Aegnas: October 15th: Hunger
I wasn't originally going to write about this. It wasn't particularly special in any way. Last night stands out in my mind not for His mercy, which I am grateful for, but for the ceaseless insanity of the living and for how weak His loyal truly are now. There are hardly any Sin'dorei left, living or dead, who are unchanged. I see petulant children. Blathering idiots. Mindless savages. Ashwake, I think, stands out in my mind as one of the few who truly reflect what I once was.
I care little for pretending to be one of them, of course, but it disgusts me to no end to deal with weakness. These children are weak. They're like the troggs infesting the Titans' cities. They're a twisted mockery of everything that proud and noble race once stood for. I remember, when I was alive, visiting Silvermoon. I made my home in Dalaran, and though my eyes were green as theirs, they looked on me with hostility for wearing the purple robes of the human mage city. Silvermoon was in ruins, but those survivors were so proud. They held their heads high, they enforced order. In those early days, I never saw half-dressed beggars harassing people in the very sanctum of the Blood Knights. They wouldn't have dared. The Blood Knights would never have allowed it.
So my triumphant return to Silvermoon stands out most in my mind not for finally taking my place at the Highlord's side, but for how far these sniveling excuses for Sin'dorei have fallen. It shames me to think that I was once one of them. The girl was annoying. The father, he was baffling. The girl, though, was annoying. She followed us to the execution of the Kaldorei woman. *a few ink spots* That's another thing. Since when are Spellbreakers and Blood Knights so incompetent? That night elf woman walked into Silvermoon City (I do not believe her lies about living here) and while in custody still had possession of all of her weapons. What? Is the new city guard policy to ask enemy soldiers politely if they'd like to be put in jail? Bloody fools.
Enough of that piece of idiocy, though. The woman is dead, and I think the Highlord enjoyed himself immensely. The little rogue girl, though. She witnessed everything. I doubt she saw much, with Draken, Sunthistle, and me blocking the door. I'm not entirely sure why she thought she was unseen. Everything about her displayed her youth and her weakness. We nearly tripped over her on our way down to the execution, and she had the nerve to stay hidden and watch. I put a stop to that, but she was irritatingly persistent with her questions. In a way, she reminded me of Sunthistle, only with less common sense, if that is at all possible. I was grateful Draken, at least, showed a bit of intelligence.
Ah, Draken. Another modern Sin'dorei. I know little about him, only that he is not a true death knight, made by the Master as we were in the days of His reign. He is some sort of undead construct, and I have seen him display none of the strengths of our kind. The Highlord healed him from some sort of injury yesterday. Despite his flinching mannerisms, I find his presence more tolerable than the miserable half-wit Sunthistle. Draken is touched in the head, there is no doubt about that. That fact was plain to see with his writing last night. I think a bomb could have gone off in the Row and he wouldn't have flinched or paused in his writing. Still, he sometimes carries himself like a soldier, which is more than I can say for Sunthistle. The Highlord is imposing, and we, as his soldiers and his guards, are part of that image. As I told Draken. We are Scourge. We are strong. Sunthistle, that rogue whelp, they are weak. Their only use is to feed the ghouls under our care. I don't know if Draken understood my meaning. He is still so in tune with his emotions. He lets them rule him. When something bothers him or upsets him, it is immediately apparent. He lacks discipline and a true understanding of his condition. We are dead. We can afford to be patient. Yelping and whining at our boots is a behavior for dogs and for the living. We are strong. We are...not quite united, but we are close. Calm. In a tense situation, three emotionless soldiers at the Highlord's back could dissuade attack better than any snarling defiance we might show. Should Draken insist on keeping company with the Highlord, I may have to work with him to teach him discipline.
Speaking of discipline. I almost regret speaking in Traejan's defense. One would think that facing the wrath of his Master and his Highlord would cow Traejan's loose tongue and arrogant attitude, but I wonder if it has instead reinforced old behaviors. While we were persuading an annoyingly clingy rogue whelp to leave, he was concerned with a troll. A troll. I understand his disgust with them. I felt that way once myself. Having been raised in the Master's service and served in His Citadel, I find myself less concerned with little differences now. Were I to show my own biases as often as Traejan did, no living would escape my contempt. Truly, race does not matter nearly as much as the united force that left my Master in ruins. Sin'dorei wearing the Crusade's colors are more loathsome than the most primitive troll. When I see them polluting the streets of Silvermoon, I retreat to that icy calm I resort to so often. Discipline. It's what separates us from the pathetic Living.
