Ezma's Song

[Elowynne]

I remember it far too clearly.

There was a simplicity to it all. I was the embodiment of someone else's will. I was the weapon with which He cut through flesh and blood. I was the harbinger of the terror He would spread. There was no thought. There was no emotion. There was the glory of the war song and the comfort of His voice.

No one can ever know.

There was a purity in that cold grasp. No dissenting opinion was ever heard. His will was mine. My strength was His. He was my God. My prayer was the blood of the innocent and my hymn the screams of the meek. My body and blade moved in His dance of death and it was sweet.

It stains the remnants of my soul.

One day, it went away. The rush of battle and the glory of the war song just stopped. I was a marionette who's strings had been cut. What was I without the song? Nothing. I heard Darion Mograine speak but I could not begin to wrap my mind around the words. I was taken to Archeon where for days I did not move or speak. It was believed I would have to be destroyed.

Luckily, I am made of sterner stuff.

Orders. Orders are easy. Orders of fealty to the Ebon Blade. Orders to work for a greater purpose. Orders to bring back twelve pig livers. I could almost pretend, almost go back to that simplicity. The rituals of a soldier's life has consumed me, comforted me.

But no one can ever know.

I look for it in my brothers and sisters. I look for tale-tell signs in those who also sang His song. Is it in the deadness of a runic blue gaze? In lusts barely contained? In an icy reserve? Is it why an old orc dotes on a ghoul that is rapidly becoming something other? Is it why a huge dire troll, who should fear nothing, fears the monsters? We bear marks and they are not as hidden as we would like to think.

Oddities, far beyond the reach of anything holy, much less sane.

Sometimes, when the snow reaches the top of my boots, when the sky has gone leaden with unshed snow and dark magics, I'll almost hear it. It's in the distant groanings of the Scourge. It's in the chanting of the human cultists who have sold their souls. Most of all though, it's in the wind rushing around those rocky, icy peaks. Just beyond my reach, the war song sings.

Simplicity of thought. Purity of purpose. No one can ever know.

I miss it.

[Elowynne]

There is a compulsion within me. A need for order. Everything has a place and there it must go. My hair must be faultless, my tabard lay just so, my armor spotless and gleaming.

Within the heat of battle, I am fine. The bloodlust, the unholy thing within me, surges. I care not for the gore on my blades and plate. The blood spattering against my hair and skin goes unnoticed. I do not heed the bloody footprints my boots leave in the snow. But when it is over…

I make Kronk take me to the nearest stream, river or lake… I care not which, as long as it affords privacy. Once there, I practically throw off the plate. Everything goes, even the linen underclothes. And there, in the frigid icemelt, I scrub every inch of my body as if I could truly remove the grime that taints my very being. Kronk always stands watch, silent. Perhaps I imagine the sadness I see in his deep-set eyes.

My underthings and tabard replaced, every piece of armor polished to a sheen and my hair once again perfectly in place, I feel as if I can finally stop the trembling that has consumed me. Kronk will nudge me, his hot breath washing over me, and invite me to lean on him for the moment. He never speaks.. why does he never speak? Please, tell me what I should do.

I no longer see the blood but I can still feel it.

[Elowynne]

I broke today. How can I describe something so terrifying and so primal? I cannot so I must simply live with it. It was only a cultist. It was no one of consequence… no one who will ever be missed. There were no witnesses but still… I know.



When he turns that blank, milky gaze my way, does he realize what I’ve done to him? Does his lack of understanding make it any more forgivable?

No. May he serve as my reminder.



Depleting the forces of Arthas was an everyday job and the Ebon Blade paid well for the ending of each cultist. The kills must be clean and no hope of them returning to The Lich King’s armies was a requirement. It was easy work that barely disturbed Ezma’s usual icy calm. After all, these were humans who had done the unforgivable. They had turned their backs on any semblance of decency and willingly sold their souls to The Lich King.



Restlessness. Ezma let out a small huff as she retightened the straps on her plated gloves. She couldn't seem to leave them alone as an unreal energy set her nerves to jangling. The troll death knight who usually handed out the assignments gave her a tusky grin at her supposed impatience. The bits of bone he wore in his braided hair sounded eerily like windchimes as they clacked with the motions of his body. Ezma snatched the scroll from his hand and did her best to avoid any eye contact as the troll snarked, in a hollow rasp, “Ya go getcha some, girlie!” She refused to dignify his statement with even a mutter as she stomped back to Kronk, her waiting protodrake. Routine, and it's usual soothing effect, was waiting.


Ezma double checked her orders as the massive drake landed near the Aldur'thar gate in northern Icecrown. Even from here, the stench from the Cult of the Damned's cauldrons reached, their poisonous contents kicking up noxious fumes. Kronk gave an amused snort as Ezma, frowning with worry, shooed him off so he wasn't exposed to the foul vapors. With a sharp about-turn, Ezma marched towards the massive, spiked structure, sitting in marked contrast to the snow-covered mountains of Icecrown. With the cultists presenting so little challenge, her mind idled as muscle memory took over, dispatching the mad humans with a ruthless efficiency. It was her own carelessness, her own inattention, that allowed one of the cultists she was engaged in to slip in a blow to her ribcage. It didn't hurt... it was the shock of the hit, the clang against her armor, that focused more than her mind. The taste of rot filled Ezma's mouth and her vision blurred as dark energy raced through her veins. She backhanded the gaunt man and he lost his grip on the dagger as he fell to the dirty floor.


He was down. He was no threat. Ezma whimpered, silently repeating the mantra as she put down her axe in an attempt to rein in the blackness, to push her temper back behind the ice. The cultist looked her in the eye, giggling. His eyes were wild and insane as he made an obscene gesture. The last of her self-control incinerated in a hot rush and Ezma was barely aware that the mad animal howl that filled the air came from her.


Neither used a weapon but what was a filthy robe next to runed plate? His strength was born of insanity but in the end, he was no match for an enraged death knight. At first the cultist fought back, landing weakened blows on her armor, scratching at her face and even pulling her hair but Ezma continued her relentless assault. Her eyes were unseeing as her metal gloved fists pummeled him again and again. His insane giggle continued, though blood was pooling under him and his bones were breaking under her blows. The black fury raged through Ezma as she beat the cultist to death with her hands. Finally, he choked, his blood-filled lungs wheezing one more time before he died, the laughter silenced.


She shuddered as the violent anger receded, drawing back to allow rational thought once more. Her breath came out in short, hard gasps, her muscles burning and her nerve endings tingling as the warm remnants of the adrenaline-fueled thrill dissipated. Despair and shame rose, occupying the space left behind. Ezma rocked and hugged herself. Her carefully constructed control, gone. Shattered in an instant by something that should have had no significance. Shaky and spent, she regained her feet. Tired, Ezma picked her axe back up and placed it in it's holster on her back. For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the broken lump that had once been a man. A word, a surge of power, and it twitched. Unable to defy it's new mistress, the remnants of the broken cultist pulled itself together. Trembling, Ezma trudged through the snow to find Kronk, the fresh ghoul following close behind.