Hitting Bottom (Icecrown Citadel)

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Ceil
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Hitting Bottom (Icecrown Citadel)

Postby Ceil » Sun Nov 07, 2010 9:24 pm

Previous events leading up to this adventure include Survival and Instincts and may help with the understanding of continuity and characters.

Warning, this story contains moments of graphic violence.

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Re: Hitting Bottom (Icecrown Citadel)

Postby Ceil » Sun Nov 07, 2010 9:25 pm

The chill from Kuria the Fixer's death still lingered, though she was the first to die. The six of them had been careful and swift, thoroughly professional as they inched their way through the halls of Icecrown. All had gone well in the lady lich's chambers - a sack full of the loot was slung over Audrian's shoulder, shifting with wetter sounds than any of them were truly comfortable with. But all of them were so completely professional; this was their job, their duty, their task. They were agents of the King's Service, and a little bloody sloshing was certainly not going to throw them off their game. Of course, this was also not the first time any of them had heard a little bloody sloshing.

The Fixer was up front, just as they'd planned. She really looked more like a bird than a person, Kuria did. With her tiny frame, bright and ever-wary eyes and quick, deft motions. The perfect point woman, the Fixer had earned her name well. So far she'd disabled at least three traps that no living soul had ever tripped, much less taken down, in all of the written history of professionals. To be fair the written history of professionals was a shabby and cobbled together thing, but there'd be a new chapter for Kuria once they got home to the city so said Audrian with a warm, low chuckle that was certainly an offense to the morbid chill of the Citadel.

It was the fourth trap that got her, just after Deathwhisper's chambers. The Fixer's experienced sparrow-bright and hawk-sharp eyes didn't pick up the catch, whatever tripped the devilish device. What looked like steam escaped practically invisible vents in the richly carved walls. For a moment Kuria's body was obscured in the steam, but every single agent in the hall could feel the horrible chill from the mist that was enveloping her. Though Audrian jerked forward, Sullivan didn't even need to put out his hand to stop the other man; past the first movement, years of survival instinct took over and Audrian's feet halted of their own accord. The Fixer stumbled and staggered out of the wafting mist only a heartbeat later, and Sullivan was the only one of them who didn't let slip a bit of utter horror in some way.

Kuria's countenance had gone ashen and grey, the color leeched from her tanned and rough skin. There was already frostbite in her lips, skin more blue than white, and one of her eyes had frozen and cracked, like shattered glass right in her face. Her hair was snow-white and so brittle that a single motion of movement made it break off like icicles. She took one step more towards the rest of the gathering team, but it was her last; her knee seized and froze straight. She wavered in place before pitching forward. The Fixer's fall was announced with the sound of a thousand breaking mirrors and windows, as the small woman shattered into a dozen score pieces at their boots.

There was silence for a heartbeat. In unison, the dwarves Phillin and Brigit glanced at Audrian as he gave a soft moan. He'd shared the bed with Kuria the night before, they all knew, for there are few secrets that remain hidden in a camp of Service-folk. Phillin clasped his hand tight around Audrian's wrist in companionable support, as his dwarven height and Audrian's remarkable bulk precluded him from doing much more. Brigit, less emotive than her cousin, shouldered past them both and knelt down, searching out the catch the Fixer had missed.

The next one came after they thoroughly ransacked the Plaguedoctor's laboratorium. Audrian had two sacks now, and Brigit one she'd insisted upon. An expert in black alchemy, she'd heatedly debated with Sullivan over the importance of some of the concoctions he'd chosen to leave behind. While not as generally useful or dangerous as the other artifacts and items they'd found (the types they'd been charged to steal away from the Scourge or other looters), she argued these alchemical breakthroughs would be the biggest boon to SI:7 since the 'operating advance' monies the King had allowed them to take from anything they found belonging to the Defias.

Brigit's sack of goods was too large, but she was too stubborn to listen to any of the others' hasty and irritated advice on the subject, further insisting that the delicate bottles of highly fatal substances inside needed plenty of padding. None of them had the drive or motivation to attempt to convince or order her otherwise. Her careful lugging of the heavy sack had her falling a few yards behind the rest of the group as they inched through the long, cold shadows of the Citadel, backs to the wall.

In the distance, mostly muffled by the thick stone walls, they could hear the echoes of furious battling from all sides; the airships, the frontal push, the forces spreading out into all wings. As they moved out of the Plaguedoctor's wing they were stepping over bodies of fallen soldiers: Horde, Alliance, Argent Crusade and Ashen Verdict alike. Near the curve in the wall the hall was flooded with bodies they had already worked around on their way in, but coming out was much slower, with Audrian and Brigit laden down further. They worked around a huge body of a something that was once probably a tauren shaman, but was now hardly recognizable as something once living; the shaman had been ripped, torn out of his mail. Phillin paused to help his cousin over the body, but she hissed a roiling curse at him in thick dwarven, something sharp enough to make him glare and shuffle quickly away to catch the others.

