Echoes

[Rigley]

-Bilial-

“I am sorry, father.”

These words were repeated over and over in the isolated cloister. Besides the hushed, pleading voice there was only the patter of rain on the rooftops above, and the stifling silence of the others which walked about outside, keeping a vigilant watch. There were two in the cloister-- one knelt before the other, who was seated with book and stave in hand.

“Sorry for what, my child?”

He wasn't asking why. He wanted him to say it. He wanted him to repeat it, to confess it.

“I-I have wronged you. I have wronged the brotherhood. I have...”

“You've wronged the Light.”

Bilial trembled, turning his gaze back down to the floor as he continued to lay on hands and knees, hands clasped in a beg for forgiveness or mere mercy. Tears welled up within his eyes as he anticipated the words of the elder. His eyes screwed shut, trying his best to appear stoic in the face of what he knew was to come.


“As if your abandoning of the brotherhood was not transgression enough.” spoke the seated figure before him, craning Bilial's head up to face him with the bottom of his stave.

“But then you consort with these... people. You accept strange, sinful concoctions from them and accept healing in place of your penance. You read these frivolous books in place of your text.”

Bilial jumped as the book in question was thrown before him, narrowly missing his head. He was silent, staring between the novel and the stave which was planted against the stone nearby.

“I am sorry, father.”

“For?”

“For accepting the sin of the world. For being tainted by those outside of the faith, and the misguided.”

“Once more.”

“Once more-- yes.”

“What possessed you to commit such vile acts?” questioned the elder. His eyes narrowed, waiting for the words.

“I had thought--”

Instantly the elder's eyes went alight. He knocked Bilial back with the stave clenched in his hand, quickly rising up and gripping his crude staff at the ready. “You thought indeed. Something you would do well to do without, with as many blessings as it has earned you in the past.”

The words stung. More than the welt the stave had left.

“The Light's providence brings you comfort and atonement. Your flawed mind has brought you to the service of demons, and the corruption of their foul magic. The Light is a healing force, yet you shackle yourself in pain as you pay the price of your errant thoughts. You have brought this all upon yourself, Bilial. If you're to think of anything, think of that.”

“Father, mercy...”

“There will be no mercy. It is not mine to give. Your soul is still wicked, and your body is awash with the corruption of the heretics. The Light's judgment damns your blackened soul, and so you must atone.”

Silence returned his order.

“Bilial? Speak.” commanded the elder, pulling the younger man's eyes up to meet his own from beneath his shrouding hood.

“I will... atone. Yes.” he replied after a long pause. “The L-Light will make me whole again.”

“In time, it will.” responded the elder's voice. He reached down, apprehensively giving the feeble man a pat along his shoulder before walking out. Bilial unsteadily shifted himself, staring back only to close his eyes and shield himself as two figures approached, soon within the doorway. Each held a long, jaggedly adorned scourge, and one held a small kris. They approached, unfazed by the terror of their subject. Their faces were placid, uncaring-- they were doing the work of the Light's judgment, after all.

Soon the sound of lashes filled the cloister, along with stifled cries of mercy and pain. In the courtyard beyond it was drowned out as the rest of the brotherhood convened, raising their voices in praising song and prayer to the Light as the night and the ritual went on.

[Rigley]

-Endling-

Endling walked along to her home from the keep, a spring in her step. A light tune echoed from her into the night, breaking the silence ever slightly.

Since that day on the tower's top she had been in such high spirits. Which... was odd. There were talks of cultists, threatening postings littering the town-- For some reason it hardly mattered to her. Rather, it didn't matter as much. Her spirits were soaring regardless. Not once in many months had she enjoyed the clarity of mind and speech as she did now, nor the happiness. There was no argument following their time above the city. No gripe with friends or some conflict to sour the moment. It was... perfect.

She stumbled as she came to her home, quirking a brow. On the doorstep sat a man in black, motionless despite the flutter of his garb in the midnight breeze.

“That's a lovely song.” he remarked. Endling froze up, quickly pulling away. “It... was your mother who taught you that, wasn't it?”

Fear gripped the priestess. She didn't run, but her response was choked, barely audible. Eventually she managed a nod. It had been, indeed. One of the few songs she knew that was not tied directly to the church in some way.

That voice.

“It's a lovely song.” he repeated. “It's been a long time since I've heard you sing. You still have a lovely voice for it, too. Just like your mother's.”

The man looked up to her, his features scarcely illuminated by the torches in the distance. Even then she could make it out-- his stately, peaceful expression. His neatly trimmed beard of black-- though now dotted with gray. His piercing eyes, staring back directly into her own.

That face.

His placid smile waned slightly as she failed to respond once more. He motioned her closer, but she shook her head. His expression almost seemed to turn pained. Almost.

“Come now. I've not seen you since you were young...” he began, “And you're just to send me away, Sa--”

“Father. Please go.” came Endling's hurried response, bowing quickly. He eyes kept watching him, analytically. He was always a stone-faced liar, but in his eyes there was always truth. And the truth was rage, building heavily as she interjected.

“I... I am expected inside. Another time.”

Balthair rose up, dusting himself off and drawing his cloak around him. He stepped away from the porch, glancing back to her as she quickly went to the door. His brow furrowed, watching her as she fumbled with the lock.

“Do you mean that? Another time?”


Endling let out a sigh as the door finally pulled open. Her body shook visibly, looking aside to him. “I... No. I do not.” she replied in earnest.
With no word of protest from him she walked in, the door closing with a click. Balthair tipped his hat absently, bowing it to the now obscured visage of the priestess. He stood like that for a brief time. Then his hat crumpled, the brim caught in a death grip by the tipping hand.

He turned, hand scarcely keeping from the holster at his side. Shaking his head he walked onwards, back towards the inn. As he walked he rubbed his eyes, body slumping as he made it inside. Within the home not far away Endling sunk to the floor, holding her head as she let out a shuddering sigh, trying to recompose herself as she regained her bearings.

Misfortune always seems to follow...

[Rigley]

-Vangelis-

The beat of drums rang through the halls of the Hearthglen Sanctuary.

Through the hallowed halls paraded a line of men and women of various races, draped in ragged dark robes and bound in chains. Out into one of the open cloisters they were led, brought to stand before a temporary set of gallows which had been fashioned there. The cloister was not crowded-- while the executions were open to the public they made no real attempt to force the imagery into the minds of the townsfolk.


Amidst the crowd of Argent soldiers keeping watch over the prisoners a few men clad in ornate paladin armor walked forth, faces shrouded behind masks and bodies encased in ornamental imagery of the Light and its judgment. The three ascended the stairs to the gallows, turning to face the small crowd of civilians and the Argent soldiers amongst them. From the trio the human amongst them (clad in not only the decorative raiment, but symbols of status as well) urged another forward. The elven man made only a quick nod of recognition, stepping forth and clearing his throat.

