Conquest of the Horde

Through a bleak forest of twisted trees and fetid waters marched a young woman. Her purple garments of shadoweave cloth kept her body warm in such a desolate location. She pauses to look around her surroundings for any signs of life, there are none to be found. After a suspicious twitch of her eyes, Valda presses on. What caused her to under take this particular quest? Fame, gold or perhaps a chance.. to meet someone new? Indeed it was the last one as she recalls it. A High Elf, those reclusive creatures that tuck themselves away from the common riff-raff of the City. Away from the likes of her. Now was her chance and she took it. The forest is so unsettling as her mind stops wondering. She can feel eyes upon her. As if she could just turn around and spot someone, or something, lurking in the dark. The dark. It is where she hides herself. Why is it bothering her now? The trees seem to ache closer as she approaches a tower of stone and wood. Shades of gray and darkened brown spiral up into the simplest watch tower. Her footfalls are quiet against the stone floor. The world outside seems to just fade into darkness as she treads up the stairs. Valda glances out the window, only to see the same deadwoods as before. She continues up the stairs and each step echos in her mind. The stairs go on forever as if leading to some sort of climax. Her mind drifts in the moment and she thinks of what the High Elf might look like. Blonde hair, fair skin and a bow no doubt. Fine leather armor, much superior to her own tailoring. Her eyes refocus as travels through a room before reaching another set of stairs. The room contains a crude campfire and simplistic bedroll. But this is a High Elf. Part of Valda expected a glorious tower filled with servants and lavish gifts. The basics of necessity, was all that was here. Even the fire had long been neglected, and a wispy tendril of grey smoke was set against the hard rock wall. Her head turns as she nears the top of the second flight of stairs.

Valda is greeted by the openness of outside again. The clouds a dark shade of grey, swirling about if ready to bring about a great storm. A strong and unnatural breeze strips Valda of the last bit of body heat held within her hair. The goosebumps on the back of her neck intensify as the young woman is met with an arrow pointed at her. Indeed a leather-clad High Elf is poised to end Valda's life as quickly it came into existence near twenty-five years ago. A beautiful woman with the same blonde hair she imagined. It was so radiant, in the bleak background. Valda thought of her own hair, a faded and neglected blonde. Oh, how she wished was that pretty! She raised her hands in honest fear for her life, and defines her purpose as delivering a parcel from a familiar name. It is the truth. The Elven Ranger lowers her bow, and beckons the courier over with a smile. A warm and inviting smile. Surely Valda would of been on edge had she been in her shoes. That accepting smile alone was worth the dark trip out here. Valda extends her arm, a hand around the gift. A rectangular necklace box tied with a simplistic black ribbon.

Before Valda can pass it off, a soul-piercing darkness envelops the pair. An eternity of seconds pass before either one can recover. It was a trap! The shadowmage is caught with her hand in between a black choker and her neck. She gasps for air as she drops to her knees. The young woman reaches up with her other hand and with a great roar tries to free herself, in vain. She peers up at the High Elf with the thought of mercy running through her veins but is only met with a look of condemnation. Valda feels anger swell up from her gut and she growls out for help, for anything! A shadowy figure emerges from the stairs. It was the one who tasked Valda with this mission, yet different. Valda eyes the new Blood Elf, clad in thick red armor but she refuses to believe it. It looks like Terastraza! The red dragon from Northrend! But she helped her! Valda helped her take down that Lich! The red dragon aspect looms over the shadowmage and speaks in some unknown voice with thunderous clarity. The High Elf steps up, and brandishes a cruel curved blade. Valda's hand begins to bleed as she wrestles with the magical choker. Her eyes tear up as she feels the end nearing. Valda cries out incoherently as the High Elf slowly raises the blade to surely behead the wicked evil-doer, "T-this should- nnt --! This isn't the way-- it shou-- NO!" The last thing Valda sees is the white blade falling towards her neck.

