[IC] The purple hills of Mac'Aree
Apr. 23rd, 2019 01:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
corpseknightTwo years ago, Lark would never have imagined himself setting foot on Argus.
Truth be told, at the bleakest point of the Legion's incessant invasions, he'd never imagined himself or any of the rest of Azeroth lasting another two years. So anything beyond that had come as a series of surprises--most of them unpleasant, to be sure, but there's something to be said for him still being around to surprise at all, and now here at the latest end of it he's found himself on a shattered piece of the eredar homeworld, sampling the scents of Mac'Aree as the Ebon Blade gathers in force to clear a courtyard of ghosts.
With, as it happened, the Silver Hand at their side, which is why Lark finds himself at the combined orders' first beachhead on Mac'Aree instead of holding down imp population numbers in the Antoran Wastes. Ebon Blade liaison gives him a certain cachet a mere knight-captaincy never did, and certain guarantees that if the Silver Hand mustered force he'd be sent along with the Blade's matching contingent. Even if the honoring of that alliance has taken on a more brittle and sinister tone since Light's Hope--a demonstration of strength as much as a promise honored--it hardly puts a damper on Lark's pleasure to hear he's been called out in his official capacity. Battle-lust plays no small part in it, of course; but better still's the knowing a certain paladin is almost surely the Silver Hand's field commander for the day.
Whatever disdain the Blade's rank-and-file had for a death knight who sought out mortal friendships the way Lark did, their leadership knew exactly what kind of asset he made. And this is one use they'd put him to that he protested the least, seeing as all parties involved knew the bounds on his loyalty and how much of what he heard he'd be honor-bound to pass on. (Not all of it. Especially not whatever happened once the Blade's official missions were concluded and he could be simply an adventurer for a few hours.)
So: Here they all are, Blade and Hand, and here are the ghosts Velen's ordered cleared before they can advance, and here is Lark in his official capacity jogging over to the Silver Hand formation with an entirely unofficial grin on his face. He could scent their commander (human man in the vigor of his prime, fit as the Light keeps him; armor polish and steel and mageroyal) a mile off if he's trying.
"'lo the Silver Hand and Commander Ashlock! Lord-Commander Heartshatter sends her regards and says to inform you we are having your flanks against the ghosts today." He halts before the paladin line, very well aware from the sounds and scent of them what they think of his being there (impertinent monster) and for once not caring. There's a new world to conquer and fine company to do it in, and they should be glad to be along for the ride.
"Have you any word to return to her? If not, we are following your lead."
A very rare concession from the Blade, but then Heartshatter was more prosaic than most--and more than willing to let a pack of paladins soften up the opposing undead for easier dispatch.
Truth be told, at the bleakest point of the Legion's incessant invasions, he'd never imagined himself or any of the rest of Azeroth lasting another two years. So anything beyond that had come as a series of surprises--most of them unpleasant, to be sure, but there's something to be said for him still being around to surprise at all, and now here at the latest end of it he's found himself on a shattered piece of the eredar homeworld, sampling the scents of Mac'Aree as the Ebon Blade gathers in force to clear a courtyard of ghosts.
With, as it happened, the Silver Hand at their side, which is why Lark finds himself at the combined orders' first beachhead on Mac'Aree instead of holding down imp population numbers in the Antoran Wastes. Ebon Blade liaison gives him a certain cachet a mere knight-captaincy never did, and certain guarantees that if the Silver Hand mustered force he'd be sent along with the Blade's matching contingent. Even if the honoring of that alliance has taken on a more brittle and sinister tone since Light's Hope--a demonstration of strength as much as a promise honored--it hardly puts a damper on Lark's pleasure to hear he's been called out in his official capacity. Battle-lust plays no small part in it, of course; but better still's the knowing a certain paladin is almost surely the Silver Hand's field commander for the day.
Whatever disdain the Blade's rank-and-file had for a death knight who sought out mortal friendships the way Lark did, their leadership knew exactly what kind of asset he made. And this is one use they'd put him to that he protested the least, seeing as all parties involved knew the bounds on his loyalty and how much of what he heard he'd be honor-bound to pass on. (Not all of it. Especially not whatever happened once the Blade's official missions were concluded and he could be simply an adventurer for a few hours.)
So: Here they all are, Blade and Hand, and here are the ghosts Velen's ordered cleared before they can advance, and here is Lark in his official capacity jogging over to the Silver Hand formation with an entirely unofficial grin on his face. He could scent their commander (human man in the vigor of his prime, fit as the Light keeps him; armor polish and steel and mageroyal) a mile off if he's trying.
"'lo the Silver Hand and Commander Ashlock! Lord-Commander Heartshatter sends her regards and says to inform you we are having your flanks against the ghosts today." He halts before the paladin line, very well aware from the sounds and scent of them what they think of his being there (impertinent monster) and for once not caring. There's a new world to conquer and fine company to do it in, and they should be glad to be along for the ride.
"Have you any word to return to her? If not, we are following your lead."
A very rare concession from the Blade, but then Heartshatter was more prosaic than most--and more than willing to let a pack of paladins soften up the opposing undead for easier dispatch.