“We are gathered here today by reasons of necessity.” began to curt, authoritative voice. “For while we are sworn to the Light which sheds comfort and respite upon the soul, so are we its soldiers and protectors. From us must the Light's shielding hand and it's righteous fist must both be carried out. And so we shall do so. Let us not err from our obligations to our people or our faith. Let us not show compassion to the wicked, and in turn allow wrong to be done to those of our fold.”

A nod in unison came from the Argents, a few calls of agreement rising from the back.

“Those gathered before these gallows are the wicked. From within our own walls they have sought to subvert our people and corrupt our cause. From their sabotaging of Argent operations they have made their purpose clear. They are not only worshipers of their unholy craft, but servants carrying out its will. For this they have been accused and convicted of high treason-- and for this they shall hang. May the Light grants its mercy upon their souls.”

A murmer of agreement echoed inside the crowd of Argents. With that the elven man would unfold a list, looking down to it and beginning to read.

“For subversion of Argent operations on the banks of the Darrowmere Lake-- Samuel Hetch, Orgor Keenaxe, Cealia Ironbranch and Arthur Falsten. Come forward.”

From the crowd of prisoners came forward two humans, an orc and a blood elf, staring defiantly in return to the Commander's words.

“For the assault, murder, and subsequent impersonation of Argent personnel-- Halgis Hawkeye, Ellis Farsail, Bennet King, Sorin Firebringer and Walford Cale. Come forward.”

With a motion from the commander the group was brought up onto the set of gallows, each having a noose slipped over their head.

“Our deaths will mean little.” snarled one of the elves. “Even a beacon of the Light must have a shadow, crusader. It will envelop you all in time.”

The elven commander paid them little heed, motioning the men at the levers.

“We are the faithful. We are that shadow, crusaders! And you may shine your light upon us and drive us down, but your light can only reach so far. Your flame is finite! Your time draws to a close! We cannot be--”

With an angered cry from the elven commander there was the sudden dropping of hatches, followed by the simultaneous sounds of nine sickening cracks. No word came from the cultist afterwords-- only the sound of straining rope was audible as their forms swayed back and forth.

“Such is the price of their unholy ways. Let the Light have mercy upon their souls.” spoke the human commander aloud. There was an affirming call from the audience, before it was quelled as the next names were listed out.


One cell of the Hearthglen city jail had been emptied.

[Rigley]

-Vangelis-

“Something wrong, Vangelis?”

The elf stirred from his slump, pulling himself upright as he faced the Crusade Commander. “No sir. Everything is fine.”

The human furrowed his brow, looking back to the table. “We've a good few more of these cases to review. But it can wait until tomorrow if you need the rest. We've been at it all day, I realize.”

Vangelis rubbed his face, trying to wipe the fatigue from his heavy eyes. “We promised swift action.”

“It is difficult to be swift and cautious at the same time.”

“Don't we all know it. Eighteen people swung from the noose today.” he sighed, drooping back in his chair. “Eighteen. All of them with damning evidence pressed to them. Many of them foreign to our cause. But the others...”

He shook his head, reaching across the table and thumbing through a file. “Erga Ironweaver. Orc. She was with us in Northrend, commander. She fought with me in Icecrown.” he looked to another file. “Jorin Reed-- he's just a millworker. The man is only 18-- Light's sake!”

“They need not all be worthy of the noose.” Entari replied. “Those among them who are less... condemnable. They might be converted to see the error of their ways.”

“They were chanting down there all through the execution. Reciting pledges to their 'speaker' or whatever the thing is. They're fanatics. Do you think we could ever completely gain repentance out of them?”

“I never said anything with certainty, Dawnsend. Only a possibility.”

Vangelis eased his head forward, resting it on his folded arms. “Yes... Yes, of course. I must admit, commander-- I'm not certain I'm suited for this sort of work. Slaying cultists, perhaps-- but these are people. Good people. They were once, at least.”

“Tenacity, Vangelis. We are the leaders of this city. We must have the strength to do what our constituents cannot.”

Unsteadily Vangelis gave a nod in agreement, pulling back from the table as he collected a few files. “Some rest does sound appealing, actually. Perhaps tomorrow will bring us some insight.” he smiled half-heartedly to the commander, bowing wearily as he rose.

“Rest, but you're taking those documents with you? I suppose I won't stop you. Try to get -some- sleep tonight, Dawnsend.”

“Of course, sir.”

The pair saluted one another, and Vangelis trudged out of the room with his gaze on the floor.


When they began these executions it was meant to be cut and dry. The people in the cells below were cultists. Traitors. Judgment should have been swift and decisive, not meandering and hesitant. The first batch had been easy-- murderers, most not even native to the city. Simply cultists who had infiltrated their ranks. These next few were civilians-- likely converted by the infiltrators, but civilians no less. They were people who took the city with them, and sustained it with their labor. And yet he could remember them down in the hold below, screaming their devotion to the Scourge and its speaker.

It was troubling. And frightening, too. They knew something, of that he was certain. One could not rally behind that banner without cause. Without some kind of goal. They were so... fearless, even in the face of the noose. What it could be plagued his mind.

“Excuse me?” called a faint voice from behind. Vangelis stopped, peering back. A young woman ran up alongside him, clearly one of the townsfolk from her dress. She bowed her head to him ever slightly, seeming uncertain in her movements.

“Speak.” he replied after a moment, straightening up to mask his fatigue.

“You're... in charge of the trials.” she murmered. “One of them at least, right? My husband is... in the dungeon.” she stammered out.

Oh.

He wasn't entirely certain of what came next. He was too weary for this-- 'another time', he should have said. He could have kept walking, but instead he let her carry on. She asked, he refuted. She begged, he was unchanging. She wept... and he broke.

Vangelis collapsed into his bed with a burdened sigh as he returned home. Of all the promises to make...

He was a man of his word. He would do his best to see it through. He just didn't know how. He remembered when they had spoken to the group which remained to be judged-- 'Your fate is not sealed; repent and we can work with you towards freedom'. They all replied in unison, and that reply was only another outcry of their occult devotion.

He had to try, though. At least one man could be swayed to repent. At least one.

[Rigley]

-Vangelis-

“Sergeant Serin Firebrew, step forward.”

The murmerings of the Argents died down as a dwarf stepped out from the crowd of bound individuals packing the back of the officer's quarters of Mardenholde Keep. The silence was stifling, but the dwarf called upon hardly seemed to mind. He marched forward, staring defiantly back at the Argent commanders seated in the front of the room.

“You stand accused of treason by charges of supplying the Scourge with high priority information supplied to you by your station. The troop movement and courier schedule sent from Light's Hope was recovered from Dalson's Tears-- documents you were assigned to relay, but did not acknowledge upon arrival. By this same notion you are therefore responsible for the deaths of the couriers marked upon this document, and for interfering with Crusade operations. How do you plead?”

The stony expression of the dwarf was unchanging. “Guilty as ye charge me.”