Her body jerks forward in a primal response and she hangs over the side of the bed, losing the contents of her stomach. It wasn't much, mostly orcish grog and snack food stuffs. She continued to dry-heave for a moment before hanging her head dazed. The stench of alcohol and smoke hangs in her throat. A firm hand comforted her by rubbing her back. Valda reached for a cloth from the nightstand to wipe her mouth. Her drifted around the room. She first eyed landed on a hookah. Just how high did get get? That was the most terrible dream ever. A night-terror. Valda's teal eyes landed on her sword and she couldn't break away from it. It was only when the same hand wrapped around her stomach and gently tugged the woman was she able to break her eyes from the blade. She curls up next to her Orcish companion and buries her face into his chest. His arms hold her tight as she silently weeps herself back to sleep.

A bright a sunny day beamed down on the bustling goblin town of Ratchet. Valda walks down a dusty path mostly in rags and partially barefoot. A happy smile graces her face as she pauses to stretch. Freedom! How long had she been trapped on that island? Too long, of course. But oh, what an experience! As she lowers her arms, she can't but to be drawn to the healing stretches of burned skin. She shakes her head in simple disbelief. She survived. Against those who kidnapped her, against the elemental, against the fire. The pain was so far removed from her mind, but still held power over her physical appearance. Well we just can't have that. The first step was to get the collar off. A mechanical gizmo, the metal had heated up in the intense flames to sear a ring about her neck. Funny, how it was another troll who was able to remove it.

She slips into a clothing store and looks for anything better than her rags. How she smirked at the clothes. Crude textiles fashioned to such simple designs. She twirled the single gold coin in her hand much to the business owner's torture. In the back of her mind she kept replaying the kindness that a blue troll showed her. The door covers he made for the guardhouse. How he cradled her back to safety after being consumed by the flames. His ineffective healings that brought her temporary comfort. The woman smirks as she recalls their feast when first landing in Ratchet. The healing at full strength, she could finally take in a deep breath without pain. How easily he parted with a gold coin to make sure she could return home.

Valda's mind focuses as her finds a simple teal dress. A bit overpriced, but it matches her eyes. She purchases it and takes a moment to change into it. Valda holds up her old shirt. A bit stretched out black vest and arm sleeves. Her mind travels back to that Death Knight. Even the undead were kind to her. Why is it that her own people wish to kill her, yet the Horde shows kindness and gentleness to her? It defies her own reasoning as she places it, and the rest of her ruined shadoweave clothes in the wastebasket. Shadowmoon. Her mind flickers to the dark mountians, cultists and elementals that call the cursed land home. But it is the only place to fashion shadoweave cloth. She has all the regents, but what is stopping her? She slips the dress over her head and settles in a pair of sandals. Valda considers herself in a mirror before noticing her hair. It was ruined! Her long pale blonde standby has portions burned off, it was dirty and singed. Wholly unacceptable. She took her time to exit the shop. Valda found a bit peace in taking her own sweet time to do things. And do them her own way.

Next enters a barbershop, and the goblin tells her to take a seat to wait until her turn. Valda smirked at his hateful tone as she sat down anyway. How easy it would be to yell something nasty back and storm out, never to set foot in the establishment again. Such a simple request, why did it have to be a command? Because he held a margin of power over his patrons. They wanted his service and would have to obey him to garner it. Her mind replayed the last few minutes on that island. The same hateful tone bellowed from the elemental, on the boat or join the mass of undead it was battering away at. Why did it care for their safety? The same being who punished her for her verbal rebellion. Oh how it perplexed her until her turn came! Valda took a seat and the goblin looked over her mess of hair. Abruptly he comments that it 'will cost extra' for him to fix her hair decently again. So be it. She watched in the mirror as her hair was further trimmed to even out. Valda never had her hair this short before. She felt naked without it. But it would regrow in time. Her mind searched for a safe place to find a bit of respite from the chaos of recent events. She exits the barbershop feeling renewed and ambitious. She recalled a conversation over the feast. She had overlooked a mug of crude goblin ale and commented, "When I'm up to speed.. I'm going to Westfall, buying the most expensive bottle of good ol' corn whiskey, taking to the edge of the sea and drinking it down as the sun sets into the water.."

