02-14-2015, 07:14 PM
*****
Halfway back to Darkshire, her pace bolstered by frequent, short-range teleportation, Whirda heard the sound of shambling feet. She wound her way through a dense copse of trees, shorn clear of leaves, spindly branches reaching toward the ashen clouds. The dagger at her waist leaped into her hand as she bent into a low crouch. The sound grew louder, came toward her.
Whirda looked up, to the elbow where a thick limb protruded from the trunk of one of the mottled aspens. She concentrated, closed her eyes, and in a moment was nestled between the branches. She thought back to when she woke up on the cavern floor, thought of the blanket of shadow that had seemed to be protecting her, concealing her from any enemies who may have entered the lair while she slept.
With her free hand, she began, amazingly, to gather the shadow around her.
At first, it happened slowly. The long, gray-black shadows stretching along the length of the trunk peeled away like the tree was shedding tight clothing. It formed a clump in her hand, almost a tangible thing. More and more shadow swirled around her in tight bundles, conforming to cover her legs, her arms, her torso. In moments, ensconced in her camouflage, Whirda was rendered almost invisible, only the cloudy gray of her eyes peeking between the folds of shadow.
The first undead creature shambled below her, dragging one leg behind it. Its jaundiced eyes gleamed feverishly. Its upper lip had rotted away, to reveal the yellowing teeth underneath. Behind it, another half-dozen of the monstrosities followed. They moved slowly, clumsy in undeath. Even without Lady Tyrande's mighty enchantment, Whirda was confident she could deal with them.
Focusing briefly on the ground behind the last creature—it was easier, quicker, each time—Whirda teleported. She appeared already in motion, the shade's dagger entering at the base of the creature's spine, digging deep to taste brain. Without a sound, the creature crumpled. Whirda caught its weight and lowered it to the ground.
The rearmost zombie turned, saw its fallen companion—saw Whirda—, and, to her astonishment, did its best to fall into a kneel before her. One by one, the other creatures followed suit. Whirda stood perplexed, the blood of the dead creature dripping unnoticed down the blade of the shade's dagger. Silence overtook the clearing.
Abyss below, what is this now? Whirda took an uncertain step back, her finely-honed warrior's instinct taking over. What am I?
A minute bled by in the lengthening shadows of dusk. Then another. Whirda stood rigid, her senses focused on picking up the sound of an approach, the springing of a trap, anything—anything—to explain the behavior of the five undead creatures kneeling before her.
Whirda's voice trembled as she said, "Rise."
One by one, the zombies groaned and creaked to their feet. Eyes long past the point of seeing stared hollowly through her.
Whirda approached the closest creature cautiously, until her face was inches from its own. Still it made no move to oppose her. In the back of her mind, she pictured the nook in the tree that had served as her perch minutes ago, prepared to teleport to safety at any sudden move. She raised the shadow dagger until its point rested just below the creature's chin, expecting that now, finally, it would make a move.
The dagger plunged upward through its chin. The creature fell without a sound, without a struggle. There was no response from the four remaining creatures.
Dark and empty! It's like they think I'm their master. The realization crept up on her. They didn't think she was their master. She was their master. She looked down at the pitch black blade of the dagger of Ahn'Thrix. It seemed the shade's weapon could control the creatures of The Pale Moors, command them to do the bidding of whoever possessed it. At least, Whirda hoped it was the dagger. If it wasn't, that meant—
She had to get back to Darkshire, to find Van Helsing and solve the mystery of her new abilities. The thought of becoming anything like Ahn'Thrix turned her stomach and caused a cold sweat to spring up on her skin. Whatever this was inside her, it had to come out, and quickly. Before it could spread. Before it could consume her.
Whirda remembered the words of Ahn'Thrix. Once the shadow is inside you, it ceases to be a choice. It is an addiction. One from which you can never hope for freedom—from which you won't even want to be free.
Heart pounding, each breath coming in a panicked gasp, Whirda turned from the creatures and ran.