Whispers broke out, swiftly quelled by the clash of a gavel. “Your previous tours of service with the Crusade have been extensive, sergeant. We are willing to work with you should you seek to reform of yo-”

“I ain't plannin' on it, laddie.” replied the accused. “I already turned tail once. 'D be a shame t'me honor iffin' I was t'do it again, aye?” he grinned, though his expression remained just as hardened.

“This is no joking matter, sergeant. Do you not realize what is at stake here? If you refuse then you'll swing at the gallows!"

Vangelis edged back as the dwarf spit at the group, being reigned back by two crusaders as he attempted to move forward.

“I ain't daft, lad. Y'ain't seen what I have. Y'don't -know-. Yer Crusade is comin' t'an end. There'll always be Scourge. Always! No matter how many'a 'em ye kill. There ain't a place fer the Light in this dead land anymore!”

“If you refuse to cooperate then your fate is sealed.” spoke the Crusade-Commander.

“Ah look forward to it. Death comes fer us all! Yers'll be worse yet. Ye'll see.”

With that the dwarf was pulled away, led back down into the sanctuary below.

Vangelis stood up as the dwarf was removed, shaking his head. “This is all madness! Come, any of you-- Do you not see what you are doing? Do you not understand? You're throwing your lives away to a dying cause! The Lich King is dead. The Scourge is nothing more than a remnant! Please, I beg of you-- are there none of you that will repent?”

“The Lich King has fallen, but there will always be another to take his place. Just like any king, there will be a successor. There is a successor. We have embraced the end. We have seen the futility! We are the faithful, and so we shall remain!” answered a fellow blood elf amongst the group.

“AND SO WE SHALL REMAIN!” chanted the rest of the prisoners.

Vangelis tensed up, opening his mouth to speak only to be pulled back down into his seat by Entari. A stern hand clasped his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. “Get a hold of yourself. You know this game as well as I do. This is not the first time we have dealt with people such as this.”

“It's not the same.”

“It is the same, Dawnsend. It always is the same. It was the same when loyal civilians to the crown joined the undead in their legions during the fall of Lordaeron, and it was the same when they did so again in the Northrend expeditions. Do you remember Father Montoy? He was a priest, once. In the upper echelons of the crusade, even. Do you remember what became of him?

Vangelis nodded faintly. He had heard, indeed.


Entari looked back to the cultists, who were being reigned in by the guardsmen as their clamoring died down. “Even a beacon of the Light will cast a shadow, Dawnsend. Whether we want to believe it or not... The evidence is before us.”

“I only wish--”

“Wishes and dreams are hand in hand. We won't wake up tomorrow in a world without the Scourge, or the Burning Legion. No matter how much wishing we may do.”

Vangelis slumped some, nodding once more, defeated.

“We will postpone their judgment for now.” Entari chimed after a moment of silence, rising up. He spared Vangelis a glance, raising a brow slightly before saluting him, walking out as the guardsmen ushered the cultists back down to the sanctuary. Meanwhile Vangelis remained in his chair as the room emptied, eyes staring down to the files of former friends and allies laid out on the table before him.


Mercy, Light. Have some mercy...

[Rigley]

-Bilial-

Bilial sat hunched over a wall in the corner of his cloister, his form shuddering with each sound of footsteps outside. Before him lay a piece of parchment, pinned to his door upon his return from his daily walk in the town. It was a simple flier—but it was not supposed to be here. The Argents should have taken it. It should have been burned.
He shook his head quickly, hands trembling around the keen dagger which he held pressed against his chest, directly over his heart. He stared down to the flier, closing his eyes as he pressed the tip forward…

But, he could not. He leaned his head against the wall before him, soothed ever slightly by the cool stone. Again he braced himself for the plunge of the dagger, but each time his conviction waned more and more. He was afraid—afraid of what was to come for him, yet even still more fearful for his corrupted soul.

Footsteps. They were coming towards his cloister. He did not want to look—nor did he wish to. His mind plagued him with the possibilities instead. A host of raven priests to throttle his mind? A simple tormentor with scourge and blade in hand? Or… the Father. He could not take that again. Tears crept from his eyes as his mind thought back to his last dealing with him. He would end the suffering before it could begin. Once more he braced himself, and with a now steady hand he brought the blade back up—


“Hello, Ian.” Came a voice—soft and kindly, that of a woman. His eyes widened, as his blade clattered to the floor as he turned onto his side, bringing his arms up to shield himself. With a flash of fel magic an aura of protecting energy was summoned around him, and then quickly dispersed by the wave of a hand from the newcomer, Bilial writhing in pain as the next motion elicited a cry of anguish from him, feeling himself sapped of energy and barely able to move.

“No! Please, no!” he cried, feebly bringing up his arms as the smaller figure approached him, a look of near-genuine concern on her face. She eased down to a knee beside him, ignoring how he shrank back from her touch.

“Oh, old friend. Do I truly frighten you so?” she asked, running her soft palm over his cheek as she turned his head up to face her. Her expression was placid, her eyes and faint smile causing his terror to quell ever slightly.

“Why do you remain silent? Come now, speak to me.” She urged him on, easing him upright and taking hold of one of his hands. For a minute or so they sat there, staring eye to eye.

“Please—please, leave me be” managed Bilial after the reprieve, “I will… be faithful. I promise. You shall have no further issue with me.” He quickly nodded, trying to pull his hand back slightly—but the grip had suddenly become one of iron. The woman stared into his eyes in another moment of silence, before he felt a searing pain envelop his hand, wracking body as he struggled against her.

“You’ve caused so much trouble since we arrived, my friend.” She told him, rising up as she made another gesture. Suddenly he felt stifled, unable to breath—his eyes screwed shut in pain, the man grasping feebly at his throat as the smaller figure before him continued.

“I’m beginning to wonder if you can ever truly be redeemed. Your soul may as well have been lost to the demons. I do so truly wish to help you, Ian…” she told him, holding out a hand to him once more. “But... because of you people will die. Others of the brotherhood who have cared for us for so long.” She shrugged slightly. “And… do you care? It would be so easy now to just walk away. To abandon you, as you have cast your brothers aside.”

His eyesight began to cloud, his clawing motions becoming languid.


“To walk away, and leave you to perish. It would be so easy, Ian… But I will not do that. I know you can change.” She smiled warmly, urging him to take her hand. Quickly and without hesitation he grabbed her hand, falling forward towards her. Immediately after he took in a deep breath, letting out a hacking cough as he strained to take in a decent breath of air. She would give his hand a gentle pat in return before letting her grip slip from his own, leaving him to collapse to the floor.

“Oh, Bilial.” She began once more, tilting her head. “My poor friend-- in time you will redeem yourself to us.” She told him, kneeling by his side and running her hand down the back of his head. As muffled sobs came from him she would help him upright, letting him lean against her shoulder despite her shorter stature.

“I… will.” He choked out between his gasping breaths. Without a word she eased back from him, bowing her head to him slightly before turning to leave. Bilial would slump back against the wall behind him, slowly sliding down to a seat as he rocked lightly back and forth, clutching clumps of his unkempt hair. His eyes drifted aside to the dagger he had only moments ago clutched his chest. His eyes were dimmed and laden with tears, hiding them against the sleeves of his robe as he kicked the blade away from him. Silently he fell onto his side in the corner of his cloister, wrapping himself in his cloak as he waited for the pain to pass.

