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| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | Syarra Sunstrike is caught in her worst nightmare. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
The air was thick with death in Moa’ki Harbor, old rot and fresh blood and other scents even less pleasant. Syarra took a deep breath, and surveyed her work with satisfaction. The hides of the tuskarrs’ primitive structures were torn and stained with blood, many of the ornamental tusks shattered. The ‘glowfish’ lanterns were dashed to the ground. The bodies of the tuskarr themselves were strewn everywhere, left where they died as they made their futile attempt to defend their little village.
These people really had no chance, not after Wintergrasp had fallen to the forces from Naxxramas and Agmar’s Hammer had been overrun by the Nerubians. Perhaps they should have chosen the winning side voluntarily. Would that have been better?
“Well done, death knight,” came the hissing voice of Prince Keleseth, and Syarra turned, lowering her eyes in respect at the san’layn, her superior.
Syarra felt a brief moment of pleasure at the praise, much easier to feel now that she kept her hunger sated at all times. Why would she ever have not? Her master encouraged her to take delight in the suffering of others, there was never any reason to deny herself. But she had at some point, for some reason…
… choose wisely where you drink, Syarra.
It was a woman’s voice in her mind, vaguely familiar in a disquieting way. She did not chase the memory. The sentiment did not even make sense. She did not choose. She went where she was ordered, killed the living without discrimination. But there was… a gap… wasn’t there? A time when she’d had choices…
“Your reward will be coming in at the harbor soon enough, but in the meantime… raise these creatures for our army,” Prince Keleseth said, breaking into her train of thought.
“As you command,” Syarra responded immediately, but something felt wrong in her stomach. It wasn’t the hunger, it wasn’t exactly pain. Or was it? What was this feeling?
Syarra strode through the carnage, letting necromantic power flow through her, watching the bodies of the tuskarr lurch and stand, mindless ghouls at her command. The wrong feeling persisted, though the ghouls followed her orders easily enough. She walked by the inn and glanced down the tunnel into the building. For a moment she thought she saw decorations in sin’dorei red and gold, a pine tree set up like a Winter Veil decoration. The sight hit her like a dagger to the abdomen. She flinched and turned away, letting the moment fade.
Instead, she turned towards the harbor, and for just a moment she thought she saw a living tuskarr, smiling at her, offering a fishing spear. She blinked, and the vision was gone, but the wrong feeling remained. There was something off with her mind today. She would not report it. She did not want to be culled. It was irrelevant, anyway. She would be loyal.
The san’layn came by her side, stretching his arm out to indicate a ship on the horizon. “There comes your reward. We’ve caught members of the Argent Crusade, and the master will allow you to break them. He believes you may be the most efficient tool of torture, due to what you learned in your brief time away from us.”
“Away?” Syarra asked, confused.
“Ah, yes, your memories are likely fractured now, little death knight,” Prince Keleseth said in sadistic amusement. “You were one of the death knights who tried to pretend you were a person, but you couldn’t stay away forever. You belong with the Scourge. Of course, we had to break whatever personal bonds you’d tried to forge for yourself on your return.”
Syarra frowned, but the memories would not come clear. Had she ever been free of the Scourge? Why would she want that? She turned her head, as if to ask someone at her side. There was no one there. She tightened her grip on her runeblade and felt a twinge of pain - it felt like some kind of metal shrapnel had been embedded in her finger. When had that happened?
You will never be alone, and you will never be fucking lost where I will not go to find you.
The words came to her mind, unbidden, and she frowned deeper in confusion. She was alone, wasn’t she? Who had said that?
I will rip this fucking world apart for you, and nothing will ever keep me from what’s mine.
…was it the Lich King’s voice? She was special, elite, she knew that. And he had reclaimed her. But… it felt wrong. It didn’t feel like the Lich King, it was more like… she glanced down into the cold dark water by the dock. Her reflection was not wearing saronite armor. It was a woman in a dress the pale blue color of ice, dark hair flowing freely over her shoulders. When would Syarra have ever worn such a thing?
“Here we are,” Prince Keleseth said as the boat arrived. “Our prisoners, with names you may know. Tabiana Lynds. Briellen Clay. Kitharian du Lac. Aszera Sunstrike. Vond Satterly. Etone Greennote.”
Each name was a pebble dropped in the pool of her mind, sending ripples she did not fully understand. She turned to the san’layn. “I will break them, sir, and then raise them into our army. Perhaps I will start with Aszera. She was my sister in life, so she will break easily in my care.”
Keleseth’s sharp-toothed smile was predatory. “It is always so, with those we understand deeply.”
Syarra turned to the boat, where undead sailors were tying it in place. It was on the back of an… undead turtle? Odd. There, on the dock, a familiar figure lay with hands and feet bound, a sin’dorei woman. Her dark hair fell over her face, and Syarra could already feel the sweet pain rising from where the bonds cut into her flesh. She looked up at Syarra, her hair falling away to show luminous, green, terrified eyes. She started humming something, a sort of song.
Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose, and sometimes it calls you right in the move
The lyrics came into her mind immediately and Syarra stood still for a moment, that wrong feeling that wasn’t pain returning to her stomach. Why did she know this song? Why did Aszera?
There was something wet on her face, and Syarra felt a twinge of annoyance at the injury. She lifted off her helm, searching carefully for where the saronite must have cut her brow. It was getting in her eyes, and she couldn’t afford for her vision to be obscured. When she looked down at her gauntlet, though, there wasn’t blood. Only water. But… it wasn’t raining…
“I’ll leave you to your reward, death knight,” Prince Keleseth said, stepping back. “Be sure to enjoy it.”
“I will,” Syarra said, blinking away the unusual liquid. These mysteries didn’t matter, only the Lich King’s will mattered. Vision. She stared down at Aszera’s bound form. Her little sister wasn’t supposed to have eyes. Ah, well. That was something she could fix.