I didn't mean to spend so much time writing on these little things. Perhaps they bothered me more than I thought, but they are little things compared to everything I've been doing since I left the Highlord's side last night. I'd been confined to New Haven for days. I do not mind our assigned barracks, even though I much preferred His home, where I was taken when I was first rescued. I find myself missing the snow and my less childish brothers. I cannot deny a small bit of resentment that I was allowed to guard his Citadel but not His new home. I wander off topic. Hard not to, now. My mace is sated and so am I, and that contentment is better than any drug. This feeling is like being drunk, but not. I am still so aware but my mind whirls.
Make no mistake, I am not a cannibal by choice. Like the Highlord, I prefer my food cooked, preferably not by an abomination whose 'cooking' consists of allowing something to rot to putrefaction. But I spent many years in my Master's service, far longer than His other loyal. My mace has tasted the blood of paladin and warrior, Sin'dorei and human. The best were always my Master's traitorous servants. I cannot describe the ecstasy of taking back the life he granted the unworthy Ebon scum. It's a feast unlike anything else. Sated as I am now, my mace stirs at the thought of such bounty.
Hunger.
Yes, the Endless Hunger afflicts even those who prefer not to partake of the flesh of the living. When I left the Highlord last night, I left to feed. Hunting for me is not the activity that it is for Solandis, who actively eats his prey, or for what I've seen of Hemoptysis. Both have an animal's understanding of predator and prey. They hunt for food and little else. I do not. I am not afraid to admit greed. Gluttony. Even as a mortal, the lust for power was more important to me than lusts for food or sex. With my mace crying its hunger into my mind, it can be overwhelming now.
It was for me last night. I found myself in Northrend, in Icecrown. I remember activating the orb in the Spire to transport myself to the Undercity, but I remember little else. By that time, my mace was crying piteously in my mind. I had ignored it for far too long. Ice and snow crunched under my boots, but I paid it no mind. I scarcely felt the wind that blew. The snow that came with it was just an obstacle, keeping me from seeing my prey. It kept them from seeing me, too.
I had taken the Highlord's tabard off and replaced it with the torn and blood-stained Ebon Blade tabard I keep. Useful thing, it is. I didn't expect either the Crusade or the Ebon Blade to think me an ally, though. No, it was merely for show. Look, I've killed one of your friends and you will be next. My mind is wandering again. Focus. I stumbled upon a small camp of Argent Crusade. There were two of them, a lone pair of paladins. They couldn't have thought me Ebon Blade. My tabard was stained but my armor gleamed. My mace was eager and hungry in my hand, and blinded as they were by the Light, there is still no way they couldn't have felt its malice.
Had I been thinking clearly, confronting two Crusaders alone would have given me reason to pause but, as I said. The Hunger makes me greedy. Lucky for me, then, that it was so late in the night. Neither of them were prepared for an attack. One paladin stood on sentry duty while the other slept. He barely had time to cry out before I swung my mace hard at his face. I didn't bother to plague him. The freezing blast of ice I unleashed on him did that. I think he intended to cast a spell. I know I heard prayer and felt the air around him growing uncomfortable. I silenced him not with a spell, but with my mace crashing down upon his head.
The other one woke up by this time, of course. He was scrambling for his shield, sword in hand, when I drew him to me. He was a better fighter than his brother, and I have a few minor burns that will need tending, but in the end his broken body laid in the snow next to the other. Taking their lives had been exhilarating, and both of us, my mace and I, stood there panting, lost in the moment.
That's probably why the third Crusader took me by surprise. His blow was hard against my back. Had I not been wearing my armor, it may have been crippling. But there was no sting of Light in his blows. I do not think he was a paladin, or if he was, he was nothing but a green recruit. He was skilled with a blade, though. He managed to block my blows, even weakened by the icy plague in his veins. I will have work for a blacksmith tonight, for several of his blows were hard enough to dent my plate armor. Still, he was weakening under the twin assault of ice and heavy mace. I am not sure what killed him. One minute, I remember blocking his sword and expending the power of one of my own runes to launch another freezing assault on him. The next, he was bleeding at my feet.