He muttered as he took his place before Audrian but behind Sullivan and Ceil, his voice bitter, "Spiteful lass, always tae stubborn for her own--"

A loud crunch and shatter drowned out his words and they all spun around to first see Brigit gathering herself from the floor, then to see the sack she'd been carrying broken in front of her, the cloth quickly soaking with various dangerous substances. Some of them were eating through the material, others were eating through the floor, and it was all giving off a terribly strong smell and hazy smoke. Phillin started to walk towards Brigit, but Sullivan's eyes saw more than any of the rest.

"Run," he ordered, his voice dead. That's when they all noticed what was lining the pipes that ran along the heights of the walls. The walls themselves looked like they were running, flowing, shifting with movement, but after a moment it became possible to pick out the single glaring eye, the glint of bone-claws, the hissing sound of rough material rubbing together as the swarm of geists rushed Brigit with single-minded instinctual focus.

Phillin didn't hesitate. He ran out ahead of all of them, Brigit's screams haunting the air behind them. They ran swift and silent, and didn't stop running until they came to the chambers of the San'layn. Here came the next. The battle had been more recently visited on the San'layn, and the servicefolk had to be careful to skirt around the occasional makeshift camps of wounded being tended to. There were none of the San'layn left, though, the invaders had been careful of that; any body that looked even vaguely elvin had its head removed and a shiv of wood pinned through the heart.

They picked their way through in utter silence - Sullivan and Ceil were clearly focused on getting to the next set of chambers, while Audrian kept sending concerned glances at a very shaken Phillin, who was nearly as ashen as Kuria had been just shortly before her death. Any adventure or pride they'd felt was long gone, replaced with the ghosts of Kuria's chill and Brigit's screams. The Servicefolk, two to a wall, reached the top of a stairwell and stepped into a wide chamber edged with deep alcoves, stained wall-hangings of sin'dorei design and quite a few bodies and separated heads of San'layn elves. There were, to most of the group's comfort, only a few mutilated soldiers; it seemed the armies had been fairly successful in wiping out the San'layn. Sullivan put a gloved finger to his mouth, provoking a roll of Ceil's single eye at the implication any of this group needed to be told to be silent. Audrian lightly patted Phillin's shoulder and gave Ceil a brief grin, letting some of his jovial nature return past the shock of the dead. Sullivan ignored the elf's quiet irritation, Audrian's amusement and Phillin's trauma and motioned for them to begin searching the chamber.

They split off from each other, each investigating alcoves and tables, entire area strewn with evidence of the San'layn's foul magical experiments and inventions. Audrian, Ceil and Phillin began to gather items with great care, assembling them on the central dais for Sullivan to pick through. It was obvious now that none of them at all had cared much about the training and lectures up to this point that had been designed to help them identify prime loot. Sullivan, though, was far too focused to bother scolding them; or else he simply didn't care. The others there were far more certain it was the latter, especially when those that weren't Sullivan didn't truly care at all for the assignment's success and, of course, no one knew what Sullivan was thinking or what he cared for. The rest all knew far too well it was a highly dangerous mission given to highly expendable agents, something they were all good enough to succeed in, but not so valuable their deaths would be of concern.

They were nearly finished when Audrian was the first to note that Phillin hadn't brought anything to the dais in the previous few minutes. After signaling Ceil to come and search with him, they crept together from alcove to alcove until they came upon the dwarf. The globe he had found was blood-red in color, swirling with an incandescent mist. It rested on a solid gold stand shined to a high luster. The mist swirled and danced, moving in mysterious, beautiful patterns that drew the eye. Phillin was not simply drawn with interest, however, he was staring with unblinking intensity, as if the blood globe was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Audrian shook his head and reached for the dwarf's shoulder, voice a rumbling whisper.

"Even melted down, the gold's not worth it, and the ball's too big to bring with us--"

Ceil's eyes widened after the moment it took her to recognize the thing, one of the few pieces of information from the lectures that had stuck with her. She too reached for Phillin's shoulder. "'Tis no pretty toy, 'tis a Consumption Orb!"

