Krenyn was monstrous and impossible and beyond thinking of.

He just wished dying wasn't so hard.

 

Krenyn found him collapsed in their garden, curled on himself like a crushed insect as his body ate itself from within. Decaying muscle and tendon wouldn't even allow him the decency of crawling off alone to die like the sick animal he was. He couldn't even lift his head at the sound of footsteps approaching, couldn't raise an arm to hide the shame that burned through him. It wasn't supposed to end like this. He should have died years ago in battle, not through years of slow decline from one shameful, worthless death to another--

"Larkspur."

There was no pity in the lord-commander's voice; but nor was there remonstrance or anger. (Though they had long ago lost an audience to play to they'd kept up the act of master and servant, commander and knight, for their own amusement and perhaps because it was how each had learned the other man's needs. Now all that pretense was brushed aside.) Krenyn's tone was one of sorrow, deep and knowing. He'd expected this would happen and it undid Larkspur completely as he felt himself being gathered up onto his partner's lap and held close to the stolen heat of the larger man's body.

"I'm s, sorry Kren," he sobbed, scarcely able to shape the sounds. "'m so, s-sorry, sorry, so--sorry, f'r being worthless a, and lea-eaving y, you--" Words stuck in his throat and he coughed, choking on blood and froth and what had once been his lungs. It couldn't end like this and for a moment he fought being held, desperate and weeping, but a moment was all he had strength for before collapsing again.

Warm fingers stroked through his hair heedless of the fact clumps of it came out at a touch, tracing down to stroke the line of his jaw without shying from the spots where flesh had peeled from the bone beneath. "Hush, beloved," Krenyn soothed, pressing his hand to his partner's lips and letting the warmth of living Blood flow down Lark's throat, relieving the pain but making it no easier to talk. "You should not apologize to me."

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. "'S w, worthless, never, never good--never l, loyal t-to you, like you, deserved."

"I don't regret a moment of our time together," and a string of kisses interrupted the flow of self-recrimination, "but that we did not have more of that time. Hush, Lark, and rest; I'm very proud of you.

"I always will be proud of you."

 

They lay together for long hours in the rays of the westering sun, one blind and ignorant of the dying light, the other too concerned with his dying lover to care. Krenyn stroked Larkspur's hair and spoke to him in low tones, telling him the story of a quel'dorei mage who lived and died and lived again for the sake of his family and received more love than he had thought to deserve in the bargain.

He held the smaller death knight as Lark shuddered and screeched and wept with terror in the presence of things that existed only in his decaying mind, hallucinations he was too weak to fight or flee.

At last, as the sun slid below the horizon, the lord-commander sat with his partner's head cradled in his lap, fingertips resting against the death rune imprinted into skin and broken bone. They had run out of easy words to say; that did not mean they were without language of touch and contact and posture, though a companionable silence that hung thick with grief lay between them.

Until a whisper broke it:

"Kren."

"Lark?"

"Think I, I sh--should sleep, n, now."

"Sleep, then, beloved. I will watch over you until you wake."

"D, don't know. Know. If I'll, w--wake up."

"Even if you do not, I will be with you, in this world or the next."

A stifled noise escaped Larkspur's throat: the beginning of another sob, even as he turned his head to press his face against one of Krenyn's hands. "Love you," he breathed, and, "thank you."

"Rest," Krenyn said again, the sorrow raw in his voice.

And this time when he drew on the death pact between them, unravelling Larkspur's essence through the death rune, there was no pain.

corpseknight: (zzzzz)

"Duty before self." -- Motto of House Dawnherald

He tells the living and the dead alike he doesn't dream when he sleeps--that "sleeping" isn't the proper term for it anyhow; he's awake to what's around him, insensible as he might seem--that the apparatus of dreaming long-ago decayed along with his sight and his reason and the other useful parts of his brain; and like everything he's invented and re-invented about himself since being dragged half-blind into the twilight realm of undeath, that isn't strictly true.