My mace is well-sated now. I've cleaned up as best I can, though I will need some things repaired before they will be safe to wear again. The three I hunted are not quite dead yet, but they are growing weak. Time now to arrange transport for them to New Haven. The ghouls will enjoy them far more if they're fresh.
I care little for pretending to be one of them, of course, but it disgusts me to no end to deal with weakness. These children are weak. They're like the troggs infesting the Titans' cities. They're a twisted mockery of everything that proud and noble race once stood for. I remember, when I was alive, visiting Silvermoon. I made my home in Dalaran, and though my eyes were green as theirs, they looked on me with hostility for wearing the purple robes of the human mage city. Silvermoon was in ruins, but those survivors were so proud. They held their heads high, they enforced order. In those early days, I never saw half-dressed beggars harassing people in the very sanctum of the Blood Knights. They wouldn't have dared. The Blood Knights would never have allowed it.
So my triumphant return to Silvermoon stands out most in my mind not for finally taking my place at the Highlord's side, but for how far these sniveling excuses for Sin'dorei have fallen. It shames me to think that I was once one of them. The girl was annoying. The father, he was baffling. The girl, though, was annoying. She followed us to the execution of the Kaldorei woman. *a few ink spots* That's another thing. Since when are Spellbreakers and Blood Knights so incompetent? That night elf woman walked into Silvermoon City (I do not believe her lies about living here) and while in custody still had possession of all of her weapons. What? Is the new city guard policy to ask enemy soldiers politely if they'd like to be put in jail? Bloody fools.
Enough of that piece of idiocy, though. The woman is dead, and I think the Highlord enjoyed himself immensely. The little rogue girl, though. She witnessed everything. I doubt she saw much, with Draken, Sunthistle, and me blocking the door. I'm not entirely sure why she thought she was unseen. Everything about her displayed her youth and her weakness. We nearly tripped over her on our way down to the execution, and she had the nerve to stay hidden and watch. I put a stop to that, but she was irritatingly persistent with her questions. In a way, she reminded me of Sunthistle, only with less common sense, if that is at all possible. I was grateful Draken, at least, showed a bit of intelligence.
Ah, Draken. Another modern Sin'dorei. I know little about him, only that he is not a true death knight, made by the Master as we were in the days of His reign. He is some sort of undead construct, and I have seen him display none of the strengths of our kind. The Highlord healed him from some sort of injury yesterday. Despite his flinching mannerisms, I find his presence more tolerable than the miserable half-wit Sunthistle. Draken is touched in the head, there is no doubt about that. That fact was plain to see with his writing last night. I think a bomb could have gone off in the Row and he wouldn't have flinched or paused in his writing. Still, he sometimes carries himself like a soldier, which is more than I can say for Sunthistle. The Highlord is imposing, and we, as his soldiers and his guards, are part of that image. As I told Draken. We are Scourge. We are strong. Sunthistle, that rogue whelp, they are weak. Their only use is to feed the ghouls under our care. I don't know if Draken understood my meaning. He is still so in tune with his emotions. He lets them rule him. When something bothers him or upsets him, it is immediately apparent. He lacks discipline and a true understanding of his condition. We are dead. We can afford to be patient. Yelping and whining at our boots is a behavior for dogs and for the living. We are strong. We are...not quite united, but we are close. Calm. In a tense situation, three emotionless soldiers at the Highlord's back could dissuade attack better than any snarling defiance we might show. Should Draken insist on keeping company with the Highlord, I may have to work with him to teach him discipline.
Speaking of discipline. I almost regret speaking in Traejan's defense. One would think that facing the wrath of his Master and his Highlord would cow Traejan's loose tongue and arrogant attitude, but I wonder if it has instead reinforced old behaviors. While we were persuading an annoyingly clingy rogue whelp to leave, he was concerned with a troll. A troll. I understand his disgust with them. I felt that way once myself. Having been raised in the Master's service and served in His Citadel, I find myself less concerned with little differences now. Were I to show my own biases as often as Traejan did, no living would escape my contempt. Truly, race does not matter nearly as much as the united force that left my Master in ruins. Sin'dorei wearing the Crusade's colors are more loathsome than the most primitive troll. When I see them polluting the streets of Silvermoon, I retreat to that icy calm I resort to so often. Discipline. It's what separates us from the pathetic Living.