But their touch was of little use; as soon as they tried to pull him away, Phillin grabbed for the globe, his gloves discarded before the other two servicefolk had arrived. The moment his bare skin touched the orb, terrible whine of magic screamed in their ears, a hot coppery tang in the air as the blood inside flared a bright, blinding color. Audrian and Ceil stumbled back but Phillin did not move on his own accord. His mesmerized eyes did not blink as his hands nearly merged with the globe and it began to draw from him; his color first, skin going pale, then something much deeper. The other two grabbed for him but his hands were solidly stuck to the orb and quickly Phillin began to scream as his blood was drawn through his palms into the orb. Audrian had little choice but to clamp his hand over the dwarf's mouth while Ceil's blade flashed in a clean, forceful blow; she stabbed Phillin from behind, through the heart, cutting his agonized scream short.

Audrian let the body go slowly, but even then it did not leave go of the globe. Phillin's hands remained attached to the nefarious device while his body slumped, no blood coming from his wound. Ceil stared at the knife she'd used, marveling at the lack of blood on the blade. Behind them now, Sullivan broke the newly fallen silence with a soft comment.

"Looks like some one didn't do the reading, eh?" Ceil and Audrian turned to look at him, incredulous, then realized this was their scolding, given in only a way that Sullivan would, or could, after a death like Phillin's. "We're ready to pack up. Heave-ho, troops."

The other two agents followed him, refusing to look back at Phillin's withering body. They divided what they found between the three of them in a series of pouches and small bags, nothing to hinder their hands or movement but still well padded; they all remembered the hissing and steaming of Brigit's dropped sack. Audrian (as wide as he was) carried the bulk of it, with the sack already filled in other wings. Once they were loaded up they worked hastily but silently back through the San'layn halls. As they picked their way out, mission nearly finished, Ceil allowed herself, finally, to think about what to do from here.

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Re: Hitting Bottom (Icecrown Citadel)

Postby Ceil » Sun Nov 07, 2010 9:26 pm

Three other agents were dead, but Ceil Nightfury was feeling no pain.

Like any good professional walking headlong into a suicide assignment (or in this case, sneaking in through the side, via an airship and past some very distracted frostdrakes), Ceil knew a lot of things going into this mission, including the fact she was supposed to die in this place. All of the team had known it, but they all had reasons enough to believe and to go anyway. The first thing they all knew was that they wouldn't all die. They knew James Sullivan would survive and neatly so, probably making it out with every item they'd stolen. The second was that each member of this ill-fated team knew that they'd themselves survive. Each of them knew they themselves were something special - more resourceful than the others: smarter, more skilled, luckier. They all had a reason for survival, a reason the others didn't. Obviously, at this point, it was easily proven which of these folk were right and which had needed a strong dose of reality.

Ceil was no different from the others in these beliefs, but she did differ greatly in reason. All the others were fighting for survival but Ceil, she was fighting for redemption. It was a silly-sounding thing to fight for and she knew it - knew it walking into the Citadel, knew it watching her fellows die and knew it now, as she planned how to get away from the last two. Thinking of it, she felt nothing less than ridiculous and banished it to the far corner of her mind. But it lurked there, no matter how much she tried to hide it under blankets of skulduggery and dusty tomes of old memories. Even with all the detritus she could pile on top of the hope of redemption it still shone, an edge of it peeking out, visible whenever she paused for a moment to dwell, especially now when it was so very close. Redeeming herself to her friends, to her family, to her estranged husband.

She blamed the paladins. Kuoshiro was one of them, of course. Though she hadn't seen her former hound in over a year his lessons had never left her, even when she may have wanted them to. She dearly missed Kuoshiro, and finding him among the legions at Icecrown was one of her top priorities once the rest of the SI:7 team were dead, or at least suitably distracted for her to split off. She had thought long and longing on finding him; he'd be all shy and sad, then she'd watch him thank the Light to see her again. Then she'd drag him along with her to the other paladin she blamed.

Perhaps no paladin any longer, she'd have a hard time ever thinking of Uthas as anything but. As little as she'd wanted to admit it, the talk with him in Northshire had revitalized something in her, started to kindle something that previously only fury had sparked; true feeling. She'd spoken to Uthas like they were both real people, not mad actors or lost souls dancing on death's edge. She'd preached (badly and bitterly) to him; preached on being a person and not an ideal, preached on the nature of self-sacrifice and the nature of forgiveness. And she'd listened, for perhaps the first time, to her own words.

The echo of a single misplaced footstep shook Ceil from her thoughts. The echo was easy to hear in the wide chamber they entered, exiting the hall into the very heart of Icecrown Citadel, a walkway spanning the depths, at the core of the four hallways that lead throughout Arthas's palace. All three Servicefolk sensed something, the moment they were free of the San'layn hall; something was different here...too still, too silent, too pristine.