[Rigley]

-Bilial-

Bilial sat against the wall in his cloister, his eyes averted from the other figure which sat reclined on the bench beside him. He did his best to avoid her gaze, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in the presence of the woman.

Why was she here? She couldn't know. How could she? There were no others around-- it was an empty room, as was the other cloister he had returned to. No one had even seen him enter. No one had paid him any mind at a-

“Ian.”

Bilial's head snapped up, only to turn downwards immediately. He furrowed his brow, nodding. “...Yes?”

“I know what you've done.” she told him, sitting upright and leaning over towards him, her gentle hand running down his back, over the scars masked beneath. “The eyes of the faithful can be found anywhere you know. In the streets, in the towers-- In the shades.”

His eyes went wide, pulling back from her once more. He became rather unsettled, squirming a little at the mention of the word. “I-I see.”

The woman's demeanor softened, coming off of the bench to sit beside him. “I told you you could redeem yourself, did I not?” she asked, eliciting a nod in return from Bilial. For a long moment they sat there, the placid figure leaning ever slightly against the cowering monk. Her demeanor was much more relaxed, even somewhat jovial in comparison.

“Do you remember when we were children, before the fall?” she asked him, turning her bright eyes up to look into his own.

“...Somewhat.”

“I remember we were quite the adventurous type. Or at least I suppose I was, dragging you along for my little ventures. We made it this far once, do you remember? The others from the abbey were so worried by the time we were sent back.” Bilial glanced over to the woman, confused by this change of topic.

“You took all of the blame, of course. They always said I would never do such a thing, remember? I suppose I could reign in my behavior pretty well when I needed to. Always the perfect child of the church.”

“I... remember, yes. You always were better with words than I. My stammering didn't help.” he told her, his guard falling slightly as he spoke with her. “I looked quite guilty, barely being able to word an explanation, didn't I?”

The woman nodded, sitting upright as she stared aside to Bilial. He raised a brow, drawing back ever slightly. “...What is it?”

She rose up, shrugging slightly. “Oh, nothing. Just reminiscing.” she said offhandedly. She offered him a hand, pulling him upright as she dusted his shoulders off. “Just remember...” she told him, holding his shoulders as she finished, drawing him slightly inward.

Bilial staggered a bit, unsure of what to make of the gesture. He knew he didn't want to be this close, but he didn't pull away. “...Mhm?”

“This is your last chance, Ian. The last chance.” She nodded to him, a hand tracing from his shoulder to rest just below his neck. He froze up slightly, nodding quickly in response. “Don't waste it. I wouldn't want to...”

She frowned, giving the man a gentle hug before releasing him. “Well, you know. Good night, Ian.” she told him, smiling brightly and bowing before making her way out of the room. Bilial stood frozen in place, shuddering slightly as he saw one of the refugees following behind a priest of the brotherhood, a dark tome hidden beneath him belonging, barely peering out.


The last chance.

Don't waste it.

He wouldn't waste it. And then he would finally flee. He gathered his belongings which had dropped upon the speaker's entrance, his step just a bit bolder. He would tell Miss Greene, and she would help him. The Argents could stop them-- He could be free. With a spring in his step he walked for the exit of the cloister...

And right into the father, flanked by a small group of men-- he could see a scourge in the hands of one, partially held to be concealed.

“Ah, Bilial. We were just coming to see you, my son. Please, let us enter.”

[Rigley]

-Bilial-

“Ian, are you coming?”

The sun shone high above, and the blue and untainted skies seemed to roll by with the breeze, carrying its faint whisps of clouds along in tow. The fields were vibrant green, and the summer heat bore down on the two mercilessly. The chatter of birds could be heard all around, and the world simply was teeming with life. Amongst the fields ran two youthful figures, one lagging behind and stopping occasionally, leaning on his knees.

“You can't be tired that fast!” called the girl ahead of him, bouncing on her heels impatiently. “How long has it been?”

“We've been out here for hours!” moaned the boy plaintively. “Can we go back now? I can't even see the abbey! Won't they be angry with us?”

“Father Brevidere won't mind,” she piped in response, “He won't even notice! He's too busy with the choir to care about us running around!” she sprung back and forth as she spoke, continuing to urge her friend nearer. “Now come! I'm not going alone!”

He sighed in return, trudging along behind. “Alright, alright, but where are we going? If we end up getting chased off by a farmer again...”

“No, no. We're not doing anything like that. We're going to see a town!”

“But we were right by Brill!”

“Too small!”

“The capitol city?”

She didn't reply, just bounding on ahead of him. He let out a huff, his lanky body straining to keep up with hers of so much more energy. As he ran behind he found the skies growing dark, clouds gathering overhead. The peal of lightning rang across the field, causing the young boy to stall and fumble back. “Wait! Come back!” he cried for his friend-- but in the ensuing mist she was nowhere to be seen, lost amidst the fog of the rapidly dying land beneath him. He waited even as the darkness closed in around him, staring off into the distance for any sign of return from the girl.

And then Bilial awoke, the patter of rain striking his face as the usual weather of the Plaguelands settled in. With a groan he roused himself, looking around at the cloister, silent entirely save for the drops of rain. He held his head, rubbing moisture from the downpour and the sleep from his eyes. His whole body felt numb at first, but slowly and surely the pangs of his injuries could be felt. Wordlessly he crawled his way into his cloister, both too weak to rise nor really caring much of such things for the moment. As soon as he was inside the relatively secluded room he fell back onto his chest with a heave, staring across to the dagger he had once clutched to his chest, eyes widening slightly.

He was surprised they did not take it, really. Perhaps they knew better. He inched forward, eyes cast to the shadow filled corners of the room, before drawing his hand out and pushing the blade under his cot. Another time. For what, he was not yet sure. His hand searched about the edge of his bed before he found his stave, slowly hoisting himself to his feet. Standing itself was a pain at the moment, with the wounds upon his feet. Regardless he limped out from his room, pulling alongside the wall to avoid the passing gaze of any other of the brotherhood. A journey that should have taken minutes seemed to last for hours. Every step was labored, every moment grinding away at his mind. He soon did find his way to the lobby of the sanctuary, staring at the figure ahead.

“Where are you going, Ian?” asked the woman.

“I... I'm going out.”

“I can see that.”

She didn't seem to make any move to stop him. He was glad of that. But her silence bothered him. He slowly made his way past her, trying to avert his eyes as her gaze shifted to him.

“Be careful out there, Ian. Remember what I told you.”

Bilial's eyes closed, his body shuddering as he exhaled. He paused to look back, but the woman had already begun to walk away.

“They're not as safe as you think.”

With that the two parted once more, Bilial left in solitude as he made his way out of the sanctuary.

