Post by Elowynne on Jul 13, 2009 12:18:27 GMT -5
It had been years since Ezma had traveled to the old Shadedpath estates. She had believed there was nothing there for her but the ramblings of an old orc had convinced her otherwise. Hakael could very well be mad but Ezma didn’t think so. He was a death knight who’s transformation was far, far older than hers and his wisdom in times past had never been far off the mark. His ways were odd and his explanations often confusing but much of that could be chalked up to his age and comprehension of things she was just beginning to grasp.
The dead had voices. Some were merely weak mimicries of their last moments but others had stories. They harbored emotion and power. Hakael had warned her of attempting this too close to Icecrown, near the Lich King’s seat of power. To leave her body where He could see was the height of foolishness. Here though, in the familiar embrace of her childhood home, the danger was lessened.
It was not a shock to Ezma that in the years since the Scourge had razed it, the house no longer stood. Oh, there were bare stony bones here and there, a skeleton slowly falling into dust but the flesh of the house, the wood and plaster, was long gone and the musty scent of rot was strong in the air. The blighted soil crunched under her boots and the vegetation that grew was twisted and mutated, a mockery of its former verdant beauty.
Hakael had said if she wished for the spirits to be forthcoming, she must be open to them. They had no love for death knights, at best seen as proxies for the Lich King. Ezma took in a deep breath and held it before releasing it, closing her eyes. Openness was not her strong suit. Almost without thought, she plucked at the latches of her elaborately runed armor. As each heavy piece of plate was removed, she felt her mind align and her mental defenses were also shed. She gently laid each piece in an orderly pile and carefully leaned her sword against it. Methodically, Ezma stripped herself of all defense. The moonlight turned her colorless skin to silver and a cold night wind whipped her hair around her nude body but the trembling came from the far more frightening sensation of emotional vulnerability. Her usual icy shields were gone and there was nothing to hide behind. With one last shaky breath, Ezma stepped forward to where the once grand entrance to the house had stood.
“Ezma, is it time for your studies so soon?”
She gasped, her resolve wavering at the familiar tones of Eadon Shadedpath. Ezma had no idea what to expect and fear filled her as she turned towards the source of her father’s voice. “No, Father. I would like to speak with you though.” Even in death, Eadon was a vibrant personality. If Ezma had not known better, she would have thought a flesh and blood man stood before her. His bearing was forceful and the set of his chin spoke of a driving pride and ambition. His fire-bright red hair swept down his back past his waist and his face, while beautiful, was soured by the expression of displeasure he wore at his youngest daughter’s impertinence. Ezma fought off the urge to flinch and straightened, lifting her own chin into the air. In the ruins of her old home, she faced her father’s ghost and asked “Why did you hurt us so?”
The dead had voices. Some were merely weak mimicries of their last moments but others had stories. They harbored emotion and power. Hakael had warned her of attempting this too close to Icecrown, near the Lich King’s seat of power. To leave her body where He could see was the height of foolishness. Here though, in the familiar embrace of her childhood home, the danger was lessened.
It was not a shock to Ezma that in the years since the Scourge had razed it, the house no longer stood. Oh, there were bare stony bones here and there, a skeleton slowly falling into dust but the flesh of the house, the wood and plaster, was long gone and the musty scent of rot was strong in the air. The blighted soil crunched under her boots and the vegetation that grew was twisted and mutated, a mockery of its former verdant beauty.
Hakael had said if she wished for the spirits to be forthcoming, she must be open to them. They had no love for death knights, at best seen as proxies for the Lich King. Ezma took in a deep breath and held it before releasing it, closing her eyes. Openness was not her strong suit. Almost without thought, she plucked at the latches of her elaborately runed armor. As each heavy piece of plate was removed, she felt her mind align and her mental defenses were also shed. She gently laid each piece in an orderly pile and carefully leaned her sword against it. Methodically, Ezma stripped herself of all defense. The moonlight turned her colorless skin to silver and a cold night wind whipped her hair around her nude body but the trembling came from the far more frightening sensation of emotional vulnerability. Her usual icy shields were gone and there was nothing to hide behind. With one last shaky breath, Ezma stepped forward to where the once grand entrance to the house had stood.
“Ezma, is it time for your studies so soon?”
She gasped, her resolve wavering at the familiar tones of Eadon Shadedpath. Ezma had no idea what to expect and fear filled her as she turned towards the source of her father’s voice. “No, Father. I would like to speak with you though.” Even in death, Eadon was a vibrant personality. If Ezma had not known better, she would have thought a flesh and blood man stood before her. His bearing was forceful and the set of his chin spoke of a driving pride and ambition. His fire-bright red hair swept down his back past his waist and his face, while beautiful, was soured by the expression of displeasure he wore at his youngest daughter’s impertinence. Ezma fought off the urge to flinch and straightened, lifting her own chin into the air. In the ruins of her old home, she faced her father’s ghost and asked “Why did you hurt us so?”