My Weakness I Feel I Must Finally Show [open]
Eredar. If there was a word that could make a draenei visibly flinch, and raise cultural memories of destruction and genocide, it was that. They were not a perfect people, splintered and fractured time and time again, until only the last handful of Draenei remained. With the threat looming over them always, always, always, that someday the Light might abandon them and turn them in to demons, or worse, krokul. Theirs was an accord of faith. And now, it was just her and one other awake on the ship.
What a saddening and maddening turn.
Perhaps Karis was right, and someday she would feel the Light rise up in her for the exact purpose of striking down the virulent, vulgar, repulsive creature. Even Seviilia, who was just as dead, at least kept her peace, cold and efficient as always. Would she blindly strike them down, filled with the Light's Glory?
At least Seviilia could be spoken to, reasoned with, and despite all the mental sarcasm Nehaalista could muster, it had always been a pleasure to work with her. Working and speaking to Karis felt more like Nehaalista was willingly grinding her horns into powder against a wall of saronite.
Still, her dreaming that night tormented her, and Nehaalista tossed and turned in her bed. Unable to cry out, or moan, or whimper until watching the last, unholy, yellow light fade from Karis's eyes as the wicked, Eredar version of herself took joyous pleasure in the Forsaken's death. The rolling fel energy off the eredar made her dreamself feel sickly and weak.
You will fall, she taunted Nehaalista. You will fall, and we will have victory.
The Vindicator fell out of bed with a meaty thunk and shook her head to clear it. She righted her dark-colored shift and looked up to make sure Choline hadn't stirred. The night elf had enough on her plate than to worry about Nehaalista's nightmares. Her curls had straightened out in the night, and were unceremoniously piled atop her head.
Alright, then, Nehaalista thought as she sat upon a couch on the observational deck. No more slop before bed, yes? Yes. Her tail swished back and forth behind her, uncertain and flighty as she ran her fingers over and over her mother's favorite piece of living ruby, shaped into an unfinished flower from Argus and warm to the touch.
The Light would guide her to do what was best, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it?
What a saddening and maddening turn.
Perhaps Karis was right, and someday she would feel the Light rise up in her for the exact purpose of striking down the virulent, vulgar, repulsive creature. Even Seviilia, who was just as dead, at least kept her peace, cold and efficient as always. Would she blindly strike them down, filled with the Light's Glory?
At least Seviilia could be spoken to, reasoned with, and despite all the mental sarcasm Nehaalista could muster, it had always been a pleasure to work with her. Working and speaking to Karis felt more like Nehaalista was willingly grinding her horns into powder against a wall of saronite.
Still, her dreaming that night tormented her, and Nehaalista tossed and turned in her bed. Unable to cry out, or moan, or whimper until watching the last, unholy, yellow light fade from Karis's eyes as the wicked, Eredar version of herself took joyous pleasure in the Forsaken's death. The rolling fel energy off the eredar made her dreamself feel sickly and weak.
You will fall, she taunted Nehaalista. You will fall, and we will have victory.
The Vindicator fell out of bed with a meaty thunk and shook her head to clear it. She righted her dark-colored shift and looked up to make sure Choline hadn't stirred. The night elf had enough on her plate than to worry about Nehaalista's nightmares. Her curls had straightened out in the night, and were unceremoniously piled atop her head.
Alright, then, Nehaalista thought as she sat upon a couch on the observational deck. No more slop before bed, yes? Yes. Her tail swished back and forth behind her, uncertain and flighty as she ran her fingers over and over her mother's favorite piece of living ruby, shaped into an unfinished flower from Argus and warm to the touch.
The Light would guide her to do what was best, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it?