Yeah.. that'll do.

Another bleak day in the chasms of Deadwind Pass. Atop a forgotten building looms a darkly set tower against the gray towers. The ominous breeze whips the faded hair of a woman as she overlooks the area. Decrepit trees, black with rot. A haunted graveyard and the hollow pangs of the restless. Her hand rests on the crumbling stone crenelations. But, that is not the woman reflects. Instead her features exhibit pride. Her face set against the wind as she looks up to the horizon. More praise in one day than what seemed a lifetime. The chidings of her past as a simple gopher always met with a strained thanks as they parted with what was rightfully hers. Coin, food.. whatever was fitting for the task. Though, she did not recall any specific items. Rather, it was those forced words that always bothered the woman. Deep inside. In her own dark depths of her mind. But not tonight. Instead her mind raced with familiar voices of the day. The comforting thoughts are fleeting however. Valda tries to piece together the chaos in her mind. Voices ring out against one another.

"The Grandmaster is away discussing business in the Highlands."
"The apocalypse is coming. And...Well, that's bad! For some of us.
For people who are part of the Family, however, it's really good.
'cause when the apocalypse comes we'll survive!"
"You have done a great kindness for the Family... Go with our blessing."

How tempting it was to leave everything. Everyone. Even Matharius? She hadn't thought about it. About him. She justifies herself by being too caught up in the moment. But now she's here, alone. Valda rubs her thumb across her newly wrapped sword hilt. Black silk, now alight with red symbols. Ancient runes. Symbols of the earth. Of the dark depths. Of life and craft and tending. What did he mean with..?


The warlock unsheathes her blade into the night across her body. She held it aloft shoulder height, fully extended as her reach permitted. How she could feel the strain on her arm with every whip of the wind. Her mind flickered from before her scars. Before the Kidnapping. She was fit. Reliable. She dismisses those thoughts by upending the blade, bringing her other hand to the hilt. She stared at the black pearl set at the button of the wrapped pommel. Matharius again. How simple her gift of black-pearl cufflinks to the man. He never doubted her strength. Ever since Westfall and the Defias. Visions came to her of the bandits ambushing their small party. The man in the white suit going down with a shot of a pistol. Of Markuss falling with a dagger between his ribs. Valda grits her teeth in anger, and thrusts the blade down! The metal shriek pierces the night as easily as the stone below. She drove it down with all her might. With all her weight. Down to her knees and then sitting on her ankles. Valda's hands slipped from the pommel and watched the red runes dance across the black silk at eye level.


The Westfall native had no idea who these two were. Are? Her mind searches for anythin- Khaz. Khaz Modan! How many times has she heard that dwarven battle-cry? The dwarves would know. That is her first clue. Matharius mentioned going to his fallen kingdom. He would not suspect a time spent in the great halls of Ironforge. How long must she keep this secret? From him? She would keep him safe from her darkness.


Even still her master's voice rumbles through her mind. Could she have truly have made even the slightest impact on such a creature? The woman pushes herself up again. Both hands wrap around the blade. She works to either side, freeing the blade from the crumbling stones. Not even a scratch did Valda notice as she scanned the blade. The black knight returns the blade to the scabbard.


Her mind repeats the question over and over. Each time with something new. Power. Protection. A relic from a forgotten past. Wealth. A legacy. Strength. Knowledge. Land. A purpose. Wisdom. Yet at the time, staring into his yellow lizard eyes.. No words would come. What did she know of his power? A mere glimpse, perhaps. An eternity passed in a blink of an eye. How his eyes changed colors as he looks at her. A slight stretch in his jaw. The blackness overtaking his hand. The inconsistencies of his speech. Subconsciously it spurred her reply.


