Chapter 8: Eternal.
Sanarath finished reading a book, closing it and letting out an exasperated sigh. Complete. His training is finally complete. He breathed heavily, sighing a few times before looking at the scythe in the corner of the room. It was carved out of bone, dark sigils flowing through it. A small undead mage, high elven no less, waited next to him. Cold blue mist billowed in his eyes; though deep within there was a soft flare of green light. He waved a hand and his eyes flickered a bit, a yellow mask of plagued light shining in front of them, as if to imitate the amber luminesce of the Forsaken. He began to step carefully down the stairs, putting as little weight on them as possible.
--
Astus was bathed in the darkness, and though he couldn't tell where he was he clearly, though it was somewhere in Northrend, a small Scourge-esque building that seemed to have been abandoned long ago. Cobwebs stuck loosely to the ceiling and a thick layer of dust had settled over everything. Astus was so cold he was numb, but yet his soul seemed to burn. “Good, you're awake.†It had started just like before, the new Master loomed over him while he was sleeping, a silent vigil. His robes were that of a San'layn blood prince. His eyes flickered with soft autumn light and his flesh was necrotic. He glowed with an aura of power.
“Y-you're a Bl-blood Pr-prince.†A burst of laughter erupted from the figure, though he soon grew once again silent and serious. “You flatter me.†It was true, though. It had to be. The man looked exactly like a Blood Prince of the San'layn, though he was extremely weak compared to his brethren, probably why he'd gone unnoticed when he'd left to live on his own in the small building, no one cared. Astus inhaled deeply through his nose, the sweet smell of flesh and blood lavished over the r—sweet? Since when had he deemed the smell of flesh ‘sweet'. It was tantalizing, strangely, as if he could reach out to the slabs of meat lying on the tables and eat them raw. It had to have been a trick of the mind, played by the Darkfallen. Behind him his old master sat, face bathed in scarlet by the light of an Eye of Dominion. “She is my minion now, elf. Do not worry.â€Â
Astus let out a sigh of relief,
Good, he thought, a slight smile twitching on his face. Fools have their place. He watched the necromancer closely, before he finally asked the question, pushing himself to his feet and leaving his hand-print in a table to his right as he leans on it. “Are you a necromancer, then?†The creature let out another guffaw at the question before his face suddenly becoming somber once more.
“I am more than a mere necromancer, though that crude term for the art
could be used. I consider myself a master of the Grave; I perfect the art of death.†He waved his hand, a shadow taking shape into a long, hooked scythe, outlined with dark crimsons and shimmering gold. Runes slithered across its surface like they lived, or as if they flowed like a torrent of blood within it. Almost as if the scythe had its own life. Astus closed his eyes, shivering in sudden dread as he looked to his feet. He would never amount to what this… this Darkfallen could. Why, though, had the man brought him here? Perhaps that should have be—
“Perhaps you wonder why I've brought you here, ‘Nemeth.' You are arrogant, you are stuck up, and furthermore, you disgrace yourself by learning from
that,†He took a pause, spitting out the word that as he jerked his thumb at the former Master. “And I will not have Sin'dorei befouling the Art by using cheap knowledge and sloppy technique. I will teach you the… more secretive and more important ways of our craft. The perfection of Undeath. Once you've left my tutelage, you'll no longer rely on the living for your energy. You will create undeath… perfectly.â€Â
Astus couldn't help but grin at these words, a refined form of necromancy known to few? This was the power he truly wished to command. “So you will make me a better necromancer?†The hand hit Astus's face, and he stumbled, though no mark was left. “Do not disgrace the Art with such a term—but theoretically yes.†Astus raised a brow at this,
Theoretically? He scratched at his long white hair, pulling down his hood at his new Master's request, stripping until he was bare. He scowled, rubbing his numb face.
A chill wind brushed through, tickling him down in his pelvic-area and he shivered his face flushing as he felt oddly embarrassed at the strangely sensual feeling it gave him. “Bah, quit acting like a teenager, Nemeth.†The necromancer tossed robes to Astus's feet, and he slipped them on quietly, still frozen in the bitter winds of the North, though the robes flickered with magic at the master's word and his felt himself warm. Ah, he nodded, enchanted. “I am Sanarath, by the way. Self-proclaimed Lord of Undeath.†He made a dramatic bow as Astus coughed into his sleeve. “So, Sanarath… why did you bring me of all people?†Sanarath shrugged as if he didn't know, and he opened his mouth a few times to give an answer, but only came up with, “Because I felt like it.â€Â
Astus found this peculiar, but he wouldn't argue. He knew this would benefit him greatly. The man sat him down, making a gesture and a small word in Astus's head.