Thusly, when the first blow was struck to the back of Audrian's head, Sullivan and Ceil already had their backs to the wall so more could not follow. Audrian shook his head hard and snorted, furious as a bull, and spun to greet his attacker. There was a thick baton already in his hand and it cracked with a much louder echo, this like a musket shot. The crack announced the baton's blow into the skull of the blood elf who had tried Audrian's game against him - the elf was holding a baton similar to the human's. Ceil stifled a surprised laugh, then smiled at the emotion, pleased to feel it. At first she thought the elf a San'layn survivor, only to note a beat later the green eyes (now dim as he slumped to the floor after Audrian's furious blow), and the healthy skin (now going pale instead of remaining vampiric ashen, and stained with blood pouring from his crushed face, no longer sin'dorei pretty).

They came from the shadows of the hall from the Plaguedoctor's wing just a few moments later, four figures sidling out into the central chamber much like the SI:7 agents had just before.

"Shattered Hand," Ceil breathed, a shake of her head. All four of them had sacks empty over shoulders or in hand. Ceil failed to stifle her laugh this time, seeing the slower implementation of their mission but more because of how both sides through to profit so blatantly off Icecrown. Wasn't killing the Traitor Prince enough for these people? Her laugh announced itself to the Hordlings, though there was little point to hiding with the scout so noticably bleeding from his crushed skull.

The orc who seemed to be leading the Horde team took a single look at the two humans, one night elf and his over-eager scout bleeding on the floor. She reacted in the only reasonable fashion.

"...BLOOD AND THUNDER!" She howled, and rushed forward, wildly spiked axes leading the way. From there, the SI:7 agents had little choice. Sullivan did not bother with words and only pushed himself off the wall, blades already in his hands, drawn with such little flash it'd been nearly imperceptible.

Audrian's answering cry of "STORMWIND!" echoed.

Ceil rolled her eye while she leaped with some slowly building excitement into the coming fray. Though hardly eager to battle the Horde for the sake of fighting, Ceil prided herself for seizing an opportunity, especially one like this. It was a gift from the stars. The orc collided with Sullivan. Another blood elf, as well as another orc, this one almost as wide as the human himself, converged onto Audrian. This left Ceil hooded face to masked face with a violet haired troll, his hatchets ready to meet her swords. They fell readily into the fight with nary a word needed.

She let the troll push her back, slouching to appear even shorter, less powerful, easily intimidatable. The troll went fiercely on the attack and Ceil was driven further back, further from Sullivan and Audrian and closer to the path through the first wing and ramparts, to the path that would take her to the Eye and the Riders. To Uthas. To Tarquin.

Audrian was bellowing but the sound grew quieter and quieter, her long ears filling instead with the clash of her blades guarding against the troll's hatchets and their battle-quickened breathing. When she could no longer hear Audrian's bellowing, it was time enough to give up the charade - she was a good actress but she was beginning to rediscover her pride, and it was beginning to sting. It reminded her what it was like to feel the emotion, and what it was like to feel something more about herself than bleak disgust. She surprised the troll, her patient game paying off as it didn't take long for her blades to find his flesh, making a simple final blow so he might join the Shattered Hand's scout in death. Gathering herself she gave a little frown, realizing she'd have to pick her way without being seen back around the edge of the central chamber, just enough to chose the proper hall to the rendezvous point.

She moved silently but swiftly, picking up her heavy boots carefully and keeping her head bent in the shadows, hood covering the dull glow of her single eye. There was no sign of the Shattered Hand as she pressed her back against the wall of the central chamber. The proper hallway was only a few steps away, but before she could get there she heard a single choking sound, a familiar sound; some one gurgling on their own blood. Her head went up as she noticed, too late, Sullivan kneeling over a body. The body, just barely going still in death, was wide and thick, covered in brown leathers now shiny with blood.

"...why?" She stepped from the shadows, knowing Sullivan had already spotted her and no longer caring at all. Though she had planned to split ways from him in this cold place, Ceil still had no desire to see Audrian dead. He was an agent and even then, barely more than a thug, but he was one of the few folk in SI:7 that had deigned to speak with her, and certainly the only one who'd been friendly. Sullivan's action galled her in the traitorous nature of it, the careless casualness of it.

"Helped you out of a tough spot, didn't he?" Sullivan asked, wiping a knife clean on the dead man's cloak. "He was too friendly, was the thing - friends with all the folk here, and so easy to manipulate. Just as the Fixer was too cocksure by half, Brigit too damned stubborn and Phillin too much a coward. All good enough with a blade and a sneak, but give any of you a look for the long run and we're left high and dry."

Ceil abandoned the security of the wall and the shadows, tossing back her hood and picking her way over the bodies of the Shattered Hand team. "But here's me, and I fell to none of Icecrown's dangers. So, I'll wager, you're to take care of me yourself?"