--------------

In Bilial's cloister lay a few objects; his dagger, crusted in blood. Dark tomes, aged and worn from weather. Dark reagents, and mixed potions. Amongst them chiefly lay a few papers, all in the same handwriting. A flier, a crusade docket, and a signed oath.

“I think that should suffice quite well.”

[Rigley]

-Vangelis-

“Where could they be?”

Vangelis leaned against the podium of the Hearthglen town hall, staring out at the group awaiting hearing by the council. More goblins. At least they would bring some more trade, though he wasn't keen to giving them much of a foothold in the town. In his hand he held a docket, standing upright as he flipped through it. Seemed that there had been some errors in communication with these documents as of late-- lost in delivery somehow. It was a bit of a waste of his time, but he would at least see to it that these got into the hands of the council this way.

The clock struck past five. He let out another sigh, looking to the presiding crusader. “Have they mentioned anything of an absence?”

“Not yet, sir. I'll go see if they're coming or have sent any word ahead,” she replied with a bow of her head, edging past him. Vangelis let out a huff, tossing his docket onto the table beside him and falling back into a seat. He raised a brow, ears twitching slightly as a low 'click' was heard.

“IT'S A BOMB! They're onto me!” cried the goblin delegate, rushing out of the room much to the confusion of the others.

“What in the Light's name is that abou-”

A concussive blast caused the entire building to shake, and Vangelis found his voice drowned out in the violent cacophony above. Fire and debris plumed out from the roof of the Town hall, flames spreading like wildfire as rubble flew down. Vangelis was thrown from his chair, quickly summoning a holy shield as the blast wave rushed past him, shattering the holy bulwark he held up above him. He rose as quickly as he could manage, staggering as another bomb was sent off, throwing jagged spears of wood into his body as he rushed for the door. A low creak was heard above, and suddenly he found himself immolated in flame, the sound of cracking bones resounding through his mind as a beam above fell onto his body. A rasping cry rose from the commander as he felt the flame quickly searing his body, the metal armor doing no favors in protecting him. His lungs filled with smoke, his muscles straining to pull himself from the collapsed roofing and onto safety. Outside he could hear more blasts, the ground shaking beneath him. His eyes began to go blurry as the sound of trumpets and criers began to rouse throughout the city. Finally, he fell faint.


Vangelis awoke in his bed, shaking terribly. He kicked the sheets from his bed, letting out a low sigh as he felt the cool air of his room against his body. Bandages were still wrapped about his wounds, and healing salves kept his burns healing. With some effort he pulled himself upright, rubbing his face wearily.

His head swam with thoughts, trying to recollect his mind after the reprisal of that frightful day.

I can't just stay here, can I?

He shook his head, pulling himself out of the bed and limping to his desk. A few documents on the prisoners held in the jail lay spread out there, many with scrawling notes concerning them. Most recited the same lines of text, with simple variations in name and status. A deep scowl came across his face as he read over the notes, only reinforcing the discontent he held with the whole process.

Andrew Pello, age 27. Human of Lordaeron descent. Formerly a stable-hand within Hearthglen. Detained during cultist uprising. Pleads guilty to conspiracy and murder of Argent guardsmen and civilians.

Trela Irongrapple, age 68. Ironforge Dwarf. Former Argent demolition expert Pleads guilty to conspiracy, murder, and rigging of explosives within the Hearthglen Town Hall.

Adam Huros, Age 39. Human of Kul Tiras descent. Former Argent Captain. Pleads guilty to conspiracy and leading his defecting troops against Hearthglen during the revolt.


Vangelis pushed the pages aside, leaning forward onto the desk as he swayed back and forth atop his chair. He held his head once more, inspecting the different files. Even after their rebellion they persisted so fervently, in the face of defeat and the noose. Their devotion was frightening to him.

“What pushes a man to act in such a way?” he mused out loud, muttering to himself through his fatigue, “To abandon friends, principles, and family to a cause they have fought for so long. And in such single-minded furor, as well. Even in the face of death they act triumphant...”

He stared blankly at the page in front of him, before his fatigue finally overtook him and he simply slumped forward against his arm, slowly drifting to sleep hunched over the files.

[Rigley]

-Bilial-

Spoiler:

Forward note: Apologies if this is messily put together. I'm quite tired upon writing and posting this!

As the sun had just begun to rise over Hearthglen a robed and hooded figure ran through the streets, sprinting as fast as his haggard breathing would allow. The guards gave him passing looks, perplexed by the man wearing the colors of Brotherhood of Lordaeron being above so early into the day. Either way they didn't spend much time looking into it-- there were more cultist fliers to clean up, it seemed.

Soon enough Bilial would reach a home, pounding his fist on the door a few times to seek entry as his eyes scanned up and down the street behind him as he keeled over against the wall to catch his breath. He had made it. There were no others following—here he would be safe. Miss Greene had promised that. There was noise from within, and as soon as the door opened he practically threw himself inside, ducking around past a rather surprised woman as he fell back against the wall within.

“The door. C-close the door, before anyone else comes by,” he managed out through his harrowed breaths. Annabelle was quick to draw the curtains and lock up, before coming to face the disheveled man. He made an effort to explain what was happening—why he was here. In the end all he could give were sputtering attempts at explanations, slowly trying to compose himself. All he made out in the end was ‘thank you’.

“Good Light, what’s after you?”

“Nothing. Yet,” he managed, relaxing enough to formulate a better response, “…Yet. But that will change as soon as one of them comes up from the sanctuary." With some hesitation he would draw some fliers from his cloak, offering them to her. "I... Put these up. They'll hunt me for it. I know they will."

Annabelle reached out her hand to take the fliers, hesitant as the black color is spotted. “Put these up...?” She stares at them, then pulls her gaze to him. “You don’t mean...in the town do you? Bilial, who will hunt you? The Brotherhood? The cultists?”

“One and the same. They’re one and the same.” He answered quickly. “They’ll hunt me, yes. They told me this was my last chance. So I… made the best of it.”
The ramifications to come were only now starting to set in. He drew himself down, cradling his head. “I… Oh, Light.”

She frowned deeply in return, setting the papers aside. She scoots forward to grip his shoulders.
“Bilial, look at me. Last chance for what?”

"They said they would... kill me, if I worked against them again. The council docket. The... doctored fliers and the distraction on Monday. They know it was all me."

She blinks slowly once, then quickly takes him in a protective hug. “I won’t let them. But--why haven’t you come forth to Commander Entari?” She inhales, many questions reeling in her head, trying to determine which were the most important to ask. “I’ll go with you if you do, you know that.”

"It's... not that simple. They know things. They can... disprove it all. I've been in their company too long to think I can just..."

He just shook his head once more, letting out a haggard sigh. They spoke a while longer—though the time was not enough. No time could have been enough. He wanted to explain what they were—something to help her fight them, or just enough to make her run from this town and its impending doom. But he did not have the time. Fate wouldn’t allow it.



A knock came rapping at the door. “Apologies if we disturbed. We're here on behalf of the town guard. We need to speak with you, if you have a moment."