The aftermath of terror stirs the muddied waters of his consciousness like a prowling shark, sending rotting fingerlings of half-digested memory skirling in its wake. They aren't important--most aren't important--and more than anything after a shock to his system so severe (he lied and i believed him gullible fool my fault m y  f a u l t  stupid stupid slut) he wants to let exhaustion take its course--decorum be damned--and let him sleep.

But Memory's awakened, and Memory stirs, and puts on a pretty, green-eyed face, and Larkspur dreams:

"I should have strangled you at birth, for all the use you've been to me!"

She is beautiful and fierce and perfect, even standing outside the bars of his cell, saying things that aren't--that can't possibly be--true. Hair so wheat-pale as to be nearly white, fine of feature and delicate of frame in a way that hides deceptive strength, Dionaea Sunwatcher is beautiful and no one watching the two of them could mistake the lines of heredity that tie the pair together.

"--or never let the old fool sire you on me in the first place! Ridding myself of him was the best thing I've done for our House! And now this!"

She is beautiful and absolutely insane and he is in love with her, a gaping fool for her, exactly as she planned it.

"Larkspur!"

She slaps the bars in front of his face and he shies back like a startled horse.

"You stupid, filthy little traitor. Do you know how much this has cost me, you little ingrate? Do you understand what you've done to me?"

Somehow in the midst of the shock of revelation--(she killed Father?)--and the sheer inside-out, upside-down madness of the entire scene he finds his voice and finds it calm: "This wasn't for you, Mother. This was for Silvermoon."

He isn't sure what's worse: The look of utter incomprehesion she fixes him with, or the words that follow:

"Silvermoon? You stupid little fool, I raised you to be loyal to me, not some faceless fucking city!"

"Mother--"

"Shut. Up. You're useless to me, Larkspur."

 

"I would be lying if I said it is not a bitter pill to swallow. Everyone wants to be first sometimes. To not always feel like second best. Or third. Or fourth."

 
corpseknight: (follow)

He spends the day hunting along the branch of the Elrendar that describes the border between the still-living woods and the Ghostlands.

Most of the beasts there are wary of the stench of undeath, though they've grown to associate it with the clatter of exposed bone or the gibbering of uncautious ghouls; a careful hunter, patient and silent, has little reason to be concerned about spooking his prey untimely. The little sun-dappled deer that browse the living banks of the river are flighty and swift as a bowshot arrow and even that makes them no match for a disciple of the unholy. He is mindful of who he intends to feed, as he catches one and then another of the tiny beasts and snaps their necks with his bare hands; tantalizing as their small deaths are he can't simply rip them open with tooth and nail in a fit of bloodthirst, and bring back the scraps for later.

No; once he's made his own paltry meal of the blood and offal, he does a rough job of peeling the hides off his catch and severing them apart joint by joint. The best of it he picks to bring home for Meridas, the choice rooted in instinct older even than the pregnant quel'dorei it's made for: 'pick me, love me, keep me; I can feed you'.

The less-desirable cuts--still good enough to serve a noble at table, he thinks; the woods out here are still wild enough that the venison's got a certain taste to it--he rolls up in one of the hides, noisome and dripping with blood, and carries to Suncrown Village.

Nerubians have as much a taste for raw meat as any predator, and he's careful to leave his gift of meat and bone right on Mephest's doorstep to avoid it being poached. With it are the other fruits of a day's gathering, some of them literal: fresh herbs, cress and wood sorrel, button mushrooms, wild apples and pears still a little green. He'd even thought to include a bag of salt, though not with any consideration for the fact the young paladin might not be able to cook.

Not that a little raw food ever hurt anyone.

---

To: J. Mornherald
From: L. Plagueheart

[Several field anemones compliment pressed bloodspore and cinquefoil, as well as a sheaf of quillvine. A scrap of fresh rabbit fur, a dragonhawk feather, a polished pebble, and a handful of worn skeletal fingerbones accompany the flowers.]