"To tell you the truth, luv, I was hoping that'd be the way we came to it," Sullivan replied with his usual grin, the jovial look that never reached his deadened eyes. "Appreciate it, I do, getting the Riders to listen to our side of things, but I think we'll take it from here on out. And since you saw fit to murder poor, ox-dumb Audrian here..."

He unfolded himself from over Audrian's body and pulled off his fur lined gloves. She did the same but slowly, gathering her wits. She could see Audrian clearly now. His neck had been laid open nearly to the bone, a cascade of cooling blood turning his leathers a jaunty shade of crimson. Sullivan laid the knife that had presumably dealt the wound to the side. Ceil recognized it immediately, and realized the last time she had seen it was months ago, the memory blurred from pain and alcohol.

Three bell chimes peeled into the night, growing faint as they rolled over Stormwind and drifted into Old Town. They rolled with a gentle lull over the sharp conversation going strong between one very drunk kal'dorei and one minorly irriated SI:7 agent.

"You won't find the sort of grief you want in a bottle, only the sort of grief you give me," Sullivan said, voice mercilessly even.

It was not, to be fair, much of a conversation, as the bulk of Ceil Nightfury's replies had been variations of...

"Then fuck off!" Ceil repeated for the third or fourth iteration, throwing her hand up in a messy and uncoordinated but obviously rude gesture.

"And leave you to wander Old Town, drunk and searching for the heart you think you've lost?"

"'m not...not looking for a
heart. I want...I want tears. Grief, mourning - Jolly's fucking dead. I saw him, I saw him with the others at that anniversary party, saw him and didn't say..."

"Say? Say what, girl?" He mocked her voice, high-pitched and weepy, with an exaggerated kal'dorei accent. "'Sorry you're about to kick off?' 'Here's me handy-dandy plague cure-all? Didn't give it to those unlucky bastards at Absolution, but thought I'd save it all for you?' No, luv, Jolstraer Taborwynn's burnt to ash. You're late trying to get into a party that's long over with.
No one cares anymore."

Ceil was fast, even when drunk - Sullivan didn't see her pull the knife, only saw it glint in her hand as she lunged out of the shadows for him, her teeth bared. Speed was about the only thing she had going for her, however, the rest the drink had stolen. As her wild lunge brought her at Sullivan and her knife (two fingers long, thick but short, probably a boot blade) for his stomach, he heaved a short grunt of annoyance. In an easy motion he turned on his heel, clapped a hand on Ceil's long ear and shoved her hard, even further forward to fall well past him. She didn't even need the extra push, but it, combined with his boot suddenly tripping up her uncoordinated feet, sent her flying onto the cobblestones. She landed in a pool of muddy lamp light and her chin skidded along the stone with outstretched palms scrapping.

Sullivan ignored her prone body, far more interested in the boot knife that had somehow ended up in his hands. "Nice one, this. Dwarven make, innit?"

"Fel orcish," she mumbled and ran her crimson-tinged tongue over her lips, checking for split skin. "From Draenor."

"Such a perfect shape..." He examined the knife with great interest, a far more intense attention than he would ever give Ceil...

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Re: Hitting Bottom (Icecrown Citadel)

Postby Ceil » Sun Nov 07, 2010 9:29 pm

"See, I'm guessing you waylaid him in the middle of the big fight," explained Sullivan in the clinical tones of a SI:7 investigator. "Grabbed him from behind and gave him the red grin simple as you please. Just like with old Cicero, innit?"

"You did it cleaner than I did for Cicero," she said calmly, after a moment's consideration. "Cicero was the first I ever killed. I didn't know exactly where to cut so I started too low. The knife caught in his collarbone."

"Ah, but you've so much more experience now." Sullivan grinned perversely. "We won't fault you first timer's jitters now that you've done so many." He tucked his gloves into his belt.

She did the same, feeling the cold prick her fingers. "I don't understand why you're going to all of this trouble to try and kill me. Why the pretense, Sullivan? Why bother giving it this excuse, framing me for Audrian?"

"I'd thought you'd understand it better than that, luv," Sullivan replied as he took a slow stroll away from the pool of blood freezing on the stone floor. "Sure, it'd be easier to just dump your body among the dead, but then they'd ask, wouldn't they? And then I'd have to lie to my old men, wouldn't I?"

"And what you're doing isn't lying?" She asked dryly with a skeptical stare.

"Was fucking another bloke while you were wed lying?" He asked easily. It was a blow sharper than any he could have given with his fists. She remembered telling herself she'd never lied to Tarquin, she'd only...he spoke her excuse, chuckling, "I'm just leaving some bits out, is all."