Guardsmen. He listened to their exchange, and heard what he knew was to come. “I understand you have a visitor from the Sanctuary within the estate? He is being sought for... conspiracy. Use of demonic magic, spreading of cultist doctrine and...”

There the world just seemed to go silent. Bilial recoiled in fear, keeping from sight of the door. His eyes scanned about, searching for anything around him that might help. His eyes landed on a potion. On a whim he took it, looking back as the guardsmen were let in.

“We will be sure to keep him safe, do not worry," chimed a guardsman. He found himself taken by the pair of soldiers, being shown out as he turned his sullen gaze downwards.

“Have faith. Whether you’re behind bars or not, I’ll aid you.”

He didn’t believe her. But the thanked her anyways, being half-dragged back to the sanctuary, and into a cell. When there the guardsmen deposited him in a lone cell, nodding to those guarding the prison and chatting to them before withdrawing back up to the keep.

Hours passed. He found himself somewhat… quaint in the isolation of the cell, keeping to a corner in silence. Once more though, the respite was a finite one.



“Ah, Bilial… There you are.”

Father Shol stood outside of the cell, bowing slightly to the guardsman on duty. “Evening, brother. If I might have a word with this man?”

“Of course, father. All is well, I hope?” asked the guardsman in return. After the pleasantries Bilial found himself led out, staring down at the hall beneath him as he was led though, back to the brotherhood’s cloister.

“You disappoint me, Bilial.” Eldin told him, stopping as they arrived at his cloister. He motioned for Bilial to set his things down, the man doing so silently, staring blankly at the elder as he did so. “We so graciously offer you our chances for redemption, and you return our gestures with more treason. You associate with… heretics. Have they corrupted you as well, now?”

“She’s not a heretic. She’s a priestess.”

“Yet she believes not in the Light. That is not a priestess, my son. That is a fiend who bends the Light to their will for their own gain.”

Bilial kept silent, flexing his hand as he sat against the wall, listening. Staring. Thinking.

Eldin turned, casting his gaze out to the courtyard. Bilial’s eyes moved as well, to the cot beside him.

“You’ve caused us so much grief, my son. But our time is near. Despite your misdeeds, our cause will triumph. Perhaps once your ‘friend’ lies burning in the day of judgment you will realize whom it is the Light truly has chosen.”

He paused, expecting a retort. “Have you anything to say before we begin your punishment?” he asked, drawing a hand down to his knife at his hip.

Still nothing. He furrowed his brow, turning. “You’ll speak to me when I ask for—“

And with that his voice was cut short. From the cot Bilial had drawn a blade—The one he had contemplated for his own life days ago. In one quick charge Eldin found the blade piercing his chest, twisted painfully immediately after as his body crashed to the ground. Bilial’s eyes were clouded with rage, tears pouring from his eyes. In a final display of anger he raised up a hand, a curse of pain wracking the body of the man beneath him. He wanted to see him in pain. He wanted him to scream. He wanted him to feel the pain he had known for so many years.

He heard gasps. Cries. Footfalls. They were coming for him. Quickly he rose, drawing the potion he had absconded with from his bag and downing it. With a faint flicker of light his form faded, quickly dashing aside as members of the brotherhood rushed to aid their wounded patriarch.

Bilial ran, desperation overtaking him. He knew this wouldn’t last long. He knew the price of capture was death, now more than ever.


But, he was not surprised when he wound himself colliding with a materializing figure. He hit the ground with a groan of pain, a pair of faint, whispy shades coming into vision above him as those of the brotherhood caught up. Quickly he began to plead for mercy, seeing one of the ‘paladins’ lifting his warhammer up to end him—and for a moment he thought perhaps that he had lowered the weapon on his own volition. Out of pity, or something else. He could hear a woman’s voice after him though—“Stop; You need not kill the man.”

“You said this was the last time.” The paladin said, peering back to the smaller feminine figure as she approached.

“It is. But I believe something else can be done with him. Something more… creative.”


Bilial just stared at her in silence, barely even flinching as she swung her stave down to knock him from consciousness.

[Rigley]

Bilial sat awake the night of the attack. He had been waiting-- until Annabelle had left his side, and had the peace of mind to return to sleep as well. It was in the dead of night by then, and it was somewhat surprising he met so little resistance on his way down.

Step after step into the sanctuary burdened him. He could still smell the stench of death and the heavy smoke from the burning roof; it was a horrible reminder of what his spellbound stupor had brought him to do only hours earlier. But onwards he went, supported only by his stave and his quaking legs. Until he came to a cell, inhabited by a sole man. He eased himself down, staring in at the figure as it lay against the wall.

“I've nothing more to say if you've come to trifle with me more,” came the scholarly and calmed voice of the priest within, “You're better to simply save your breath and leave me be.”

“...I'm not a guardsman, father.”

Eldin peered back at the younger man, expression a bit bewildered. “Come to gloat at a man on his way to death's door? Go ahead. Make your peace and be done with it.”

Bilial stared at the man in silence, expression blank. For once, he was untouchable. He was the man who watched over the suffering. This wasn't like earlier, when he had attacked Eldin; now the priest was helpless, and he knew it. Bilial knew it as well. His voice was hoarse and barely audible, yet he summoned the strength to continue.

“I'm not here to mock you, father. I'm here to thank you.”

Eldin's face was dumbstruck. “...Thank me? How curious.”

“I wanted to thank you, yes. For the person you were. Before the Brotherhood, when you raised me in the abbey. When you taught me of the virtues and absolved me of my petty sins.”

Eldin's expression slowly began to droop.

“I heard that you're to go to the gallows tomorrow. And I wanted to let you know that you are in my prayers. For all the good you once stood for.”

With that Bilial slowly pulled himself upright, making his way out of sight with the slow and steady clack of his stave. Eldin stared out through the cell gate as he left, silenced by the display of restraint by the younger boy. He looked down to the set of priestly garments he still wore, rubbing his fingers over the faded signet of Lordaeron which adorned his robe. How many years had it been since he had abandoned the Light for his ruse? That he threw away his faith in desperation and anger?

He didn't know. The years had blurred by, and his mind could draw only blanks from those dark days in Lordaeron. Dark days, which led him to darkness. Darkness, all that awaited him on the other side of the gallows. He had abandoned the Light, and led his flock into darkness. Only one remained, and he had beaten him and reduced him to a drudge in his service.

He felt sick. Sick of the atrocities he had created and the lives he had taken. The faithful sheep which he had led into everlasting darkness and corruption at the hands of the undead. He felt sick for what he had done. He felt sick for what he had become. As he waited in his cell he did not sleep nor rest at all; he only wept, and dreaded what was to become of his blackened soul.

------------------------

It was morning when he was led out. Jeering cheers rang upon his ears as he was led through the crowds of crusaders, bound for the gallows. Cries of anger rose up, assaulting him on either side.

“My family shall have vengeance!”

“Monster! Betrayer!”

“Heretic!”

“Justice for the fallen!”

