A Glimpse Of Perdition

Rossamund gave Frovelos a playful smirk, the bleached, wooden mask already being lifted to her face. “No way. Trophies of war, my dude.” She replied as the dark cavity of the mask covered her face.

It felt so familiar, looked so familiar. A grey wash fell over her perception, staining all she saw with a lifeless tone. The Knight was dimly aware of the sensation of her of her mind being peeled back, layer by layer until her own organics and willpower were completely separate entities. These separate halves were now under the dominion of the forms she saw through her wide eyes; dark, looming shapes, that seemed to flicker, changing shapes, even shifting in numbers present. Specters of Rossamund’s past pointed down at her, leering with lichfire eyes, and gave their command.

“Have it your way. Probably looks better on you.” Rossamund’s vision came back, Frovelos before her, smiling and chuckling softly. She broke his ribs with the Vox Mortalis, droning the imperative her new, or maybe old, masters had given. Just beyond where Frovelos lay writhing in pain, the shadow that had invisibly stalked her since The Maw met her gaze and nodded just slightly.

“This grove belongs to the masters. Die.” She droned, her voice flat and emotionless, so much like it had been in her service to The Frozen Throne. Through that grey filter, the detached consciousness of Rossamund Thackery watched as she laid into her allies, her friends. Shrugging off the magical assault from Jo and Sibyl. James’ fangs sinking deep into her waist and hips, bones breaking under that vice. This illicited no feelings of pain, or even annoyance, Rossamund simply observed.

She watched closely as she battered brave Sibyl away from her as the Gnome made to remove the mask from her face. No guilt, even in the face of raising a hand against a good friend. A gleeful smile spread under the wooden mask, unseen by her targets, as the Knight plied her necromantic arts, choking the life from her commanding officer with naught but a gesture. The panic in Jocastia’s eyes only registered as dull satisfaction. Her own, or theirs? So far detached to who she had rebuilt herself as, Rossamund simply watched as the two forces pushed back and forth at each other. Her haunting shade, glimpsed from the corner of her eye, seemed to shudder in anticipation as she raised the Vox Mortalis up to smash it down on James’ bearform spine.

Then, all she could see was fire. She did not feel the blast furnace wave of heat as it turned the accursed mask to cinders, as it cooked the flesh from her grinning skull. She dimly registered the shade shrieking in rage, shrieking through her own body as the puppeted form of Rossamund was thrashed about by wicker, ursine form of James. Finally, as the grey vista of her vision began to darken in the oncoming advance of unconsciousness, Rossamund finally felt something. Guilt.

That guilt followed Rossamund in her dreams. She was dragging her broken body through disturbingly familiar halls, a trail of black ichor staining the floor in her wake. Above her, she dimly registered, that hateful shade drifted alongside it’s new charge, a soft noise coming from the entity that might have been a disdainful laugh. Rossamund did her best to ignore the shade, focusing on her progress down the seemingly endless hall, one hand over the other, dragging herself forward with the talons of her gauntlets. She could see a figure ahead, cut in silhouette, the only light it’s pair of lichfire eyes staring back at her.

There, the dream faded into the senseless whorl of subconscious. Snippets of her long lost life, atrocities committed in unlife, and all the heart-wrenching feelings such memories brought.

((CW WARNING: General gore, burns, exposed skellingtons.))

A group of Ebon Blade Knights gathered in an isolated corner of Oribos, standing in a semi circle as they all took in the sight recently laid at their feet. These Knights were veterans, having served under the Highlord for the many long years since the rebellion of Acherus and it’s contingent of Death Knights. Still, the sight of Rossamund Thackery’s exposed, grinning skull, crusted with the remains of burnt flesh, was an uncomfortable reminder to each present. Death would eventually come for each and every one of them, no matter their seeming immortality.

“The Kakophoni has finally fallen.” One remarks, a rugged Orc, their armor a grim and stylized mirror of his people’s usual armor. “I remember when we took the Citadel, and she kept us all at bay with that miserable band of hers.” A Forsaken Knight snorted derisively at the Orc’s remark, while a Draenei shook her head.

“Show some respect, she may not be of Acherus like us, but she was of the Ebon Blade.” She gives both the Orc and the Forsaken a hard look, her cracked lips curled in a disapproving frown. “What would our younger siblings think of this sort of talk? At any rate…” She trailed off, crouching down and laying a hand on the singed skull of the fallen Knight. “… She has not left us yet, but this sort of damage will be a steep task to repair. Her spirit is so faint.” At this proclamation, a grim silence fell over the group of veterans. This silence was broken by a pair of approaching footfalls, one heavy and ponderous, the other a light, click-clack of bone.

“Perhapsss, we might offer aid.” Came a rasping voice from the grave, each Knight tensing and turning to face the newcomers, hostile in posture save for the one still kneeling at Rossamund’s side. A great hulk of a being towered over them, their form laden with rough-hewn armor, bedecked in brutal spikes and blades. Their face was hidden by a grisly, horned helm with no evident eye slits, just a blank face covered in twin rows of studs. The other, the speaker, was a literally skeletal figure, it’s bare skull grinning somehow amiably from under their rich, purple hood, it’s eyes twinkling with pinpoints of green flames. An awkward silence drew on as both parties stared each other down. “Misss Rossamund Thackery has already made quite the positive impression on Maldraxxusss and even has made use of the skillsss of our talented fleshcraftersss before.” The skeletal figure continued, having not been outright rebuked. “We would be saddened to see a Maw Walker such as her passs on too soon.”

“Tha Maldraxxi could save her?” The Draenic Knight asked, standing up to their full height, looking down at the skeletal being with a hard, incredulous look. “Even amid this anima drought, and a civil war broken out in your lands, you would go out of your way to save this soul?” At this, the other Knights murmured their assent, suspicious of such a proposition. The hulking being spoke up, then, nodding to Rossamund’s prone form.

“I have taught that one to rear her own flayed wing and ride above a battlefield like any proper Maldraxxi should. I have taught her the words of The Primus, and she has taken to that sacred ethos with an open and keen mind. The moment she set foot on Maldraxxus, I saw in her eyes that she had found her home. Though, thankfully, she has not passed on yet, I know The House of The Chosen would rather she be given the chance to stand among their ranks.” He gestured to Rossamund. “Please, let us save her, so she may fight to save the Shadowlands.”

“Take her, then.” Came a deep, echoing voice from behind the pair of Maldraxxi, and as the pair turned to face the speaker the Knights all stood to attention. “If the Maldraxxi can save one of our own, the Knights of the Ebon Blade will be all the more motivated to fight for the Shadowlands. Do what needs to be done, and go with my thanks.”

“Thank you, Highlord.” Replied Alamar, turning back and moving to gingerly collect Rossamund.