Her gorge rose - both at Sullivan's amused voice and the similarities in this man and herself. She was disgusted with him, but far more deeply with herself. She tasted bile in her mouth and the lurch of shame in her gut. But she felt it, didn't she? She felt this shame for betraying Tarquin coming back to her in familiar waves. She felt the remorse for hurting him, for hurting Galvan, felt it like falling into an unmade bed. And suddenly she felt anticipation. Suddenly, excitement. These were things she'd desperately missed. It was coming back, like the moon sliding between breaks in the clouds on a night that hadn't yet decided if it should be dreary or clear. She was coming back.

"Stars, but you're a grasping little man," she murmured. Her bare hands fell on the hilts of her blades. The leather wrappings were cold, but her naked skin on them felt wonderful, like the touch of a lover's well memorized body.

For the first time Ceil'd clearly seen, Sullivan drew steel. He pulled his short-sword free with his left hand and Ceil smiled at the idea of the challenge this would bring. He produced a long knife with his right hand as she drew both her swords, scabbards sighing in the frigid air. Sullivan didn't rise to her insult, instead the smile slipped from his face. His expression was left so blank it was nearly inhuman. She wasn't sure who moved first, only that they crossed steel with force loud enough to echo against the stone walls and off the grated walkways that arched above the depths of Icecrown and around the spire of the Frozen Throne.

Icecrown's chill leached into the moment, slowing it like a drop of water frozen just before it fell. She found herself moving in a way she rarely did - little grace and even less of her casual arrogance. From the start of this fight, Ceil was taking this more seriously than any other crossing of blades in a long, long time. She felt her luck leeched away in the cold - so many nights of freezing over the North Sea, too many nights alone and empty had killed the luck she made, killed the easy recklessness of her blades, of her dancing feet. She wasn't frightened, though - after all, Ceil made her own luck and if it left her, she could just as simply make something to fill its place.

Sullivan, on the other hand, handled his blades like he hadn't a care in the world, despite the clash of steel on steel echoing loudly in the Citadel of the Lich King, during the midst of one of the most important moments of time in recent memory. Sullivan worked not as a bladesman, but like a man made of the blades. The long knife in his right hand wasn't a dagger, but it was another long finger, each slice of it as clean and easy as scratching at an itch. The short sword in his left hand wasn't his master blade, it was the bone of his arm, with each riposte as desultory as a barman rubbing down the bar, each stab as simple as a farewell wave.

Ceil was surprised. She'd crossed blades many times in her life, and every time she'd seen it bring things out in people. Fear, arrogance, passion, and even those who did their best to remain impassive, their strategy was always obvious. But Sullivan looked as uncaring as he did the night he found her stinking drunk in an alley after finding out about Jolstraer's death. She was beginning to realize that while she had never underestimated James Sullivan, it was very possible she had misunderstood exactly what he was. She began to realize that a good fight only brought things out in people if they had things to be brought out. He was good, very good, and the lack of feeling in him made it impossible to guess what was feint and what was true, where his feet and blades were moving too.

So she pulled away the detritus burying the hope of redemption in the attic of her mind and let it warm her, let that hope fuel her. She felt giddy, her feet light despite her heavy boots, her limbs like the wing of a bird, hollow-boned and precise through the air. Her movements changed from her usual dance. She didn't flow and ebb like water in the deep forest; instead her strokes became fast and brutal. She was trying to make the fight go quick. She had places to be. The rendezvous point was waiting. Uthas and the last of the Eye were waiting. Tarq and the Riders, even Galvan, they were all waiting. She didn't have the time for this.

With her purposeful hurry she began to take the upper hand, driving Sullivan back with cruel speed and power of her blades. Her boots echoed in stamping blows across the walkway, an unmeasured beat providing the perfect score for their last dance, for his death-music. She saw it now, saw the unfeeling monster in him and how it was too focused on her, his thinking all of predator and prey. But Ceil knew the crossing of blades was always more than Sullivan's perverse hunt; she understood it now, what Galvan had always told her; Murder as Art. Each of her blows came furious and fast, but they carved through the icy air with a solid reality she'd never felt before, a sense of true purpose. She had places to be and this grasping little man was in her way and he would fall before her sure as a page soaked ink and clay molded from a steady hand.

The searing pain came from nowhere, announcing itself as a slash across her right hand, sharp and hot enough to make her jerk. Suddenly blood were there was none only a moment ago made her grip lax, slippery. Sullivan pulled back the knife she had thought she was faster than, the edge newly wet and crimson, and moved so quick she could barely follow. Sullivan slammed the edge of his fist into the newly made wound, and there was nothing she could do. Her sword fell from her numb, unsteady hand and clattered to the grating, hanging near the edge of the walkway. She lunged for it, fastest she'd ever moved in her life. But it wasn't fast enough - Sullivan's boot was closer to her blade, and it took only a casual push of his toe to send it over the edge. Ceil watched it fall, tip over hilt, down into the forgotten depths of Icecrown.

