Chapter Text
Falandra was lying on a cold slab of stone, her wrists and ankles held in place by leather straps. Something warm was spreading under her body. It was blood, flowing steadily from the deep wound in her side. A banshee was looming above her, her bushy hair standing on edge, her wobbly breasts dangling in her once elegant dress, wailing an endless, unnerving dirge. Everything would have been eerily quiet, if not for the banshee, a bored lich tapping some rhythm on his bones in the corner, and her own rattles of dying.
Her mind reached out to sense any kind of life in this land overflown with undeath, to seek out tiny pockets of Nature’s resistance to the Scourge, striving for survival against all odds… but she felt nothing. She reached for the stars, another source of her power… again, nothing. She was severed from all support. Either all the world was dead around her, or her roots clinging to life had been ripped out. That sword. It must have been that sword. The dark, runeforged weapon that had torn its way into her body and soul alike.
She desperately fumbled for memories she could hold on to. Her family. Her love, watching her ship depart from the shores of Auberdine and disappear in the mists of the Veiled Sea, after their first and last night together… She couldn’t even picture his face, let alone his name. All her past was falling apart, flowing out between her fingers, like the dry sand of Silithus. Only the present remained, where Falandra Silverleaf of the Claw was bleeding to death and being prepared for something worse.
Images from her last fight flashed back into her mind with unpleasant sharpness. That half-crazed villager who complained about his farm having been razed and his family massacred by Veanne Blightdancer, a ruthless death knight of the Scourge, and gave her the quest to stop that monster in her bloody tracks and save whoever she could. The poor fellow was smelling of decay himself, although that was not unusual in these Scourge-ridden lands after an undead attack… or was it? Anyway, she jotted down a quick note for Rayne, her pack leader, druid trainer and superior, to let her know where she was heading, took her stealthy cat shapeshift, and set out to find the dangerous foe. It didn’t take much effort. Blightdancer and her gang of ghouls were still hanging out around the destroyed farmstead, as if waiting for her. The trap was sprung. The death knight commanded her minions to stand down, and called Falandra to a duel. Fangs and claws against steel and decay. She felt the revolting taste of undead ichor as she mangled her foe’s flesh. A claw swipe tore off the death knight’s helmet… and as she saw her face, she was overwhelmed with horror. It was a very young sin’dorei girl, almost a child, her skin and hair white as if bleached, her eyes glowing in piercing, watery Scourge blue. She could have been Falandra’s little sister. She just stared at that face, petrified and disgusted to the core, and only woke from the trance when the death knight pushed her off herself and buried her runeforged blade in her side. She heard a triumphant howl of intoxication as her blood splashed into her foe’s face, and felt something snap… and not only her ribs. As if a piece of her soul were ripped off and devoured by the sword. She snarled in despair, trying to shapeshift again and strike back. Nothing happened, just her own blood bubbled up into her mouth. Then she heard the girl’s eerie, resounding voice: “Take her to the ziggurat! And be quick about it. Time is running out.”
Now, in her despair, Falandra turned to prayer. She tried to imagine the Moon, somewhere outside this cursed ziggurat, shedding its blessed light upon the plagued lands of Azeroth. Her mother had sacrificed her life in the service of the goddess. Elune had taken her during a misguided ritual, as well as the glow of little Falandra’s eyes, setting her apart for herself, as her father had once said… And now she was dying in captivity, only to be turned into a weapon against life. Elune… Don’t let them use me…
Something snapped again. As if she lost another shard of herself. Still, the goddess remained distant. The words of her prayer bounced back on her from the walls of her prison.
You can’t hear me… There is no chance…
She didn’t even realise that she actually pronounced the last words, until the answer came in the cold whisper of the lich.
“This is your chance, by the grace of the Lich King. Go for it, and embrace your destiny in His service.”
It was no surprise, but it still cut deep. All of Falandra’s nerves were screaming no. All but one. What will you gain by refusing to comply? Here you are, a broken body and a mutilated soul, severed from your pack, your forest, your stars, your goddess. No chance to resist. These blightlickers will do to you whatever they wish. Why not take this offer, bide your time, and get back at them when they least expect it? She found herself listening attentively to that tiny voice. Infiltrate the Scourge and nibble at them from within. One more chance. If there is one more chance, only a fool would reject it.
The banshee fell silent and cast a questioning glance at the lich. He nodded.
The cold slab of stone drained the last drop of warmth from Falandra’s body. The shivering, screaming nerves began to feel distant, like the faint echo of pain in a lost limb, or in a soul shard devoured by a runeblade. The tiny voice was now strong and clear. One last crazy attempt to breathe, stifled in a rattle…
The endless moment of silence was broken by a jolt of unbearable pain and the whispering voice of the lich.