Do as I do. Astus obliged, placing himself in a slightly priest-like meditative stance, he began to murmur words softly. Astus watched a few times before trying them himself, and eventually he got them. He whispered slowly to himself as he spoke out a long phrase many times over, stuck in a long meditative trance. It had only been a minute, but when he looked up Sanarath was gone, though it felt like eyes were burning into him. He checked throughout the small house, but no one was there but him. He opened the door to the cottage and peered outside, there were no footsteps in the snow, either. A small book was tacked to the wall, and Astus unhooked it, flipping through the pages silently.
With several nods he recounted the incantation slowly in his head, which was the same thing he'd been meditating with earlier. He took his wand; it always helped when learning new spells. He waved it in the offered motions as he murmured words that he couldn't even understand, presumably Gutterspeak or some other language of the dead, and slowly but surely the shadows of the room rose around him. The shadow began to solidify, thickening quickly and taking shape around him like a suit of armor. He tapped it. It was strong as steel, this… was a plate-suit of armor. Yet it wasn't heavy, nor did it seem to impede him. He grinned. “Thank you, Sanarath. Where'd you go anyway?†He heard a crash up the stairs.
He grumbled to himself, heading slowly up the old wooden steps, widening his eyes as they broke beneath his weight. He grabbed his chest, looking down at the hole as his heart pounded. Spikes were laden under the stairs.
Astus narrowed his eyes, baring his teeth in a snarl as he made his way quickly up the rest of the stairs, leaving holes in his wake. The upstairs reeked of death; decay was prevalent as flies swarmed through the halls. Astus made a motion with his hand, wavering slightly as he called upon magical energy. The flies bulged suddenly with plague, blisters popping over them and causing a decaying liquid to flood over them. They fell to the ground, small green sparks of life slamming back into Astus, reenergizing him. Astus stepped along the creaking hall. He moved slowly, the sound of dead insects crunching underfoot. He ignored them, as if some force kept pulling him closer. He heard Sanarath's voice all around him, crushing, pressuring. He began to take haggard breaths, his vision blurring and dizzying as he fell into shock. He stumbled into an open room and lay there on the floor. He heard footsteps, all around him, hundreds of thousands. He saw a man walk up to him.
“Hey ‘ass'tus. Remember me? Zendris Longstrider.†He coughed, sliding back and gagging at all the men in the room, the same face with different outfits, all talking with near different voices. Though he could distinguish them. A man in a scarlet robe and hood stepped to his left, holding a small flickering flame in his hand.
“Nemeth, charmed. The Gilnean accent was flawless.
“Auveid Sunbringer, Light bless you.†A man in robes suddenly stood on the other side of Nemeth. Next to him was another man, frowning sadly as he dropped a deck of cards which seemed to vanish as they touched the ground.
Fin'diel Felo'melorne… remember me?
Astus remembered all of them, but most of the disguises in the backgrounds had blurred together. He hadn't used them in years. Something very strange was going on. “Sanarath!†He wailed, looking around for his tormentor. “What are you doing to me!?â€Â
The question is what you have done to yourself…
He felt a kick to his side, and he yelped, rolling over through the crowd as they beat on him. A small mirror was to his left. He tried to grab it for support, only succeeding in wiping away some of the dust. And there he saw in the mirror himself in the room, alone, writhing in pain like a fool. He looked away from the mirror. “No… I…†He began to stand, still shaking wildly as they beat on him. Suddenly everything froze. Astus closed his eyes with a disgusted scowl on his face. Trembling all the while, biting his lip so hard that blood flowed freely from it, he waded through the crowd, pushing the elves out of his way. He stepped into a room, Sanarath was there. “You… b***h!†He raised his hand, bringing it down onto Sanarath's face. He didn't move. Astus's hand had passed right through him. “What… I…?â€Â
You don't exist Astus. There is no Astus. You're just… a figment of my imagi—
“That isn't true!†Astus roared, charging forth and passing straight through Sanarath, crashing into the wall. “I won't… believe that…†He crumpled to the floor as Sanarath looked at him. Astus crawled weakly into a corner, whimpering as the scythe fell over him.
With a maddened wail, he gripped the scythe in two hands and swung at Sanarath. It connected, sending the man sprawling. He coughed many times, his blood falling through the ground.
You can't… you don't exist… Sanarath bled ichor heavily from a wound at his neck. The scythe had actually harmed him. “Whether or not I am a figment of your… imagination or not. This… is my life!†Again he swung, Sanarath falling lower to the ground as again and again he was struck, sliced into little bits. He coughed a few times as Astus drained the last of the unlife from the body. Seconds later the disguises came crashing through the room, weapons poised to kill. “Stop!†Astus looked at them, no longer did he fear them. “I will not hide anymore. You're not real, none of you are! I demand that you leave my head, leave me be and never speak to me again! Get out of my head!†Astus looked at another mirror in that room; again he was the only one in the room, though strangely battered and bleeding. “I no longer need you… I am Astus Duskwither, through and through… I'm... I refuse to be a slave to aberrations within my own mind. Look at yourselves now and you look… at nothing. You are nothing forever, and that is what you've always been.†The mob charged at Astus, but they did nothing. Astus shut his eyes tight as he swung the scythe in a wide arc. There was no sound.
