corpseknight: (...)
((ooc: Transferring over from [ profile] lastvoyagesspam because lol OC taking up valuable memespace.

PICKING UP OFF DIS THREAD: Lark and Arthas have a meaningful conversation.))

There's not a lot of Ebon Blade who even forgive themselves. It's not a real big virtue when you've decided that the Light's had done with you and nothing in life matters anymore and Death is your only mistress and-- [flaps hands to emphasize the silliness of this]

I can't speak for what the Blade would do if you came to them shorn of all your glory and were just Arthas. But I can say I'd be the first one to stand up and point out it's pretty fucking poor form to turn a blind eye to what all of us did, claiming it wasn't our choice, and then hold you accountable for everything Ner'zhul and that sword made you do. There's just as many of us who were terrible fucking people under the Scourge because we wanted to be and repented of it.

[sort-of "looks" down, ears drooping] And, uh. I think enough of us got shuffled through the Culling at Stratholme by now, thanks to the bronzes, that they'd know you weren't exactly in there for shits and giggles. Don't know that I'd've made a decision that would have saved anyone alive. Uther didn't.

Then why should I be expected to?!

[Pure whiny child there. He's going to wallow in this as long as he wants, fuckers.]

I'm going to be honest; if I were Varian, I'd have the lot of you executed. I have no idea why the Alliance re-accepted you. We shouldn't be forgiven. If we are, there's no such thing as justice. I spent my entire life seeing to it that the world was rid of monsters. I'm not going to stop now.

- the Bronzes did what now...?

[exasperated:] Because they're a bunch of fucking idiots for doing it? [Come on, Arthas. You're not a fucking idiot, are you? :c] We did what we did and survived it. I won't say we're the lucky ones, but it's past now. Maybe you're right and somebody should have gotten rid of us when we put down our swords and turned ourselves over to the Horde and the Alliance for judgment, but let's face it: The people we killed are still dead. Putting us in the ground for the last time to make the living feel better about that won't bring them back, and it means we won't be there when the next fuck-ugly son of a bitch crawls out from under his Lightforsaken rock to threaten Azeroth again.

I might be blind and half-rotted and stupid but I can still hold my axe and stand between the people who matter and the things that want to kill them deader than me. If you want to hunt monsters there's plenty of them still out there that haven't pledged themselves to killing the bigger monsters than they are.

[...demure cough] Uh. Thought you might've heard about that. Infinites went and fucked with your timeline or something so they started sending people back to make sure you actually did Stratholme right. Didn't get killed halfway through or anything.
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.


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!"


"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: (:?)

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!]


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

write back soon.



To: T. Morningcall-Dawnherald

From: L. Dawnherald


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,


To: K. Amberwind

From: L. Plagueheart



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??



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?



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.



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.


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: (zzzzz)

Confessing what he's doing makes the sting of it sharper.

"You need a partner."

He'd put mortality on hold for a blissful year in Northrend; the snow and ice kept the rot and degeneration at bay and he didn't have to think about second death. No considering animal mindlessness and death pacts and eventual oblivion, the scent of grief and the ache in his partner's voice whenever the topic came up. There had been fear and arguments and doubt and pain but it had not been so bad given he didn't awaken to a miasmatic gray confusion and no memories of what he'd done the previous day--mostly.


Then he'd ruined fucking all of it with one stupid little stunt in Silithus, and didn't even have the energy to be angry at his own stupidity anymore, let alone anything else anyone could do to him. A death knight who wasn't a seething ball of rage and hatred under his skin--there was a real joke for you. Couldn't be angry, couldn't hate, couldn't rouse much more than a specter of his usual interest in anything but the drive to kill.

And Krenyn. Of course Krenyn, always Krenyn, and isn't that why he's marking out the youngest of the Blades as if they were beasts at market to be assessed on their gait and breeding and the color of their plumage? Because the thought of leaving the senior knight alone leaves him so desolate it cuts right through all his normal objections to the idea that you don't just march up to someone and tell them that in a month or two months or ten months or however long it's going to take for him to finally die, they are going to be Lord-Commander Krenyn Bloodflame's new partner and subordinate, and they'd better fucking measure up to the job and not say the first feldamned word about how they didn't want it because Bloodflame is among the best of men on Azeroth, let alone the Blades in service--

It's a terrible idea. He knows it's a terrible idea, knew from the start Krenyn would have nothing of it. Because it's wrong, and even the shreds of morality he has left after the Scourge were through with him know that. You can kill people, you can eat them, torture them, rape their daughters, destroy their livelihoods, but that's all honest destruction and when you come in and start shoving them around like they've got no say in what they're doing because they're too sweet and dumb not to "sir" you despite you never having held a rank above knight, it's wrong, it's all bloody wrong to start pushing them around like pieces in a stupid game.

"What do you think I would need a partner for, after you are gone?"

"What do you need me for now, while I'm here? Someone needs to watch your back."