“Rise, champion! Your work is not complete yet.”
The leather straps fell off Falandra’s limbs. She sat up on the stone with a gasp, and looked around.
“What… what happened?”
“Welcome to the Scourge, initiate,” said the banshee with a hideous grin. “Your training will start in a few days. Until then, you can make yourself useful in another way.”
“I’m told you are a decent alchemist,” whispered the lich. “As a first task, you’ll help Noth the Plaguebringer whip up a few batches of plague. Just to make this land feel more like home.”
“And you might want to think about your name,” added the banshee. “I already have a few lovely ideas for… Oh my, we have visitors!”
“Ssh!” said the lich. “Let her handle it.”
Two attackers broke their way into the ziggurat. A human paladin of the Argent Dawn and another kaldorei druid from Rayne’s pack. Falandra had once known their names, but now she scanned her memories all in vain. In fact, she didn’t really find anything to scan.
“Falandra!” yelled the druid. “Thank Elune you’re alive!”
He lurched forward to rush to her, but the paladin grabbed him by the arm and held him back.
“No, she is not,” he said softly.
The banshee started another earsplitting song. The lich tossed his staff at Falandra.
“Prove your worth!”
Falandra’s black eyes flared up with a slight blue undertone. She caught the staff mid-air, and let out a fierce battlecry:
“For the Lich King!”
Her voice sounded as if coming from a crypt. Just like Blightdancer’s voice.
“Falandra?! No! What have you done to her?” screamed the druid. He shifted to moonkin form and started to bombard the two undead with his astral spells.
“Traitor! I don’t even know you anymore!” roared the paladin, charging to take on the fledgling death knight, hammer in his hands.
Unfortunately for the attackers, Falandra was quite good with staves and polearms. Soon both of them lay dead on the ground. It somehow felt… satisfying. The banshee shot another questioning glance at the lich.
“No,” said the lich. “Just feed them to the ghouls. Let’s not keep the Plaguebringer waiting any longer.”
It was Falandra’s umpteenth day in the Pit, an arena in the middle of the floating necropolis of Acherus, shackled, hungry and bored. Boredom was even worse than the damage to her self-esteem when she’d been judged unworthy. And all that because of bloody alchemy. She had failed spectacularly at Noth the Plaguebringer’s tasks, one after the other, as if she had forgotten all she had ever known about the art of potions and poisons. And if this hadn’t been weird enough in and of itself, a tiny voice at the back of her brain actually cheered at each of her failures. However, it stopped cheering when she was cast into the Pit, without her battle abilities having been tested. Days and days passed, and she was happy that she had no metabolism any longer, other than processing life energy absorbed from killed enemies. The latter, though, she was sorely missing. Once she tasted the lifeblood of her two former comrades in the ziggurat, she knew she would need that kind of fuel to live and thrive. Now hunger was taking control of her, but she didn’t really mind. She expected that it would slowly devour her and end this nightmare for good.
Sometimes a death knight came and called someone from the Pit for a duel, or went to the runeforge to boost their weapon, grumbling about the fact that lately everyone had to do their runeforging by themselves. That was a welcome distraction, and also a possibility to learn… for all the good it did to her. Otherwise she just stared at the weapon racks and entertained herself by drawing the runes into the dust with her finger.
But today, finally, something happened. The voice of Instructor Razuvious woke her up from her usual brooding.
“Look what the ghouls dragged in! Veanne Blightdancer! Need a target dummy?”
Falandra’s pointy ears twitched in anticipation. Then she heard that hateful, resounding girl’s voice.
“Yes, please, Instructor. Actually, my original plan was to do my runeforging and be on my way, but I’m up for some more fun. For example, freeing up a slot in the Pit.”
There we go, thought Falandra. Perhaps, if I broke her sword, I could get back… She couldn’t really tell what she wanted to get back. Maybe her honour, or confidence, or something like that. Something important, to be sure. She raised her head, trying to catch the death knight’s gaze.
“Do you want anyone specific, or just a random pick?” asked the Instructor.
Blightdancer paced slowly around the Pit, considering her options.
“I do have someone in mind,” she said. “That black-eyed night elf. After her pitiful performance I’ve been publicly called out by Noth the Plaguebringer for bringing rubbish into the Scourge. That cannot stand. She shall be disposed of like the garbage she is… unless she proves him wrong.”
Falandra stood up tall, as much as her shackles allowed, and threw back her dishevelled white hair from her dirty face. To her disappointment, she noticed that Blightdancer didn’t have her longsword on her. Instead, she had two plain one-handers on her back, which she brought for runeforging. But at least she had no minions, either.