Jiel--

am v. sorry haven't written

things have been di bad fucking terrible

busy

wish I had tm time to visit but i am not sure how safe so

i shldnt

but i am with Bloodflame so write back as much as you like & i will mk make ask him to read it

--Lark

corpseknight: (bitebitekiss)

i Don't know that i shld be writing this down but hes gone now &

there's some things I can't talk to Krenyn about & some things I shldn't talk to Meri Mero Meri FUCK IT Merosiel about & if he didnt tell khaavren & Ori about ti i shldnt be the oen one to tell them again he's gone

& besides i dont think i can put up with Khaavren being hateful

not that it's not his right

no fuck dont write about that, stupid larkspur

what i should be writing is that kae is gone

&

I dont' know if he will be back at all or back alive

if he does come back because he's gone to the scryers now saying that they used to be Sunfury once as if that means they'd be safer than throwing hm himself on the socalled fucking mercy ha ha of the fucking conclave in Silvermoon & really if he thought about it he'd realize that the scryers hate us MORE for not going with them because it means now they have to kill us over the prince's madness & one stupid fucking decision is all thats between old friends and family and lovers and shieldmates

& i asked

if He was going out there to die & he said no of course not that's why he'd been running in the first place

& then i cried on him b/c i'm a stupid fucking failure of a knight & a friend & a sunfury & a traitor & a man

but he wasnt afraid anymore & he wasn't running & he wasnt even Kae anymore he was Al'arien

& that is why I don't know if he will come back because Al'arien has nothing to lose

. ... .. . .. . .. .. . .. . ............ . . . . . . .. .. . .. .. .. .. . . .... .. &

noone will see this while im still around

which is why its okay to be writing all of this with Real Names

so while i'm doing that I want to set the record straight on smthg

b/c if He dies out there & i die before i tell anyone this someone needs to know even if no one really cares what i think

i APOLOGIZED for everything i called him to his face BUT i said a lot of things behind his back because i am a bad friend & knight & everything

& stupid

& Jiel asked me once why if Kae was such a bad person why we didnt just kill him

never mind we don't go around killing people just for saying stupid shit to other people and making them want to die though maybe the world would be a better place if we did

& & i didnt

look i didn't say wat what i meant right because Jiel still doesnt understand but what

i meant

to explain is that whats bad in kae is what is bad in all men & few of them choose to restrain

and what is good in kae is what is good in all men & few of them choose to display

& he gave me back a part of myself the LIVING me that would have been gone forever & i'm not the only one he helped that way even if he was just being selfish or pretended he was to get by like most of us do

& now he made the choice to be more than his fear which almost NO ONE ever does

And

I'm afraid

i dared him

to his death & he's out there alone

and going to die the way i did

for the people he loves

& if there were only one wish i could have now it would be to take back every time i called him a selfish fuck because i was angry.

. . .

 

walk in the Light, Al'arien Dawnstrike. wherever you are.

& come home. I love you & i'm not the only one.

corpseknight: (:?)

Letter-writing, again. It's been a long time--a couple of months, maybe, which is a long time relative to how he measures things, thinking in insect lifespans, disease lifespans, lifespans of days and weeks and months, not years and decades and centuries--since he's occasioned to take up a quill and write. He still doesn't enjoy the task any more for having not done it for all that time, but it eats up the hours while Meridas is trying to sleep and it keeps him from worse habits.

Besides, he's been remiss in visiting and tethered to his obligations. If there's one advantage he will grudgingly cede to the chore, it's the ability to keep in touch at a distance.

---

To: S. Dawnherald

From: L. Dawnherald

[This letter has with it a package containing some odd bouquets--cowslip, bloodspore, and bloodvine in one bundle; earthroot, quillvine, and sungrass in another. Also, there's a surprise (blue) moth in all of it!]

Coz,

good to hear your'e doing well. herd heard strange things about the guy you're working for.

write back soon.

-L

  

To: T. Morningcall-Dawnherald

From: L. Dawnherald

Coz,

tl Talked t. Kae abt your por problems w/ him. W' w n won't happen again.

Need a cpl favors. I n know Im' in a bad position to ask but i'ts urgent.