Halfway back to Darkshire, her pace bolstered by frequent, short-range teleportation, Whirda heard the sound of shambling feet. She wound her way through a dense copse of trees, shorn clear of leaves, spindly branches reaching toward the ashen clouds. The dagger at her waist leaped into her hand as she bent into a low crouch. The sound grew louder, came toward her.
Whirda looked up, to the elbow where a thick limb protruded from the trunk of one of the mottled aspens. She concentrated, closed her eyes, and in a moment was nestled between the branches. She thought back to when she woke up on the cavern floor, thought of the blanket of shadow that had seemed to be protecting her, concealing her from any enemies who may have entered the lair while she slept.
With her free hand, she began, amazingly, to gather the shadow around her.
At first, it happened slowly. The long, gray-black shadows stretching along the length of the trunk peeled away like the tree was shedding tight clothing. It formed a clump in her hand, almost a tangible thing. More and more shadow swirled around her in tight bundles, conforming to cover her legs, her arms, her torso. In moments, ensconced in her camouflage, Whirda was rendered almost invisible, only the cloudy gray of her eyes peeking between the folds of shadow.
The first undead creature shambled below her, dragging one leg behind it. Its jaundiced eyes gleamed feverishly. Its upper lip had rotted away, to reveal the yellowing teeth underneath. Behind it, another half-dozen of the monstrosities followed. They moved slowly, clumsy in undeath. Even without Lady Tyrande's mighty enchantment, Whirda was confident she could deal with them.
Focusing briefly on the ground behind the last creature—it was easier, quicker, each time—Whirda teleported. She appeared already in motion, the shade's dagger entering at the base of the creature's spine, digging deep to taste brain. Without a sound, the creature crumpled. Whirda caught its weight and lowered it to the ground.
The rearmost zombie turned, saw its fallen companion—saw Whirda—, and, to her astonishment, did its best to fall into a kneel before her. One by one, the other creatures followed suit. Whirda stood perplexed, the blood of the dead creature dripping unnoticed down the blade of the shade's dagger. Silence overtook the clearing.
Abyss below, what is this now? Whirda took an uncertain step back, her finely-honed warrior's instinct taking over. What am I?
A minute bled by in the lengthening shadows of dusk. Then another. Whirda stood rigid, her senses focused on picking up the sound of an approach, the springing of a trap, anything—anything—to explain the behavior of the five undead creatures kneeling before her.
Whirda's voice trembled as she said, "Rise."
One by one, the zombies groaned and creaked to their feet. Eyes long past the point of seeing stared hollowly through her.
Whirda approached the closest creature cautiously, until her face was inches from its own. Still it made no move to oppose her. In the back of her mind, she pictured the nook in the tree that had served as her perch minutes ago, prepared to teleport to safety at any sudden move. She raised the shadow dagger until its point rested just below the creature's chin, expecting that now, finally, it would make a move.
The dagger plunged upward through its chin. The creature fell without a sound, without a struggle. There was no response from the four remaining creatures.
Dark and empty! It's like they think I'm their master. The realization crept up on her. They didn't think she was their master. She was their master. She looked down at the pitch black blade of the dagger of Ahn'Thrix. It seemed the shade's weapon could control the creatures of The Pale Moors, command them to do the bidding of whoever possessed it. At least, Whirda hoped it was the dagger. If it wasn't, that meant—
She had to get back to Darkshire, to find Van Helsing and solve the mystery of her new abilities. The thought of becoming anything like Ahn'Thrix turned her stomach and caused a cold sweat to spring up on her skin. Whatever this was inside her, it had to come out, and quickly. Before it could spread. Before it could consume her.
Whirda remembered the words of Ahn'Thrix. Once the shadow is inside you, it ceases to be a choice. It is an addiction. One from which you can never hope for freedom—from which you won't even want to be free.
Heart pounding, each breath coming in a panicked gasp, Whirda turned from the creatures and ran.
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