He only stared blankly ahead, eyes harrowed and body shaking as his gaze met the hanging noose which awaited him. As he was put in place they attempted to pull an execution hood onto him, only for him to swiftly draw back.

“No... No, please. I want to be able to see the Light.”

The executioner looked to the commanders overseeing, before withdrawing. The noose was fit upon his neck, and Entari read aloud his crimes; Treason. Murder. Conspiracy. Necromancy. Torture. Terrorism. Inciting rebellion. Impersonation of church officials. Attempted Assassination. On and on. The entire time his eyes were locked onto those of another in the crowd, peering out at him from behind his brown cowl.

He thought to say something. Perhaps an apology. But as each of his crimes were laid out before him he knew he could not. Nothing could suffice to make up for the suffering he had brought. He heard footsteps, and the creak of wood. Suddenly the floor gave way beneath him, and a loud crashing snap ended it all.


Only darkness lay in wait, forever more.

[Rigley]

-Vangelis-

It was the first day back on the job.

He was back in his armor, refurbished and polished the night before. His blade was keen, and his entire attire neatly pressed and ready for a day's work around the town. The day seemed to be a simple one-- a guard patrol about town and the path leading south of it. Easy enough.

Oh, how he wished it had been.

It began at seven. The bells of the town hall had barely stopped ringing when a voice cried out, spoken in a tongue unknown to him. Briefly after he heard a terrible roar, and the beating of wings upon the plagued skies above.

In his heart he knew what was coming. But he couldn't believe it, and still he found himself frozen in shock as the guardsmen cried;

“DRAGON!”

It descended upon the town in a horrific display of power and destruction. In its wake it left burning corpses and debris of buildings. The streets were filled with civilians either running or frozen in sheer terror at the monstrosity which soared through the clouds. Many made it to the keep. Most did not. It was their job to see to it they did not perish.

The team Vangelis was with had never faced a dragon before. Neither had he, really-- only from the distance had he seen the terrible frost wyrms be fought. He knew little of them, but he knew enough-- this city would fall if this creature was not warded away.

Cannons rang out amongst the cacophony of screams and splintering wood. Like so many meaningless gnats the shots peppered the titanic beast as it streaked across the sky, gradually wearing away as a knife might try to fell a tree. Vangelis and his men could only stand and watch, unable to reach the beast from the ground. Watch, and pray.

Then an it came. The creature was struck by something larger-- a gnomish rocket turret which had been carted onto the roof of the workshop. It swerved its dazed form about, struggling to keep airborne before crashing to the ground just outside the city.

Opportunity.

Like madmen they dashed to the beast. It slowly began to regain itself just as they arrived, but they did not falter. Their lives were not their concern-- the beast had to be driven away. Away from their homes and families, whether they were to return to them or not. Along with a few other crusaders Vangelis reached and struck out at the behemoth, spirits reveling in the sound of crushing bone beneath their warhammers and blades. Each strike gave them hope-- if not to kill it, then at least to damage it. But their hopes were crushed as it rose up, turned, and with a deafening roar extinguished the lives of all but a handful of the crusaders which had come to strike it down.

Vangelis found the world spinning. He felt weightless, soaring through the air in such a way that time itself seemed to slow. Colors flew past, he tumbled over and over-- then with a pained cry and a gasp of breath he slammed into the dirt some distance from the wyrm, body collapsing down in a beaten pile as his eyes turned upwards into the murky sky. For a while he was wholly numb, his vision blurred and fading. Around him swirled the muffled sounds of combat, ringing out in his deafened ears as he desperately reached a hand out, seeking for any aid he could manage. It was by pure grace that a healer rushed to him, helping him up mere moments before another horrible wave of unholy flame barreled out in his direction.

Vangelis collapsed as soon as he was lain down, set in hiding near the guard tower as the medic rushed off to continue his aid. The beast was gone now-- with a beat of its gargantuan wings it had taken flight, unsteadily soaring eastward to lick its wounds. The city was safe, at least for now. The last thing he could recall was his men's quick approach to his side, just as his consciousness blurred into slumber.

What a day to return to the job.


That was five days ago. Vangelis had since been released from the infirmary and returned to his home. He stayed up in the night though, restless from his worries and thoughts. He thought about how he had been thrown from the defense; how others had warded the Frost Wyrm away. How others had slain it. How his little brother had been the one commanding those on the field, and not him.

He reached up, combing through his light, pale-blonde hair. Through it were strands of white. His shoulders felt weary from the burden of his armor at the end of these days, and his energy was more drained than he had remembered it. His eyes ached from restless nights, and his mind always craved another hour of sleep when day broke. Age was showing upon him, as was stress.

He set back in bed, head swimming with idle thoughts and woes for the town he had been devoted to these past months. How the mounting assault upon the cult approached, how the economy had sunken-- how there was an unmailed docket for the council lying unattended to on his desk.

Sometimes it almost felt like the searing breath of that wyrm would have been a sweet release.

[Rigley]

Samantha walked through the rows of the abbey graveyard, an arrangement of flowers held in her hands. They were clasped to her chest, the colorful arrangement a stark contrast to the plain brown robe of her abbey which she was draped in. It wasn't much further-- a distance past here, she knew. Her eyes scanned the graves as she passed; all names she had given her prayers to from the families of the village. Some soldiers, others peasants and craftsmen. She prayed the Light's mercy would be upon them all.

“What are you doing out here, my child?” came a voice from behind. An older member of the abbey walked alongside her, bowing his graying head to her as he came by her side. “Paying respects? To whom?”

“There is a man they've lain to rest here.” she told him, motioning him to follow onwards, into a less tended side of the graveyard. “They executed him not long ago-- perhaps you saw in the town square.”

“I prefer to keep distance from such things, my child. No good can come of beholding such a sight.”

She nodded in return. “Indeed, I should suppose so.”

“What brought this man to the gallows, if I might ask?”

“Treachery, of the worst sort. Betrayal of the Light, of his people-- murder of his brothers and destruction of the hallowed ground he walked. Consorting with dark spirits, of fel and necromancy. I'm not certain he is innocent of any of those charges.”

The priest's eyes widened slightly, following a bit closer behind. “A sordid list of misdeeds if I have ever heard one, my child. I can see why such punishment befell him.”

“I do not pretend that his punishment was unnecessary. But... I knew him once, sir.”

“Is that so? A man from your youth?”

“Perhaps, in a way. He was an older man, a mentor in some ways. He was once as faithful as I-- perhaps more so. Kind and meek, earnest and pure. A master of the virtues of compassion and respect.”

The priest fell silent as they came upon the grave. Despite being fresh it was already worn-- defaced by those the man had angered, smashed on one edge by a heavy mace. She leaned down, brushing debris away from the tombstone as she looked up to the other priest.

“He only lacked in tenacity. For while his will was strong... and indeed, his endurance great; it was not enough. All was explained by the Light-- in happiness and in sorrow. And I do suppose that the sorrow overwhelmed him as he carried on.”