One ify ou have any xt x extra scribig stuff, I have a f rf friend who wn wants to wt write letters & I'm almost out of in.k. & paper.

2 does yr Father have any empty bldgs h(homes are best) on the Morningcall lands? You can tell him i'ts a tn tenat tenant asking; Ill I'll pay w/ever he asks & see to repairs & upkeep myself.

Stay alive.

Yr cousin,
-Larkspur

  




To: K. Amberwind

From: L. Plagueheart



we hw WHERE THE HEL L ARE YOU?!

  

To: O. Greyspell

From: L. Plagueheart

[Included is an unusual collection of flame-seared beetle husks. From the peppering of scorch marks on the envelope, it looks like Suhail "helped" with this one and wanted to send Al'lat a present! <3 <3 <3]


th Ther thero threo theortetically if I wr were in trouble w/ the law ....... in trouble w/ the law again .... worse & wanted to hide in Eversong do you nk know of any abandoned property I cul could take over??

-L

 

To: Tisho

From: Larkspur

[There's dreamfoil tucked into this envelope, lots of it--as well as a handful of serpentbloom. It has been delivered by the Ebon Blade's internal mail system, rather than through external channels.]

Do you rme remember Merosilver?

can you keep a secret?

-Larkspur

 

To: A. Bloodspeaker
From: L. Plagueheart

do you  n know of any abandoned & undeeded property in Eversong near th ecoast? or even smthg we I could buy the title to by po prx proxy.

-L

 

To: Sir Benden Amateria
From: L. Dawnherald

Hi Ben,

Can we talk sometime?

sorry I havn't been home much. Se spending alot of t time in Warsongh Hol.d.

if You can cm come here, t it would be rg great. I miss you.

Love,
Lark

corpseknight: (love<3)

Larkspur is seated near the edge of the boardwalk, soaked to the skin, pieces of his armor strewn about him. He's folded around his runeblade like a drowning man clinging to a piece of wreckage, cheek pressed against its haft, face turned toward the sea.

Krenyn approaches, footsteps on the board. His scent should be familiar enough. The footsteps stop nearby. He hadn't had to search. He just needed to arrive. And he did so before morning.


[Krenyn] says: [Thalassian] Get up.


Larkspur would ordinarily respond to Krenyn's presence long before his partner got this close. It takes the other death knight actually speaking before Lark so much as twitches an ear, this time. "...sir," he replies numbly, automatically, to the order.


Larkspur drags himself to his feet, still clutching at his runeblade with bound hands.


Krenyn steps closer, giving Larkspur a cursory once-over. Concern for ailments, chains? None at all. "A pitiful state. And that I have to come here to fetch you home," he notes dryly. "What have you to say?" 


Krenyn is heard pacing forward even as he speaks, seeking face to face with Larkspur.


Larkspur can't muster the energy to object, to defend himself, to do so much as lay his ears back in distress or distaste. Or even avert his face to hide the fact he's...maimed. "Nothing." His voice is flat, devoid of emotion. "I failed."


[Larkspur] says: [Thalassian] The only...mercy...is that I did not fail as a Blade. Just as myself.


Krenyn reaches out, two gauntlet-clad digits extended to brush against the empty sockets, without remorse for any lingering pain it might cause. "Hm."


Larkspur doesn't move, other than a reflexive sort of ... failed blink. His hands tighten on Terminus Est. "I'm sorry," he breathes.


Krenyn scrapes slightly. Some form of... something best left undescribed is left on his fingers as they pull free, is rubbed with thumb and sniffed at. "Mm," he states again. "Is this the best they could muster in retaliation for your actions?"


[Krenyn] says: [Thalassian] I suppose you should be thankful. Your punishment from me for your failure to follow my orders will not be as light.


Krenyn reaches down to pick up a piece of the discarded armor. "It's time to leave, Plagueheart."


Larkspur cl-- he doesn't have EYES to close anymore. Is he trembling? Possibly. "They would have killed me. Or done worse. The priest Auroran took my eyes at my...suggestion." No mockery for how easily he got off. No acknowledgement of the threat of punishment.


