The Sundering [Open]
Seviilia had spent her last few days scouring every inch of the ship she was able to in hopes of locating something (or someone, preferably) that was familiar to her. The elf had taken full advantage of the fact that the undead needed no rest, though she had come up mostly empty handed until today.
She hadn't realized where she had wandered in her half-trance. While she hadn't needed to rest, taking in the fact that Azeroth was gone had done a number on her -- certainly more than she would ever admit. The Death Knight paused to finally take in her surroundings in the sensoriums, expression hardening a bit.
There was no sound, aside from the occasional gust of wind pushing at the long-dead enchanted trees, causing them to creek with age. No sun shone here and all the soil was dead around her. Elven craftsmanship was obvious along the road, though it had all fallen to ruin years ago. She remembered every detail of it.
Quel'thalas -- more specifically, the Ghostlands as they were now called -- had once been lush in eternal summer, filled to the brim with elves honing their skills in magic or archery. Every spec of life had faded since the march of the Scourge, the march she had been forced to take part in. In the distance, she could see the images of the restless spirits that wandered the lands. Many of the undead numbers had since fallen after the death of their King. Still, a few zombies shambled here and there. One remained at her side faithfully, picking at a broken pile of chainmail like an innocent three-year old child.
It wasn't Aelaidas or Icecrown...but it was better than nothing and lent her a bit of bittersweet calm, shown as her taught shoulders lent themselves some rest, despite the terrible weapon strapped to her spine.
She hadn't realized where she had wandered in her half-trance. While she hadn't needed to rest, taking in the fact that Azeroth was gone had done a number on her -- certainly more than she would ever admit. The Death Knight paused to finally take in her surroundings in the sensoriums, expression hardening a bit.
There was no sound, aside from the occasional gust of wind pushing at the long-dead enchanted trees, causing them to creek with age. No sun shone here and all the soil was dead around her. Elven craftsmanship was obvious along the road, though it had all fallen to ruin years ago. She remembered every detail of it.
Quel'thalas -- more specifically, the Ghostlands as they were now called -- had once been lush in eternal summer, filled to the brim with elves honing their skills in magic or archery. Every spec of life had faded since the march of the Scourge, the march she had been forced to take part in. In the distance, she could see the images of the restless spirits that wandered the lands. Many of the undead numbers had since fallen after the death of their King. Still, a few zombies shambled here and there. One remained at her side faithfully, picking at a broken pile of chainmail like an innocent three-year old child.
It wasn't Aelaidas or Icecrown...but it was better than nothing and lent her a bit of bittersweet calm, shown as her taught shoulders lent themselves some rest, despite the terrible weapon strapped to her spine.