The priest shook his head slightly, as silent as the grave they stood over for a brief moment. “A sad state for a man to be in, to be sure. Let us hope his soul is not wholly dark. Perhaps the Light shall have mercy on him yet.”

“He was a good man once. I only hope he could remember that in the end.”

The pair stood observing the lone grave for a time, before the priest bowed his head. “Good day, Sister Endling.”

“Good day, Father Shol.”

She looked back down, the banners of the Argent Crusade flanking the walls of the sanctuary memorial site, bending to place down the arrangement upon the battered grave. Beside her stood a man in similar attire, staring without word as he stood overlooking the grave. He paid no attention to the mumbled conversation of the Forsaken beside him, searching briefly for whoever she had been speaking to, but seeing nothing. He did give a bow of his head as he recognized the robe she wore, though. As she turned to leave he made to call out for her, but received only a meager response in return.

“Good day to you as well, sister.” he called after her; she seemed familiar, but her identity eluded him.

“Good day, brother Ian.”

With a faint nod the robed man clasped his hands before him, turning back to face the beaten grave. It read;

ELDIN ANDREAS SHOL OF BRILL
BETRAYER OF THE LIGHT

Bilial bent beside the tombstone, setting down a carved plank against the bottom of the grave.

Wayward priest of the Light, blinded by grief and shackled by his sorrow.
Light's mercy upon his soul.

[Rigley]

-Bilial-

Bilial made his way once more into the dungeon of Hearthglen, descending down the stairwell and into the hallowed halls of the sanctuary. He kept his cowl pulled low as he drew around to the cells, staring silently out from under it towards the sole prisoner kept within. She was a woman. Young-- younger than him, and draped in finer robes than he had even kept. Her auburn hair was the only thing he could make of her, her body draped in a cloak as she kept to the wall of the room. Her attention was wholly consumed by the banner of the Light which hung in the back of the cell.

Bilial waited, and watched. She remained unmoving. He drew ever nearer, until he was at the cell gate, his shadow just barely touching her form as it seeped past the cell bars. He readied himself. Put on a stoic face-- but despite his preparation his words were stumbling. Choked. Fearful.

“Lucile?”

The cultist drew her head up, barely sparing a glance back before she caught sight of Bilial's robe. She instantly sprung up, rushing to the gate with a sudden display of energy he had not assumed she still retained. He drew back slightly, eyes wide as she set her hands against the bars.

“Ian! You're here? Ian, surely you can help me. You can explain-- You can tell them what Shol has done to us all. They'll listen to you! Surely you can...”

Her voice lost all enthusiasm and drowned itself down to a mumble as she saw his expression quickly drop to one of frustration. She went wholly silent, her bright blue eyes peering back into his own of tired and dull hazel.

“Lucile...” he began, stepping back to the bar as he set a hand upon her own. She looked down, watching the scarred and calloused rest upon her own. “You know I can't. You... You know I wouldn't. Please, don't make it this way. Please, speak to me. Not as the speaker, or a priestess. Please, at least one last time.”

Lucile continued to stare. He grip on his hand tightened ever slightly, a shudder seeming to course over her smaller frame at the man's words. Her body tensed, and her expression began to change. At first he thought it to be one of anger, preparing to draw back again. He expected her to shout. To scream, berate, to call him down as a traitor. She clenched her eyes shut, taking in a long breath of air and...


He had not expected her to cry.

But she did. Tears flowed from her eyes as she fell against the cell gate, her body sinking down to the floor as her sobs became audible to all within the dungeon. Bilial followed down, his hand gingerly petting her own as he tried to calm her.

“Ian... Oh, Ian-- I'm afraid.” she told him rather bluntly, shaking her head as if trying to dispel the thoughts swirling within. “I have... I have done so much. I have hurt so many. I can't... I can't die. What will await me? I can't...”

He sat there, frozen as he tried to stumble through any kind of consolation. He couldn't though-- nothing came to his mind. Eventually he just slumped forward as well, hugging her through the jail's bars as best as it could be allowed.

“The fear... that Shol gave me was never greater than the fear I hold now.” she told him through her tears. “Ian, what will become of me? What will happen after...”

“I'm sorry.”

She did not reply further, only keeping pressed against his touch, as if clinging to any comfort she could find. Later as her tears began to dry he began to rise back up, to depart-- she drew him down, or at least as much as her weak tug would allow.

“Please... please, don't go. I need... someone. I need you.”

The night would pass, with the pair keeping together in silent company. They kept against the cell gate until both had fallen into slumber, but before then their attention was rapt upon one another as they knelt from across the bars of the cell. Both prayed. One for mercy, and one for deliverance.

[Rigley]

-Endling-

The bells pealed in the distance, breaking through the drone of conversation in the crowded chapel.

Endling was tired. Not from casting through the Light; but simply tired. Even as Clovis and she lay crammed into a small chapel filled with a small crowd, even after all of the ordeals they had been faced with in –one day- alone of being in this city… Something against all of her judgment made her feel that it was worth it. The cold, the creatures, the crash- as she lay there flexing her now unmarred and unburned hands, it felt as if anything would have been worth it to feel as she did now.

She felt warm. She felt happy. Sensations she knew, but only in passing and in echoes of a former life, numbed and stunted by her deadened senses. She felt as if that night in the Tirisfal Glades had never come to pass- that she might return now to Lordaeron to find the plague nothing more than a horrid dream. It was as if she had been brought here instead of being raised as…

As Endling.


This place was one seemingly teeming with trials and tribulations. A place that seemed to hate their presence, and attempt to send them scoured out from its reaches at every opportunity. No matter where they turned, -somehow- things seemed to be even more dire a situation. But she was alive. Perhaps… there was mercy in this town after all.

‘It’s like some kind of cruel joke’ echoed Balgarn’s words. He said it didn’t last—that he had been here once more. But he had to be wrong. There had to be a way. It’s too good to be an illusion. It’s too good just to be the work of magic, or whatever propositions they had given. But at the same time…

It’s too good to be true.

She lay back against Clovis, careful not to disturb the slumbering Paladin. With both hands clasped she prayed; Anything. Anything at all that this was not as the orc had said it would be. She lay back, pleading with the silent heavens for a bargain, or deal, or blessing as she slowly drifted off to sleep. Actual sleep.

She never would have imagined that the concept of sleep would have brought such a feeling of elation.

O sovereign Light that watches over us even now,
So thankful am I for this single blessing that I've been afforded amongst this curse.
Were I given this moment for the world I would never relinquish it--
Through your love and mercy, tonight I am not safe, but I am happy.
Happiness I have not known since I first wrote that letter to Dalaran many months ago...
Back when Clovis thought I was... as I am now.

I pray with a deep fervor tonight not for deliverance from this place,
though I should not wish either I nor the others to remain;
But a way that this blessing might remain.
Some way that I can stave off the chill of undeath.
Some way that I can invoke your power with joy instead of suffering...
Some way that I can make Clovis truly happy.
Anything. For anything. I beg of you to hear my plea.

Anything...