Valda turned around and with it a flourish of her cloak. She headed back down the wooden stairwell. A thin smirk stretched across her lips. Truly, she could of asked anything and it would have been given to her. But what she got will be cherished the rest of her life. After all, how many can say they have experienced a Dragon's rumbling laughter?

Quote:Lord Vardens,

I suppose this letter is just a couple years late! I know we spoke of catching up in Hearthglen but that’ll have to wait. I cannot even tell you where I will be tomorrow night. Do you remember me mentioning an Orc? Her name is Krona Whiteclaw, a ley-walker. The magic of the ley lines is different than the arcane I use. Maybe a more responsible magic with the way she talks about it. I want to learn this for myself. I don’t want to be buried under my family’s history, or even House Sunfire’s. I want something to call my own.

Krona spoke to me about the health of my entire being. Spiritual, Mental and Physical. While she acknowledged my abilities in the spiritual or mental, apparently there is much work to do to my physical fitness. Can you believe I have to walk around barefoot? We’ve already traveled from Orgrimmar to the Stonetalon Mountains. My feet hurt worse than the arcane withdraw I suffered though. That may be exaggerating slightly. My feet hurt. That’s all there is too it. However it did get me thinking, how are you doing in those three areas? You speak of your old gods and even mention the Light, I suppose for me. But how do you honor your beliefs? I did want to say I am very proud for you training. with the I do hope your mental wellness becomes more rounded with your spell-casting training. Don’t forget what I told you! I’m not sure how physical turning into a crow is, but don’t forget that aspect like I have. Trying to catch up is painful!

I’m not sure if a reply is possible, but I suppose I owe you for all the letters you’ve sent me. I’ve read them, you know? I’ll send you news whenever I can.

A.

Quote:Lady Sunfire,

I wanted to write to you and let you know that everything is going fine. Krona while the most part rough, has been kind to me. It feels as if she just dropped everything to take up training me. Right now we’re in the Stonetalon Mountians at Sun Rock Retreat. I've never seen so many Tauren in one place. Maybe we’ll visit Thunder Bluff just to prove me wrong? Krona seems to enjoy doing that too me. I did get her once. She grabbed me by the shoulder and an incredible rush overtook us. Startled, I interrupted it and we landed? face first in the dirt. I don’t think anyone did that to her before.

Suffice to say my feet hurt, and I've got a few bruises. Nothing compared to what you normally return home with. I think we’re headed up the Peak tomorrow. After that I’m not entirely sure. How is the House holding up? If feels weird being this far away from any enchanted brooms. If we ever pause in these travels, I’ll come home to visit. Until then I think these will just be one-way letters.

Your faithful servant,
Azalea

A single lit candle dimly glows in the dark corner of a wooden room. It sits atop a likewise wooden table. The hour is late and Matharius has yet to return home. A good opportunity to think without that sort of distraction running amuck. To the side in a pile is the black silk ribbon with strange sigils. Next to it, a dwarven book with a poor translation to Common. According to the date slip it is still signed out for two more months. It's opened in tandem to another book, this one written in easy Common. A pale hand moves from book to book before reaching up and pinching the brow of her nose in frustration. Valda's hand swoops off her face to the dwarven book. She picks it up and reads the spine of it. The only word she recognizes is Khaz'goroth. Leaving it closed she sets it back down. The woman slumps in her chair and stares blankly into the bundle of silk. What was the meaning of it all? Where did it all begin? Where did it go wrong? A headache begins nagging at the woman. With a huff she reaches out for the well-written book. The upends it to read the spine of it. The Seen and Unseen: Religious Beliefs of Azeroth and Beyond. Krilari Dawnsend. A brief hum is spared in quiet contemplation. Krilari- Sounds like an elf. Dawnsend- A paladin no doubt. So that means, Blood Elf. Damn elves. Every time, I swear. She drops the book onto the table with a thud. A common book tailored for the common man. Perhaps the author would know this topic more than he lets on in this brief miscellaneous book on the supernatural?

Valda's hand reaches for a stack of parchment and smooths it out before her. She dips a quill into a bottle of ink and pens down in legible Common.


