Cindy
*sigh* ud know this if u read the silmarillion...
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2018
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TW: Holy body horror, Batman!
Expeditions from around Azeroth have been dispatched to meet the resurgence of the Scourge. This expedition, sent forth from Dalaran, has traveled to Kalimdor to defend the world tree at Mount Hyjal. Among their ranks is an undead paladin by the name of Abrethana, who has ventured ahead of her party to scout for dangers.
Gaelindra’s infrequent nickering accompanied the many sounds of the gaunt horse as it trotted along the elfwood road, its ancient stones entangled by vine and root that swam between the crevasses of the path. The horse’s occasional whines were far from natural however, as the very sound had become more akin to a wicked bone-rattle as a consequence of the equine’s skull having, over the course of its unlife, gradually emerged from its flesh. Her rider too bore the wears of decomposition and rot; a feature veiled by the paladin’s own hood and plate. It was difficult enough to evangelize straying souls to the comfort of the Light without being an eyeless, ravenous ghoul whose teeth had sharpened upon splintered femurs. Ironically, Abrethana’s monstrous visage was not an outlier in the demon-soured Felwood.
She had rode ahead of her expedition in the interest of surveying a path forward to the frosted summit of Winterspring, scouting and surveying the lay of the land to then be returned to her fellowship and inform them of the shape of their journey to come. In the evening prior, Abrethana had brokered safe passage for her company from one of the many satyr tribes who inhabit the valley. Such a deal shaved a notable hardship from their impending trek, but left countless others hurdles to consider— including the anxiety of a possible betrayal should the trickster-blooded satyr predictably choose to dishonor their previously held agreement. No one could argue, however, that the possibility of safe passage was at least a step up from the prior arrangement of guaranteed strife.
Though the paladin’s warhammer remained strapped to Gaelindra’s side, Abrethana kept a blade just within reach while passing beneath the light of fel-fire. Previously, she relied on the scrutiny of the Night Elves spying upon her from their canopies to watch her back, and used this advantage to immerse herself in the sanctified codex that accompanied her wherever she went. But she had long since passed the threshold from Ashenvale into the Betrayer’s Mark. She fed upon the aromas of the wilderness, tasted the scent of demons and their consequent rituals, sacrifices and theatrics abound beyond the dim-lit road. In lieu of her eyes, which had since rotted away beyond use shortly after her dark resurrection, she made amicable use of her heightened, ghoulish senses to lead her. And lead her they did, through the thick of the wood and a few scraps along the way. Her arrival back to camp was signaled by the unmistakable sounds of Gaelindra; the horse and its rider each speckled in blood from demons and the damned alike.
Abrethana had become accustomed to inhospitable welcomes and homecomings. Such was a matter of when and not if for that of the Forsaken. Even so, she met their discomforts with hearty salutations, and carried herself by her own knightly virtues atop her ghastly steed. Her silhouette, cloaked by the wretched canopy obscuring day and night alike, was still faintly illuminated by the orb of fire that she had bound to her weapon. Whenever she read from her holy text and filled her maggot-nested body with a flickering, momentary whisper of life, the orb even granted the paladin a sense of warmth to combat the bitter chills of the mountain breeze. It was these brief moments that reminded Abrethana of what little humanity she still possesses. Through the pain and discomfort of feeling every rotting sensation across her body, she reaffirms her constitution and remembers what it is that she’s fighting for.
The memory of an autumn sun glazing the hills of Tirisfal in orange-gold. The memory of dandelions floating atop a noon wind in the monastery courtyard. The warmth of another’s hand, the comfort of meeting another’s eye. The tickle of one’s breath as you witness the first glimpses of a smile break out from one’s face. The softness of watching children run through a summer’s field.
Abrethana had lost much to decay and the Scourge, but buried down, deep within the depths of the heart of a heartless vessel, a picturesque reminiscence of Lordaeron remained unscathed by the plague or its malice. Through it, the memory of how much she loved life bathed her soul in determination and hope. The faithful adherent to the Light that was the Sister Abrethana of Vandermar clung to that memory through the darkness of death, not unlike a storm parting at dawn’s break. If it was the last thing she did in this world, she would defend life, until the heavens themselves parted to finally banish her spirit unto the realm of the damned.