He's doing it anyway, terrible and wrong or not, because being dead puts you on the other side of "wrong" and "terrible" and you stand around in public talking about what it's like to eat the living. Because while it's easy to imagine a world without himself in it, it's heart-breakingly hard to imagine one where there's not someone dogging along behind Bloodflame like a loyal shadow; Light only knows how long it would be before Krenyn shatters from the task of trying to keep under his perview from flying apart if he didn't have someone to talk to, or take it out on. Or--there is no further or because some death knights it seems mate for life (undeath) and there's no patching some kinds of holes no matter how much wishing is involved.

"Don't train them for intimacy. Don't lead them to expect any sort of will not be returned."

"No, no...I wasn't--I just can't control my fucking impulses sometimes. You know that."

Perhaps some kinds of holes don't need patching. Just because Mornherald's one of the ones who finds it difficult to kill and has problems with momentum and his friend Haken is still half-Scourge and Frostscribe's about as dumb as one of his own sculptures and--fuck--you can't throw your runeblade these days without hitting a death knight who isn't some sort of basketcase doesn't mean Bloodflame needs another life-long project under his wing. But then none of them really need that much fixing to function, do they, not with a superior who's willing to set them straight, not when they learn their lessons the right way the first time, rather than being stupid stubborn bastards who pick losing fights with gravity and make the same mistakes the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth time because they find it funny.

Stupid stubborn bastards who die with even less dignity than the mindless beasts they're turning into because they can't just crawl off somewhere and let the elements finish them; oh no, there's the months of terror and hand-wringing and shame and begging for reassurance that they weren't just meaningless little blips in history, that they were important to someone, somewhere. And then the dying, after all the awkward failures at goodbyes and trying to patch the stupid ragged holes they'd leave behind because apparently some people are stupid enough to care about dead traitors who are failures enough to be dying a second time, and it was all going to be a fucking terrible mess.

Maybe in the end it would be better this way.

"I wanted you to have a friend."


There'd been a silk ribbon tucked into Lark's usual hideaway beside the runeforge at the Shadow Vault.

It was too dark for him to guess at the color, but it was cool and smelled of holly, and slid easily in his hands as he practiced tying bows with it. Too late for Winter Veil this year, and he wasn't likely to see another, but it was the thought that counted, right?

I wanted you to have a friend.

He hadn't been able to find the words then in Acherus, not then or later when they'd retired to somewhere less public to discuss the matter (though very little discussion was had) before Bloodflame had had to leave again. But now they were all there, of course, as he made a careful count of how many loops he was putting into this bow. Now he had words, and he'd forget them as soon as he slept next, and that would be the end of it because what he'd forgotten was gone as the tissue all rotted away.

I want you to have a friend, Krenyn. I want you to have someone who knows us both well enough to grieve with you when I'm gone, who can bear the horrors of the Scourge the way Embersong won't. I want to know someone will be there to take care of you, not need to be taken care of, like your brother. Or me.

Carefully, Lark slipped the loops of ribbon from his fingers, cinching the bow tight. A laugh caught in his throat as he did; it was more sob than humor, and he bit it back.

You're not going to let me give you a damn gift because you don't want anyone else; you want me. I already gave you me, you bastard; I'd give myself all over again if I could after second-death but there's not any fucking chance of that and we know it.

He crushed the bow between his hands with a hiss, then caught himself, unfolding it and smoothing the rumpled loops penitently. It wasn't its fault, after all... Satisfied after a brief preening, he caught up the loose ends and tucked it all into one of his saddlebags, before slumping down onto it, unreasonably exhausted by so little exhertion.

I just want you to have a friend. Someone to be happy with, and make up for all the time you've lost with me.

He'd start making a list of possible candidates in the morning.

corpseknight: (go away i'm dead)

Larkspur isn't in the habit of writing notes. Hasn't been since he was dragged back into this mockery of life, cold and half-blind and all-dead, more than two years ago. It's mostly a matter of practicality: Lacking anyone to write notes to and unable to read anything he's written, there's not much of a point to doing it.

But sometimes he still writes notes to his tiny family, when there's messages too painful to articulate in person to the few people he cares about. Or when the time's simply not right. Or when--as Greyspell is fond of saying, probably well aware of just how ugly and literal the "metaphor" actually is--he gets a maggot in his brain about something and can't get the thought to go away and let him be without actually doing something about it. It's the latter case tonight.

So when he and Krenyn drag themselves back down off the mountainside at last and he has a moment alone, Lark finds a charred bit of a stick and a scrap of parchment his drake assures him is mostly blank and starts scribbling furiously, lest his partner has a chance to notice.


i should have said smthng earlier when itold you i forgt didnt' remember about rnuning off the other day. you were right she bel says that i made It worse wtih the heat. and the sand. And the stupid bird made out of rock that you cant'. eat. that is the part that I remmember by the wa,y, is thr thee there was a bloody fucking br bird made out of ROCK and I killed it. for the orc-lady and gave her head. ha ha -- the fr the kaldrei.

but. the importnt. part i  s that i wsa stupid. & adn & im sory that i made htings worse an,d will probably die sooner.

hve also been tnhgn   ignk   thinking abot mothr & shld talk to you. bfor i go do smthng else stup.d.

love you.



corpseknight: (Default)
Larkspur Plagueheart

March 2017



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