The warlock folds the paper and slips it into an envelope. She takes up the candle and lets some wax drip onto the seam. Valda presses a plain stamp to the hot wax as it cools, sealing the letter. She leans forward and blows out the candle.

“You need to take care of your body better.”

“To what end?”

“To press on, of course.”

“To what end.”

“Whichever one you meet.”

“Then why does it matter when?”

“Because you still have a legacy to forge.”

“That’s your fantasy, necromancer. Don’t live your dreams through me.”

“You compare me to your mother.”

“Because that is what you’re doing.”

“Currently, I am stitching you up. What would Koelie say about you throwing your unlife away?”

“Aiding the Blood Knights is not throwing it away. You wouldn’t understand.”

”They’re abusing you for their own glory.”

“Quit trying to fix me.”

“But that is why you come, my dear.”

“Don’t twist my motives!”

A seething chuckle escapes the halls of Acherus as one Death Knight stitches up another. The robed elven medic snips a black thread close to Koiella’s skin. The damage to her shoulder now only an afterthought. She reaches for her mangled chestpiece before the other Knight scoffs. “Why wear such frivolities when clearly it does you no good?”

“This armor is a sym-“

“Just like your named blades.”

“It’s flexible and fluid.”

“And useless as it does not protect you.”

“The idea is not to let them hit me.”

“Against lesser ghouls.. but then again. Look at all these chew marks.”

“I don’t see you out there.”

“To do what may I ask? Being used like some tool?”

“They don’t use me. They respect me and my commitment to their cause.”

“Truly I say to you, they do not- they cannot. The living has no part with the unliving.”

“I know your stance on the living, but they are still kin. They are still Sin’dorei.”

“They are. But are you?”

Koiella hesitates pulling her platemail over her head to shoot the sickly-looking elf a glare. ”Of course I am. And so are you.”

“Do not be fooled Koiella. When they tire of you they will dismiss you. We are an expendable commodity in their eyes.” The robed figure walks behind Koiella and taps just below her shoulderblade moments before the armor hides her wound again. “I could repair this.”

Koiella spends the next few moments replacing her broken armor across her torso and finishes by gripping into her gloves. The woman smirks and asks, ”To what end?”

“To be whole again. Or at the very least give me the experience-”

”Of a free show?”

The robed man chuckles darkly and brings a claw of a hand around Koiella’s chin. “My dear how many times must I tell you; You are like a daughter to me. I wish only for your protection as you throw yourself at these Blood Knights. They will betray you.”

The younger Death Knight replaces her cowl and lifts the mask into place. ”I will prove you wrong.” Koiella twists on the pad of her foot and slinks silently away from the robed one.

“And I will be here to pick up the pieces…”

A lone candle burns at the edge of a wooden tub. Despite the day long being started, it was the only light to be had in the small room. There were no windows and the fireplace still clung with ice and frost from the night before. It didn't matter, the single source of light way plenty for the woman as she soaked in lukewarm bath water. Propped up against the rim as her foot. Between each toe a bit of cotton to keep the toenail polish from smearing. With deadly precision she kept up this ritual from a life past.

However, today was this first day in a long time she truly cared about her hygiene. She denied it had any purpose these days. During her life hygiene was important to stay healthy, but she no longer held that weakness. Her eyes flicked to the barren hearth and contemplated about the room servant that would have to take care of it. At least he would be earning his pay today.

Koiella was filled with inspiration and a new vigor as she rode her Deathcharger south from Hearthglen. It was unlike anything she had experienced since her fall. The plans she makes, the vows she keeps, even perhaps her understanding of the Light seemed to fall right into place. Koiella had been mulling over his words for two weeks now. She knew he was wrong. She still had plenty to offer to the living. They could understand her and her, them. In fact, she was still living in a sense. Undeath meaning the absence of death, or life. She could die just as the living could. Perhaps even resurrected in much the same way. But if not, how would she be remembered?