For those who still yet live. For those who are still yet to live.
Expeditions from around Azeroth have been dispatched to meet the resurgence of the Scourge. This expedition, sent forth from Dalaran, has traveled to Kalimdor to defend the world tree at Mount Hyjal. Among their ranks is an undead paladin by the name of Abrethana, who has ventured ahead of her party to scout for dangers.
Gaelindra’s infrequent nickering accompanied the many sounds of the gaunt horse as it trotted along the elfwood road, its ancient stones entangled by vine and root that swam between the crevasses of the path. The horse’s occasional whines were far from natural however, as the very sound had become more akin to a wicked bone-rattle as a consequence of the equine’s skull having, over the course of its unlife, gradually emerged from its flesh. Her rider too bore the wears of decomposition and rot; a feature veiled by the paladin’s own hood and plate. It was difficult enough to evangelize straying souls to the comfort of the Light without being an eyeless, ravenous ghoul whose teeth had sharpened upon splintered femurs. Ironically, Abrethana’s monstrous visage was not an outlier in the demon-soured Felwood.
She had rode ahead of her expedition in the interest of surveying a path forward to the frosted summit of Winterspring, scouting and surveying the lay of the land to then be returned to her fellowship and inform them of the shape of their journey to come. In the evening prior, Abrethana had brokered safe passage for her company from one of the many satyr tribes who inhabit the valley. Such a deal shaved a notable hardship from their impending trek, but left countless others hurdles to consider— including the anxiety of a possible betrayal should the trickster-blooded satyr predictably choose to dishonor their previously held agreement. No one could argue, however, that the possibility of safe passage was at least a step up from the prior arrangement of guaranteed strife.
Though the paladin’s warhammer remained strapped to Gaelindra’s side, Abrethana kept a blade just within reach while passing beneath the light of fel-fire. Previously, she relied on the scrutiny of the Night Elves spying upon her from their canopies to watch her back, and used this advantage to immerse herself in the sanctified codex that accompanied her wherever she went. But she had long since passed the threshold from Ashenvale into the Betrayer’s Mark. She fed upon the aromas of the wilderness, tasted the scent of demons and their consequent rituals, sacrifices and theatrics abound beyond the dim-lit road. In lieu of her eyes, which had since rotted away beyond use shortly after her dark resurrection, she made amicable use of her heightened, ghoulish senses to lead her. And lead her they did, through the thick of the wood and a few scraps along the way. Her arrival back to camp was signaled by the unmistakable sounds of Gaelindra; the horse and its rider each speckled in blood from demons and the damned alike.
Abrethana had become accustomed to inhospitable welcomes and homecomings. Such was a matter of when and not if for that of the Forsaken. Even so, she met their discomforts with hearty salutations, and carried herself by her own knightly virtues atop her ghastly steed. Her silhouette, cloaked by the wretched canopy obscuring day and night alike, was still faintly illuminated by the orb of fire that she had bound to her weapon. Whenever she read from her holy text and filled her maggot-nested body with a flickering, momentary whisper of life, the orb even granted the paladin a sense of warmth to combat the bitter chills of the mountain breeze. It was these brief moments that reminded Abrethana of what little humanity she still possesses. Through the pain and discomfort of feeling every rotting sensation across her body, she reaffirms her constitution and remembers what it is that she’s fighting for.
The memory of an autumn sun glazing the hills of Tirisfal in orange-gold. The memory of dandelions floating atop a noon wind in the monastery courtyard. The warmth of another’s hand, the comfort of meeting another’s eye. The tickle of one’s breath as you witness the first glimpses of a smile break out from one’s face. The softness of watching children run through a summer’s field.
Abrethana had lost much to decay and the Scourge, but buried down, deep within the depths of the heart of a heartless vessel, a picturesque reminiscence of Lordaeron remained unscathed by the plague or its malice. Through it, the memory of how much she loved life bathed her soul in determination and hope. The faithful adherent to the Light that was the Sister Abrethana of Vandermar clung to that memory through the darkness of death, not unlike a storm parting at dawn’s break. If it was the last thing she did in this world, she would defend life, until the heavens themselves parted to finally banish her spirit unto the realm of the damned.
For those who still yet live. For those who are still yet to live.
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