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: (tits)

I realized yesterday that I may actually have passed the point where I can keep track of everyone who's got a moth in my head. SO NOW I WRITE THEM DOWN. If in the unforgivable offchance I have forgotten you have a moth, punch me and I'll note you down.

Format is name - number (colors) - notes if applicable.

Benden Amateria - two (white, yellow)
Kael'ash Amberwind - one (red) - named Moff.
Krenyn Bloodflame - four (blue, red, white, yellow)
Adrasteius Bloodspeaker - one (red) - named Lord Flitterwing the something-or-other Lark can't remember these things.
Avali Dawnblade - one (blue) - Lady Glitter...something... DAMMIT Bloodspeaker!
Tryice Dawnherald - one (white) - named Jasparl.
Sylera Dawnherald - one (blue)
Greyspell - one (grey) - this moth keeps getting released around Rommath Sunfury, much to his bemusement.
Oriseus Lastdawn - one (bruise-purple) - named Sieluharwe.
Penumbral Moonwinged - two (red, teal)
Jiel Mornherald - one (white) - now referred to as "Sir Larkspur Plagueheart (the Younger)".
Merosiel Riversung/Meridas Dawnspring - one (yellow) - named Imaure.
Khaavren Sunthorn - one (blue) - named Dusty.
Tisho - one (red)
Albain Weismann - one (white) - this moth is STOLEN.

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: (...)
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. )
corpseknight: (teeth)

Thoughts adrift on a sea of agony, Larkspur cannot remember how he got here.

He's not even sure where "here" is, whether it's warm or cold, where most of his armor has gone, why his runeblade isn't close enough to grasp; only that he is shattered by pain, awash in it, gorged on such a surfeit that even he can only feel the ache and not the satisfaction.

But that is the point of punishment. And he is being punished here with splinters in his hands and a great gaping deathwound in his essence as if he were a gutted fish on display at market, and even if can't remember the hows and wheres the why and the who are graven into every moment that he lies there with ichor pooling in his throat and silence in his ears.

"You may scream, if you wish to. If you are still able."

He isn't thinking ahead of his instincts again, that's the whole problem, letting himself be distracted and making stupid, selfish animal mistakes. Sleeping with Mornherald's partner. Tormenting the junior knight with unwanted advances. Prying off his head amidst terror and hurt so obvious anyone could taste it, all to satisfy his own sick curiosity.

And isn't it a fitting punishment to discover his chosen replacement is himself rotting from the inside out? Because he wasn't thinking, he was doing this all Wrong, and even the world recognized and objected. Lark tries to laugh and begins coughing instead, spitting up black foam.

It's Wrong, taking someone and making something of them they aren't; Wrong, shattering a friendship simply by being in the middle of it; and Wrong, Wrong, Wrong to give orders just because he knew they couldn't be disobeyed, just because he could taste the terror they evoked. Just because it gives him a thrill to have someone obey him for once.

"But Mommy, I don't want to--"
"I know you don't want to disappoint me either, sweetie. Do you want to disappoint Mommy?"
"No-o."
"Then you'll do this one thing for her."

Pain lances through his head and chest as he starts to laugh again, unable to control himself. I'm turning into Mother. It's not enough that he lose everything that makes him an individual and a person on the way to becoming a mindless beast; he has to become everything terrible he's inherited, everything he despises in a person, first.

Fucking fate.

He laughs until he can't any longer, until his useless lungs fill up with liquid and he blacks out from agony again.

---



Taproot -- "She", Assemblage 23 -- "Collapse", Three Days Grace -- "Animal I Have Become"

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.

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 emotion...it 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.
 

"KRENYn

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 he.ad. 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.

--Lark"

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corpseknight: (Default)
Larkspur Plagueheart

March 2017

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