"...you're a pretty good woman, Koi."

Teal eyes flick open to be greeted by an oppressive darkness. No sleep was to be had by the warlock that night, despite the passions shared just a few hours before. Guilt tainted her thoughts, would she leave like she'd done with lovers in the past? Would he think this the end? Valda reassured herself with a plan and slipped out of the their bed. Her bare form cloaked by darkness as she made it to the small study at the corner of their bedroom. Just a tinge of fire and a candle was lit. She hesitated, and then looked over her shoulder. He hadn't moved and indeed, he looked at peace with the warm glow of a distant candle across his slumbering features. She takes down a single parchment from his collection and and ink well. The Warlock had never been one for letters and this one was quite intimidating.

Quote:My beloved Jonas,

              Know that I love you with all the depths of my soul, and that only you can truly understand me. Even so, I have fled under the cover of darkness to take care of a personal matter. It is not pressing but I fear my courage may wane if I do not go now. Only you know what I speak of, and it is time for this to end. I vowed myself to you and you alone, it is time to make that right. Do not worry about our charges, for I have severed ties with them. If you see them, please give them my regards and see to it they have no pressing needs. I fear I was shorter with them than you.

              My safety in this matter was reassured but I still have my fears. I can't promise I'll survive, but I believe in my heart of hearts that you alone will know should that come to pass. I have no doubts that you'd bring me back, so I'll just pen it down. Please do. I'm never going to leave you my beloved, not before we're old and gray and have seventeensome children. Did that make you smile? Good, because I wish to see it when I return. I am unsure how long it'll take, but know that I'll move with whatever haste light or shadow will grant me.

Please forgive me for leaving like this. I know in your stubbornness you'd want to be at my side and I'd lack the strength to tell you no.

A weary sigh escapes her pale lips as she fingers away threatening tears. Get it together, she thought to herself. Valda leans down to open a closely guarded secret, and withdraws a perfectly round translucent orb set in a wooden block. Her eyes lock onto the two faintly glowing lights within for a moment. She uses it as a fitting paperweight and then moves to get dressed. It's going to be one helluva trip.

Through the magics of mail a lone message comes to Darkshire, catching the woman as she sat for a spell in the gruesome township.

Quote:Lord Vardens,

Is was ni great to see you in Shattrath, though it was a little dangerous! We've since returned to Azeroth and I've made good progress in my training. I can now bring up the magic of the ley lines and apply it it's really like learning all over again. There's something missing in this form of spell-casting, and I know what it is. I've passed the hardest test I've faced so I know it's over. Krona has reassured me that it is uncorruptive arcane by its very nature.

Spellcasting is the most odd thing. It is so light and effortless to mold. I feel no taxing on my mind or body save for the careful drawing-in of the power. I've noticed this "fatigue of focus" has the same effect as directly channeling arcane through my body that I was used to for all these years. Obviously without the addictive qualities that I was also fond subject to. It's far too early to guess at how this will fare in a combat situation but I do want to be ready when that time comes.

Currently I am staying in Hearthglen along with my brother, Zethon. I am safe with him. Krona is also here but she doesn't frequent the town much, preferring the solitude of the forests. I believe we are going to be here for some time, at least until my brother finishes his own mission here. Do you want to come and stay a while? My brother and I are sharing a room but I think we could get our own should you be free to join us.

Remind me to tell you about our trip to Southshore. It's important.

A.

Zethon paces his way up the stairs, followed by lighter steps of a second form. Muffled words are shared back and forth until one finally stops. There's a rattle of metal as Zethon struggles with the lock, eventually managaing to handle it with a heavy 'click'. The room is unadorned and simple, rustic for the company of elves. Nevertheless it is all that military town of Hearthglen can afford to spare at the Inn. Zethon makes his way within, though just behind is a slightly taller form- that of an elven man. His blue eyes burn through the darkness just as Zethon's own do with a green tinge."This is her then?" He asks out, voice lowered somewhat.