Astus opened his eyes and he was alone. Alone for the first time in years.
--
Sometimes we have to move on. Our lives demand so much from us… and I guess it was something I couldn't take. I made some wrong choices, sure. But I've done what I needed to do. I am not a good person, nor am I evil. I am Astus. The home of my people fell to the Scourge, and yet none chose to use the powers that they commanded against them. I think from the second I saw the abominations racing through the woods in their great horror, I knew this was my path. Most don't understand, and for this I am an outcast, shunned by the very people who birthed me. Someday those ignorant elves will learn the joys of death, as I have many times. This reminds me, mental note to destroy Tavren Black and that one Demon Hunter.
I'm not one to write journal entries, but I suppose I should take note of my last moments of mortality. Since I confronted… whatever the hell just happened yesterday, I've gained so much clarity. This does explain those times I'd pass out and awaken somewhere else. I'm sure there's some disorder that I'd be diagnosed with had I gone to a healer, however that does not matter. I have cured it myself. After reclaiming myself, I've seemed to recall much more. Normally I could only remember the catacombs, then being somewhere else. It was always a cruel trick. But now I know what did happen during those strange ‘black-outs'. Again, it does not matter. Soon I will attain perfection and such things will be meaningless.
I'm not proud of some of things I've done, but it's all for a noble cause. I will not tell others to agree with me, that is not my cause. I will not forget that cause, but should anyone else read this, know that I do not live for power. I do not live to slay those who oppose me, and I do not live for anyone but myself and my own whims. I am as constant as the north-most star, I live forever, and power lives for me.
Astus looked over the journal entry, tucking it away into a small backpack. He looked down at it sadly, but then smiled. Sanarath already had the ingredients for the ritual, strangely enough. Though I suppose it made sense; Astus must've been subconsciously directing Sanarath to obtain them. Astus took the blood further along the ground, nodding as the pentagram had been completed and checked for errors. None. Astus began to place desecrated candles of the Scarlet Crusade in small circles around the edge of the main circle. Astus held a skull in his hands—carved on it were dark symbols that almost had an innate verdant light. He held it up and the green energy exploded outwards, the walls of the building growing dark as everything seemed to be afflicted by death. He looked out the window as a circle of gloom spread outward, tainting and withering trees as the ground blackened, thin unholy fog present all through the air. Astus raised his hands beginning to chant softly as he tipped over a large bucket of blood with his foot. It spilled over the ritual circle, and Astus began to violently shake, crumpling to his knees as the blood swelled around him.
Astus muttered another word and the blood stopped it's bubbling, left, stagnant, the energy drained from it into the circle. Next, Astus drew sigils in the air, the unholy mists hurtling towards him and the circle. They flowed through the circle, causing it to release a jet of unholy radiance all around Astus as he fell further, flat on his stomach. He lay there, motionless. The jade-colored flame in his eyes going out. His flesh turned necrotic, sickly in color as it began to bulge with the strength of undeath. He looked down at his fingers, moaning in agony as they seemed to split away into near claws. The unholy energies ravaged his body, running their course quickly. His ears seemed to change a bit in size, growing larger and more curved outwards, growing into a harsher point. His hair turned from a murky black-gray to a stark white. His teeth became jagged and more pointed, two rising almost like fangs, but not quite. It seemed the way of the Sin'dorei to adopt such traits upon undeath, though Astus was lucky that it didn't go further, as he could've been labeled a San'layn and marked for slaughter by all.
He laid there, the circle depleted of energy and his body cold and lifeless. He was dead. His body was motionless for a long time before from the center of his eyes white light began to flow. The white became so concentrated it took on almost a bluish tinge, enough for him to pose as a death knight? Perhaps. He stood, swaying a bit, unused to his new state. He felt the raw energy flowing in his veins, and he looked to his left and used his new-found undead strength to grip one of the cracked tables in a single hand and send it crashing at a wall, where it broke into pieces.
“Long ago I read of awesome creatures, beings that have walked Azeroth longer than all men. These god-like beings, immortal and with divine power. This is what I am. I am eternal.†Astus walked along the bloodied floor, the ivory-carved eyes of his void of any emotion but determination. He stood in the snow, just as new flakes began to fall. Astus looked up. “My newly attained godhood is worthy of a new name. No longer am I called Astus. That is no longer my name. I am Sanarath.â€Â