I didn't mean to spend so much time writing on these little things. Perhaps they bothered me more than I thought, but they are little things compared to everything I've been doing since I left the Highlord's side last night. I'd been confined to New Haven for days. I do not mind our assigned barracks, even though I much preferred His home, where I was taken when I was first rescued. I find myself missing the snow and my less childish brothers. I cannot deny a small bit of resentment that I was allowed to guard his Citadel but not His new home. I wander off topic. Hard not to, now. My mace is sated and so am I, and that contentment is better than any drug. This feeling is like being drunk, but not. I am still so aware but my mind whirls.
Make no mistake, I am not a cannibal by choice. Like the Highlord, I prefer my food cooked, preferably not by an abomination whose 'cooking' consists of allowing something to rot to putrefaction. But I spent many years in my Master's service, far longer than His other loyal. My mace has tasted the blood of paladin and warrior, Sin'dorei and human. The best were always my Master's traitorous servants. I cannot describe the ecstasy of taking back the life he granted the unworthy Ebon scum. It's a feast unlike anything else. Sated as I am now, my mace stirs at the thought of such bounty.
Hunger.
Yes, the Endless Hunger afflicts even those who prefer not to partake of the flesh of the living. When I left the Highlord last night, I left to feed. Hunting for me is not the activity that it is for Solandis, who actively eats his prey, or for what I've seen of Hemoptysis. Both have an animal's understanding of predator and prey. They hunt for food and little else. I do not. I am not afraid to admit greed. Gluttony. Even as a mortal, the lust for power was more important to me than lusts for food or sex. With my mace crying its hunger into my mind, it can be overwhelming now.
It was for me last night. I found myself in Northrend, in Icecrown. I remember activating the orb in the Spire to transport myself to the Undercity, but I remember little else. By that time, my mace was crying piteously in my mind. I had ignored it for far too long. Ice and snow crunched under my boots, but I paid it no mind. I scarcely felt the wind that blew. The snow that came with it was just an obstacle, keeping me from seeing my prey. It kept them from seeing me, too.
I had taken the Highlord's tabard off and replaced it with the torn and blood-stained Ebon Blade tabard I keep. Useful thing, it is. I didn't expect either the Crusade or the Ebon Blade to think me an ally, though. No, it was merely for show. Look, I've killed one of your friends and you will be next. My mind is wandering again. Focus. I stumbled upon a small camp of Argent Crusade. There were two of them, a lone pair of paladins. They couldn't have thought me Ebon Blade. My tabard was stained but my armor gleamed. My mace was eager and hungry in my hand, and blinded as they were by the Light, there is still no way they couldn't have felt its malice.
Had I been thinking clearly, confronting two Crusaders alone would have given me reason to pause but, as I said. The Hunger makes me greedy. Lucky for me, then, that it was so late in the night. Neither of them were prepared for an attack. One paladin stood on sentry duty while the other slept. He barely had time to cry out before I swung my mace hard at his face. I didn't bother to plague him. The freezing blast of ice I unleashed on him did that. I think he intended to cast a spell. I know I heard prayer and felt the air around him growing uncomfortable. I silenced him not with a spell, but with my mace crashing down upon his head.
The other one woke up by this time, of course. He was scrambling for his shield, sword in hand, when I drew him to me. He was a better fighter than his brother, and I have a few minor burns that will need tending, but in the end his broken body laid in the snow next to the other. Taking their lives had been exhilarating, and both of us, my mace and I, stood there panting, lost in the moment.
That's probably why the third Crusader took me by surprise. His blow was hard against my back. Had I not been wearing my armor, it may have been crippling. But there was no sting of Light in his blows. I do not think he was a paladin, or if he was, he was nothing but a green recruit. He was skilled with a blade, though. He managed to block my blows, even weakened by the icy plague in his veins. I will have work for a blacksmith tonight, for several of his blows were hard enough to dent my plate armor. Still, he was weakening under the twin assault of ice and heavy mace. I am not sure what killed him. One minute, I remember blocking his sword and expending the power of one of my own runes to launch another freezing assault on him. The next, he was bleeding at my feet.
My mace is well-sated now. I've cleaned up as best I can, though I will need some things repaired before they will be safe to wear again. The three I hunted are not quite dead yet, but they are growing weak. Time now to arrange transport for them to New Haven. The ghouls will enjoy them far more if they're fresh.