Zethon nods in return to his companion. Undaunted he walks his way over to the bedside. "Her name is Koiella, a knight of the Ebon Blade and the Blood Knights."

The elven priest slips forward all the more, with every step his white and black robe seems to catch a bit of wind, enough to make it flow and shift with his steps. "Ebon Blade. Undead. Are you certain about this, Zethon? It's more likely that I'm going to turn her into a pile of cinders than anything that resembles... Alive."

Zethon keeps his emerald stare focused on the lifeless woman. "Yes... Yes, I'm sure. I think she would rather to be turned to ashes than be brought back by necromancy."

The priest sets his staff of choice aside. "If you insist... A shame you can't help, you remember how tiresome this spell is, don't you?" Not even pausing for an answer he begins to subtly mutter the necessary incantations. Magical Light begins to gather within the priest's palms, though as it does a portion begins to bleed out as if it were a liquid, forming into a ring around his feet that shimmers with just as much luminescence. Such a similar ring begins to glow around Koiella's form. It's a matter of minutes worth of waiting, the Light growing stronger and stronger around the woman until it forms what looks like a pillar leading up to the roof. With one final surge the Light almost explodes around her, filling her deathly form with almost overflowing light before it all falls away. As it does the priest staggers back, almost falling onto his rear before he runs into a dresser.

Elsewhere, the dull and blurry atmosphere is pierced by the golden holy magics. All around the undead soul is formed a shining aura. Koiella looks down at her radiant hand before being whisked back to the world of the living. The first thing she aware of is her body laid upon a bed. There is a warm, enveloping glow upon her corpse that supersedes her grayscale vision. She hesitates. Turning her head, she notices the priest falling. Koiella steps closer, reaching out but it is impossible to help. She peers under his distraught face at him, but doesn’t know who he is. High Elf. Standing upright again she peers at the other. Zethon. He’s standing resolute, unwavering at the show of magic or the aftermath to the priest. Pale eyes focused solely on her body, as if mentally willing it back to life. She follows his gaze back to her body. Walking between the two, she peers at her body. The shimmering aura makes it look warm, an inviting place. A distrustful expression keeps to her face as she considers.

The mix of elven and death knight runes that line her weapon briefly remain lit with holy magic and fade much slower than the rest of the light. Zethon hesitantly reaches for the woman, though about mid-way his hand jerks back. Koiella spins around and looks down to Zethon’s hand. Did it touch her, or was it her imagination? "Koiella?" he asks, his head tilting as if trying to find a face beneath her mask. There’s a fleeting sensation that overtakes Koiella’s consciousness. She turns to her body and reaches out to reunite with it. "Doesn't seem like ashes to me.."

The red and black mask conceals the majority of her face, but without warning her runic-blue eyes flare open. Zethon goes wide-eyed in reaction. "...Koiella?" He asks out once more.

Koiella 's chest rises, and her hand pushes against the bed. Her head rises as she attempts to sit up. "What is this.." she says dryly with a pronounced echo.

By now the priest from afar has sucesfully slipped down onto the ground, teetering on the border of unconciousness. ”It's Hearthglen, Koiella.”

Koiella makes it to her rear. She peers at Zethon for a long moment, and then to the other elf. She looks around the room slowly. "Hearthglen." she repeats before looking to Zethon.

”We're a far ways away from the arena... Close to home, too.”

Koiella twitches her head with a slight narrow to her eyes."The arena.. I was defeated."

Zethon tips his head in a feint nod. "You were."

Koiella turns her deathly gaze to the other. "And he..?"

”An old friend of mine... He was the one who brought you back.”

Koiella looks at her gloved hands. "Back from the dead.. twice now. ...why?"

Zethon blinks at the question. Slowly his eyes turn down to the bed. "It felt like it was right... It felt like it was needed."
Koiella drops her hands to her knees again, and lifts her expressionless gaze to Zethon. In a neutral tone yet with that persistent echo she asks, "This was your doing?"

”Ultimately, yes. It was my decision.”