Larkspur is just restating the facts. "...yes, sir." He'll...have to set his runeblade down to pick up the rest of his armor with his hands bound like this.


Krenyn won't allow it to be set down. As Larkspur kneels to retrieve the armor, Terminus Est is grasped and held upright. As if claimed by the commander.


Larkspur has in no way just been sitting here for hours clinging pathetically to his runeblade for comfort, so this certainly isn't a disturbing and unwanted separation. ...He gathers his armor, unable to shake the numbness.


Larkspur tries, though, to show the proper respect the dreadplate deserves. A surprised moth flutters out from under his breastplate as he picks it up, vanishing under his cloak to hide.


Krenyn is silent while waiting for each piece of armor to be gathered. Another disgrace is pardoned; in that Krenyn allows Larkspur to know when he has found the last piece. "Now."


Larkspur gets to his feet, balancing his armor carefully, and obediently follows Krenyn through the death gate.

corpseknight: (:?)

It started to rain as Auroran walked away with his eyes, the sounds of the priest's crying dissolving into the plash of raindrops hitting the waves.

The boardwalk overhead wasn't watertight and afforded ill protection from the wet. Drops rancid with dust and the day's refuse pattered against his skull, washed the sea-salt from his hair, trickled down his ears and the back of his neck and curves of his battered face. It stung where it seeped into the Light-burns, igniting anew the pain of ruined flesh trying to knit itself back together only to fall apart again. Some of it began to pool where his eyes had been and this wasn't nearly so painful, just strange and unwelcome.

He tried to blink, as futile and stupid a reflex as breathing.

It was so dark.

A moth refolded its wings with a velveteen rustle in the dry haven beneath his discarded breastplate. Around him a thousand raindrops raced toward the sea, each dribbling and dropping and plinking along its own path in a fluid cacophony. Across the bay a captain yelled at his clumsy deckhand; in the rooms above, a pimp at his clumsy whore; somewhere, a woman dropped her last precious teacup and burst into tears over the pathetic wreckage. Metal ground against metal as he shifted his bound hands enough to pull Terminus Est closer to him and lay his face against her haft, skin-covered bone against leather-wrapped metal.

He could taste the monstrous remains of himself bound into the runeblade. Fever and fear and righteous indignation of the unsleeping paladin in the apartment above trickled down with the rain. There were goblin-smells, living-smells, jungle-smells saturating the air besides: Blood and breath and sex and food, heartbeats and viscera, green and growing things.

He should have gotten up. He had his 'blade and his wits and needed nothing more to free himself. There was no reason to linger and wait for the Kamil to take a second blood-price and drive a blade between his unprotected shoulders.

It was so dark.

Now there were no colors, no glimpses of motion at the edge of vision. No familiar smears of red and black, smelling like Krenyn or smelling like Kae. No blue--green--when, if, ifwhen he could bring himself to stand in Merosiel's presence again.

'Sorry,' he had said to Auroran, 'sorry, sorry, sorry,' an avalanche of apologies, piling on each other; once he'd begun he found he couldn't stop his traitor tongue from spilling the words. 'Sorry,' as if it could be an anodyne for the terrible scent of grief and shock the priest wore like a dead woman's blood ingrained into his slept-in clothing. 'Sorry,' even after the deed was done, and Auroran wasn't the one losing the eyes.

At least he wasn't so stupid as to say what he was sorry for; the awful, evil trick that they had played. It was wrong and nothing would convince him otherwise. Nothing would convince him it wasn't necessary, either, not when the paladin denied outright ever harming Merosiel in his madness and his bitch-jailor smelled of glee at the news and spoke of whores and objects.

He had told Auroran to smile. Be magnanimous in victory. The priest enjoyed exacting his blood-price; it came as no surprise, though, that all Merosiel's friends were predators.

Even maimed, stupid predators who would likely be dead by morning.

(He had promised Krenyn he would be alive when Krenyn found him.)

If he would know when morning came, robbed of light.