Her hand stinging and dripping, Ceil refused to waste this opportunity and used the momentum of her lunge to carry her into an only momentary victorious Sullivan. With a thrill of triumph soaring in her chest she dived forward, under Sullivan's guard, only remaining blade out to glide across his ribs in a slice sure to be deep enough to make him stagger, to begin his final fall.

But Sullivan's blade found her ribs first. His focus was too great, the monster in him not satisfied with only a moment of victory, instead entirely focused on her blood. He smiled into her eyes for the first time as his knife buried into her torso, just between her ribs. The force of it stopped her in her tracks, then the pain roared as she felt cold metal touching where it should never have. Her chest tightened, triumph gone, only pain remaining. It took only a twist of his knife so simple it was almost elegant to make her strangle a scream and drop her steel. She fell backwards, landing hard enough to push her breath in a rush from her lungs. Darkness danced at the edge of her vision but she fought it back, only to be rewarded with the sight of Sullivan kneeling down over her. His smile, she noticed, reached his eyes now, the mask shattered by his bloody success.

He hooked his finger inside the wound, bringing the sense of his skin against hers from the inside-out, the perversion of normalcy making Ceil's stomach clench just as much as the pain. Sullivan dabbled his fingers in the wound, avid interest on his features. It was that interest that drew her out of an existence of pure pain, that sharpened her mind with understanding. His curiosity wouldn't stop, not until there was nothing more to use her for. Ceil's mind and resolve hardened, pulling her thoughts together with a rudimentary plan. She refused to be a toy, not again, not ever again.

"Ah, you're actually quite pretty like this, ducks," Sullivan chortled, fingers so busy. She grew still, even her breathing quieted. Sullivan frowned and leaned in, fingers cinching inside to give her a little admonishing jolt . "No swooning yet, we're not fin--"

In the midst of his words, Ceil jerked and twisted with the remnants of her strength, but mostly just stubborn resolve. Things slid wetly until Sullivan's fingers caught the edge of a rib, her bone cutting his flesh deeply. Sullivan cursed in surprise and seized his hand back, ripping it out of her body. His angry cry was entirely drowned out by Ceil's scream as she rolled, panting, onto the edge of the walkway. The metal stuck to her exposed skin, cold, while her blood felt boiling hot, spilling from her side. Her scream echoed and finally quieted into breathless laughter, hard enough to make her hunched, curled body shake.

Sullivan shook his hand, blood splattering the grating, some falling between the gaps and dropping into the depths of the Citadel. "...you're right," he breathed, pulling a slender knife from his leathers - not a knife usually used for battle, but one more suited for fine cutting, for the preparation of fine fillets. "It is funny - you fighting even 'til this point. I hope you'll keep up."

Ceil managed to move her head to the side, staring at Sullivan's slow advance through hair stuck to her face with sweat and blood. There was a chiming in her ears, a soft music she'd longed for for many years. The Citadel's biting cold was eating into her through the saronite grating, leeching the warmth from everything but the fire in the blood she was losing. She could barely feel her limbs through the weakness and cold, but she took strength as the pain was numbed. In the books and ballads, this moment was rarely fueled by spite, but it was enough for her. Spite, and that music calm and comforting in her ears. She spoke, voice raw and hoarse, but still managing to be mocking, unafraid.

"No...'tis funny that after all...this...I am still going to play...hard to get and leave you...so very unsatisfied..."

The tang of her blood faded from the air, replaced with the sharp, familiar scent of lar'iszera, the always-green. The smell of the trees of Hyjal, the trees of home, was in her nose. Sullivan stared at her for only a moment, comprehension suddenly spurring his boots as he rushed for her, lead by the knife like he was following a dowsing rod in a drought, with that same needy desperation. This time, though, Ceil Nightfury was simply faster. With a final light laugh, a laugh Sullivan would remember and hate for the rest of his life, she twisted easily, off the edge of the walkway. He grasped for her and caught only the necklace that swung from around her neck as she fell backwards and down, down down. His final grasp broke the necklace and left Sullivan's hand with only the cold metal of Ceil's wedding ring and part of a broken silver chain.

As she fell, there was a gentle rushing sound in her ears; the evergreen scented breeze through the boughs of Hyjal's trees. Coming with it was something she hadn't heard since she was a child, the chiming soft whisper of the wisps that accompanied the winds of Hyjal. The spirits of the dead were ever-vigilant, ever-watching, providing assurance that there would always be a home, always be a safe place. That the souls of the departed would never forget, nor never be forgotten. Ceil had never forgotten Hyjal nor the dead, she had yearned and strove and reached for the azure, moon-crowned sky since the moment Malfurion's horn foretold their exile.