“Here I am,” she said.
Blightdancer’s spooky blue eyes scanned her from top to toe.
“Indeed, kittycat,” she spat. “If I knew you were such a noob, I would never have dirtied my sword with your innards and deny my ghouls their fun!”
“All right, little girl,” said Falandra with a wry smile. “Let’s see if you can get me again, now that you can’t hide behind your runes.”
“Just wait until I paint the runes on my swords with your ichor.”
“Don’t be so sure about that.” She turned to the Instructor. “Can I get some gear, or shall I fight in geist outfit?”
Razuvious chuckled.
“Not a bad idea, to be honest,” he said. “Geist outfit for wannabe death knights… I’ll keep that in mind. And in exchange for making me laugh, you can fight geared.”
He waved a ghoul to himself, and sent him to fetch some armour for Falandra. Soon she faced her foe in full saronite gear, with a polearm in her hands. Strangely enough, it didn’t feel heavy at all. She took her stance in the middle of the circle, prepared for the fight.
“What’s that? A new version of Blood?” sneered Blightdancer, jumping into the fray. Falandra was grinning into her face, madness in her eyes, as she blocked the first double strike.
“Let’s call it freestyle.”
“A nice name for random whacking.”
“If I’m whacking, you are weed.”
Freed from her chains, Falandra was learning her new body quickly. She found it way less agile than she expected, but much stronger, and still flexible enough for quick dodges and leaps. And she didn’t seem to feel pain. She did sense incoming damage, but she could take it in stride. She actually started to like her current state. Even more so because her looks didn’t change much. There was no sign of rot or decay, apart from a certain smell, which vanished over time… or rather, she got used to it. The gaping wound in her side was closed up with an impressive scar. A relatively nice looking and definitely useful body in respectable heavy armour… which was another thing to learn, but she was getting the hang of it.
The remaining unworthy candidates watched the first fifteen minutes of the duel with excitement. After the second fifteen minutes Razuvious departed to grab a drink. When he returned with a steaming mug of skull brew and found them still duelling, he hid his face in his palms.
“Fine, ladies, that’s enough for today,” he said. As they both lowered their weapons, he went on. “Thanks, Veanne, for freeing up a slot.”
“Instructor, I’m not in the mood for sarcasm,” snapped the death knight, apparently at the end of her patience.
“No sarcasm here, for now. From tomorrow on, this weird-eyed pit scum will train with the initiates. She has earned her place. She might be useless in alchemy, but she apparently has other talents to be put to use. What was your name again, night elf?”
“Falandra.”
“Falandra what? You had two weeks to come up with something.”
“Witherleaf.”
“Nice. As I recall, though, there was someone in Northrend with the same surname. Some centaur or stagman or whatnot. If you happen to bump into him, feel free to kill him and secure the name for yourself only. Now, ladies, if you forgive me, I have work to do.”
The two opponents remained there on their own, not counting the denizens of the Pit and the occasional ghouls scurrying after their chores.
“Congrats, I guess,” said the blood elf.
“Erm… thanks, I suppose,” said Falandra. “But… you went easy on me, didn’t you?”
Veanne sighed.
“I went easy on myself. Thanks to you, I had the opportunity to play a few hours with Patchwerk today, too. Soon you’ll get the chance to experience the pleasures of that. Then you’ll know the reason why. Now let me do this runeforging thingy and get the fuck out of here.”
Falandra was curious. She said goodbye to Veanne, then took up her Shadowmeld (it still worked), and observed how she set to work and messed up her swords three times in a row. Finally she let out a frustrated scream:
“May the Sun crash upon these fucking swords! Why can’t I get it work? Am I not a blacksmith?”
“You’re getting the shapes all wrong,” called a voice from the shadows, making Veanne jump.
“What the… Are you still here? What do you mean by that?”
Falandra walked up to her, and took one of the swords and a piece of chalk.
“See?” she said. “The Razorice runes should go like this, not like what you tried to burn into the metal. I’ll sketch them up for you. You just go through them with your hammer, burn them in, and it will be fine.”
“Meh…” Veanne shrugged. “Very well, I’ll give it a try. It can’t get any worse than it already is.”
To her amazement, she finally got it right. At the end of the process, the runes flashed in light blue, just as expected.
“Thanks, Miss Witherleaf,” she said. “But please don’t tell me you’ve learnt this while dangling your feet in the Pit.”
“Well…”
“Oh, give me a break!”
Veanne stormed away with her freshly runeforged blades. Falandra left for the initiates’ quarters, with a smile of contentment on her face. This looked like the beginning of a career, and maybe also of a friendship.