(Krenyn would surely be here before morning.)

corpseknight: (Default)
The steady tramp of booted feet intrudes on the night-sounds of the bay. Footsteps that stop before the door of a certain apartment. Ordinarily, were this a *polite*, *social* visit, whoever-it-is would probably knock. Ordinarily. This time there's just a long silence, not even the sound of anyone breathing--before the door bursts in with a splintering crash, folding around an armored shoulder as the invader shoves his way inside, runeaxe drawn, expression fixed in a predatory snarl. "*Campion.*" Lark's voice is a venomous hiss, little improving his accented Common. "I know you're here. Can smell you. WHERE ARE YOU?" )
corpseknight: (Default)

"Merosiel!"

He's had the fleeting, mad thought before that if he could scream loud enough--if he could kill enough people, if he could make a large enough disturbance--he could call the dead and the lost back to him by force of will alone.

"MEROSIEL!"

It's the madness of a diseased mind; the insanity of a rotting brain. There's no bringing them back when they're really gone. No amount of spilled blood, no number of shattered limbs, split skulls, silenced voices will absolve him of failing them when they needed him most, of not being there just as Meros is not here. Driven from house to house in a crush of armored bodies, wailing like a mourner, he finds neither hide nor hair of what he's looking for; no indication the faithless jailors have kept their promise, no sign his friend still lives.

"Where are you?!"

The mêlée spills out onto the streets, guards falling to the cobbles as he weaves among them with all the lewd grace of one of the Scourge. Here one trips over his own guts and falls in a groaning, dying heap; there another froths and shakes and collapses like an unstrung puppet as plague eats her from within, and he should take joy in the carnage but he can't. (Another guard drops from a heavy backhand blow; finishing her with a headsman's stroke from Terminus Est, he kicks the body into the canal.)

He can't, because something has happened to Meros, something has happened to Merosiel, because--he mounts up the steps of a bridge, not caring he's being chased to the heart of the city--his friend isn't answering him, and something has happened there are blood and terror in the air tonight that are not because of his rampage.

"Meros! Answer me! What have they done to you?!"

They can hear him calling, screaming himself hoarse, and each respite he gets is shorter than the last. This time they bring a paladin--a fucking, Light-sucking paladin; why aren't they looking for MEROS?--and he calls the lately dead back to their feet to aid him against their once-allies. All is fair in love and war and where is he they promised they promised they wouldn't kill him--

"CAMPION, YOU CHILD-MURDERING SCARLET SON-OF-A-BITCH! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MEROSIEL?!"

---
Our Lady Peace -- "Denied", Taproot -- "Lost In the Woods"

corpseknight: (go away i'm dead)

To: Magister Adrasteius Bloodspeaker
From: Larkspur Plagueheart

we need to talk NOW

 

To: L.A. Embersong
From: Larkspur Dawnherald

[An entire bouquet of dethorned Talandra's Roses accompany a short note.]

thank youf you for the coat

als,

also, he told me hs

his name is Suhail.

 

To: Tisho
From: Larkspur

Am blue.

hug Penny fr for m.e.

[Fresh dreamfoil and goldclover fill out the envelope.]

 

To: Knight Jiel Mornherald
From: Knight Larkspur Plagueheart

[A tiny bundle of nutmeg geranium and garden daisy accompany a Talandra's Rose and twist of bloodspore. No written note clarifies the flowers.]

corpseknight: (horribles)

[Both of these letters arrive by Ebon Blade courier--a gargoyle, in this case. One that expects to be fed on reaching its destination, which may be slightly uncomfortable in the case of one of the recipients.

Both messages are also neatly written and properly spelled, implying that Lark's dictated them to someone.]

To: Aurelius Bloodspeaker
From: Larkspur Plagueheart

Bloodspeaker,

Need your assistance soonest at Acherus concerning an injured knight. Necrosurgery required; have to stitch his head back onto his body. Unknown amount of damage to neck, spine, throat due to previous necromancers being total fucking incompetents.

Will have someone on-hand with more information when you get here.