But no exile mattered now. Her family, her ancestors, all of the children of the stars who came long before her promised a home, their home, the home of the heart and of the soul. She was so warm, weightless and soaring. Icecrown was a lifetime ago. She'd found it, finally. She'd found her way home.

The whispers grew more distinct as they came for her, filling her nose with the scent of impossibly tall trees and crisp, star-lit nights. She saw nothing now but the shine of the moon overtaking the darkness, lighting the way home.

"Ana sur'fal," they whispered to Ceil, their words soft music. "Our beloved."

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Ceil
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Hitting Bottom (Icecrown Citadel)

Postby Ceil » Sun Nov 07, 2010 9:30 pm

The article was a small side bar, buried deep in the paper. It was easy to flip past and ran for only a few lines of smudged print.

"Stormwind Notable Found Among Icecrown Dead"

Northrend - As efforts to find, remove and cleanse those who fell in the final battle against the Lich King continue, bodies are slowly being identified via comparison to SI:7 records, magical scrying and communing with elemental spirits and the Light. Recently one of the numerous bodies was identified as former cultist of the Unblinking Eye, the night elf Ceil Nightfury.

Otherwise known as Jaini Weaversdaughter, the Stormwitch, and Ceil ap Danwyrith, Nightfury had a long and sorrid criminal record, though she also previously worked as a secretary for the martial defense organization Guildwatch. She was also a member of the Gilnean-allied Greymane Exiles, now defunct, and the Stormwind-based mercenary group, the Wildfire Riders. She was most well known for her association with the cult The Unblinking Eye. Under the alias Jaini Weaversdaughter it is believed she closely aided Uthas Wordweaver.

A banner bearing the sigil of The Unblinking Eye was sighted at the siege of Icecrown Citadel, but if is unknown if the deceased fought under it."

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Chelody
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Re: Hitting Bottom (Icecrown Citadel)

Postby Chelody » Wed Nov 10, 2010 1:08 am

((Should have had freaking warning for making me -cry-))
I'm not a bitch, I just play one in your life.

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Tarq
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Re: Hitting Bottom (Icecrown Citadel)

Postby Tarq » Wed Nov 10, 2010 2:39 am

There is a box, hidden beneath a sturdy desk in a cramped office. The office is in a tavern, the tavern is in a city, but right now, the box is the only thing that needs to be considered.

The box is made of some unidentifiable metal, which does not glint on the rare occasions light shines on it; the few times the box has been moved, small as it is, it has taken a great straining effort from those lifting it. A close inspection would reveal a latticework of runes along the side, scrawled in some arcane hand and tailing into spirals at the corners. Of the lock on the front, the only thing that needs to be said is that the strong arms of the box's maker cannot break it, nor the dazzling arts of the box's enchanter gentle it, nor the questing fingers of the box's owner finesse it, without the proper key. And if those three can't open it, then it is as secure as anything in the world.

Inside the box is a small treasure trove, disappointing by some measures and vastly exciting by others. There is a stack of papers, dotted with the names of people and places, and a series of either dreadful truths or very well-crafted lies. There is a fine and official-looking document entitling the box’s owner to the lordship of a particular holding, once certain conditions are met. There is a ragged and rent bundle of black cloth, a red bird stitched across it. There is a plain silver badge with a number on it, that is worth the owner’s life to wear again.

There are some other things, and then, most recently, they have been joined by a ring. It’s a gaudy thing, bright soft gold with a diamond that does more than simply catch the eye - it could injure won, if worn on a careless (or very careful) hand. Knotted around the ring is a broken silver chain, shattered links at either end. It is the only thing of plain material value in the box.

One night, for the first time in some months, the box’s owner retrieves his treasure from beneath the floorboards. He opens it with a key that could easily be mistaken for an accoutrement to some musical instrument, and apparently a greedy man, goes straight for the jewelry. Ring, chain, diamond; they sit coiled in his pale palm for some time, while he looks at the light refracting off the diamond and the pattern of the silver chain, like a man reading entrails. After a while, his fingers clench spider-like about them.

If he says anything, only silence answers, and only silence listens; so too, his face looks only into the dimness of the room, with nothing lurking in the corners to see his expression. When he finally opens his hand and returns the ring to the box, a pattern of silver links is stamped into his flesh. He shuts the box, replaces it, grunts as he moves his desk to where it was. An issue of the Stormwind Times might be noticed, now, on top of the desk. Without further contemplation, the man snatches it up and walks out of the room and up a set of stairs, into the light and noise of the common room, shutting the door behind him.
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow


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