--Lark

 

To: Chryseth Keenblaze
From: Larkspur Plagueheart

Need you immediately. Mornherald's gone and wrecked his collar; Bloodflame's ordered it removed. Contacted Bloodspeaker for the necrosurgery; want you available to advise on existing damage to the underlying tissue.

Bring your notes.

--Lark

[Stuffed into the bottom of Chryseth's letter is a handful of thornroot and a fel blossom.]

corpseknight: (zzzzz)

Somewhere in the bowels of the Undercity, a moth lifts its wings and takes flight, sailing through the miasmatic sewers. Too drunk to realize the significance of its departure, its owner yells obscenities after the insect, his voice echoing hoarsely off the wrought stonework walls.

Dalaran's Eventide bank is thrown into a brief panic by an attack of moths when a dozen of them come boiling out of a client's deposit box, sweeping out into the streets in a whirlwind of scaled wings and feathery antennae. They do not linger to destroy the bank's property, arrowing for the Sunreaver portals with an unnatural swiftness.

In Acherus, a tiny flock of the creatures converge from all directions, escaping the hold onto plague-laden winds to drift across the reddening sky as infinitesimal specks of color. They are joined by escapees from Quel'Thalas, one that abandons its title and tiny moth house, its position as the most spoiled of moths; another which will go unmissed and unmourned; the third sure to worry its owner by its absence.

Quietly, delaying as long as it can, a golden-winged moth waits for an unwatched moment to crawl out the open window of a Stormwind clinic, vanishing into the lengthening evening.

Further north, a half-dozen moths flee the lengthening night to the Howling Fjord, seeking the actinic lights of Vengeance Landing. Sweeping down on the icy winds from the Storm Peaks, they nestle into the netting of the zeppelin to Undercity, huddling together against the storms at sea.

corpseknight: (go away i'm dead)

To: L.A. Embersong
From: L. Dawnherald

[Several leaves of wyrmtail accompany a yellowed reproduction of a figure--the face scratched out--in full parade dress and Dawnherald colors. Scribbled on the image is a note: "how long fr. th coat?" Included is also a short, to-the-point letter:]

PENNY WAS SUNFURY.

 

To: P. Moonwinged
From: L. Plagueheart

[All that's inside this package is a tattered, faded Sunfury tabard. It's been carefully, if awkwardly, mended and washed to remove the worst of the bloodstains.]

 

To: J. Mornherald
From: L. Plagueheart

dear Jiel

sry abt yesterday. ws wish I n knew bt beeb better how to say what needs saying w/o being afri afraid of fi frit frightening yu you. away..

Lark

corpseknight: (...)
He's getting sick of words.

More letters have shown up for him at the Shadow Vault in the last two months than he'd received in life, or so he likes to think when he's being unkind about his correspondents. He's begun to stuff his bank with the things, making awkward nests for the moths out of letters after he's had someone read them. There is this advantage to letters at least; they're memories that can't be eaten or rot away or be lost--at least, not quite so easily as the rest of his memories, not with how easy it is to preserve them in the face of the kinds of rot that threaten mere parchment.

But then everyone wants him to write back, and he TRIES, but the exercise is getting increasingly frustrating and shameful as time goes on. (And unlike other frustrating, shameful exercises in self-abuse he can think of, this one isn't in the least relieving because once one letter's sent off, there's bound to be another in return and he has to start all over again. Jacking off at least cuts the other person out of the equation.)

If he still had the energy for annoyance he'd think it fucking uncivil of them, expecting him to find a way to communicate with the written word when they know very well he's blind. But he doesn't, and time he could spend simmering in his own despite is time better spent killing Scourge and picking icethorn and mending armor.

It's only when the difficult letters start showing up does he finally hit on the realization (late as ever, Dawnherald) that he doesn't have to use words, even if he hasn't got the spare moments in the day to hunt them all down individually and sit for an hour or two in companionable silence.

That's when the packages start showing up.

---

 
Letters follow. )

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corpseknight: (Default)
Larkspur Plagueheart

March 2017

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