She woke to the sound of water dripping somewhere.
A cell of some kind--not as filthy as most, though, and unusually spacious, with a very large door, as if it were built for larger occupants than she. A thin pallet on the cold marble floor was serving as her 'bed'. Automatically, Genise Crownsilver went for her glasses, kept in their usual pocket, but found not only no pocket, but her robes gone--she had been dressed in a featureless linen shift. Inspecting herself, she found that someone had taken the time to clean her and dress her wounds, wrapping her burns and scrapes with white bandages.
Her wounds! The Dragonblight. Northrend. It came back to her in a sudden flood, memories of what had happened in the fight with that Death Knight mingling with confusion as to why she'd have been tended so carefully, followed quickly by a sudden wrenching of her stomach and a cold sweat, and a distressing awareness of her own pulse.
The hunger was back, and she had nothing to show for her quest to rid herself of it but a prison cell somewhere in...who could tell, really? It was cold. She put her arms around herself with a shudder, only to wrench them back--the chill wasn't so much from the cell as from the metal bands wrapped around her wrists and, she felt with her fingertips, her neck. Heavy and black, their touch was consistently chilly, and the sensation that her own body heat did nothing to warm them like ordinary metal was disconcerting.
The feeling in her stomach tightened even worse when she realized what they were.
Almost in a panic, she flung herself into the gestures of a common fire conjuration. Nothing. Alright. No panic--she forced herself still. Breathe in. Out. In again. With an exhale, she stood, stretching sore muscles, eyes closed. In. She thrust a hand forward with another exhale, towards the iron-wrought cell door. A warmth filled her, and then it was suddenly gone. No fire spewed forth.
It was like the feeling one gets when you have a powerful sneeze brewing, only for it to suddenly and without warning cease to exist the moment before it passes through the nose.
That Death Knight shackled my magic. With an incoherent, high-pitched scream, she pounded the door of the cell.
* * * * *
Maraviglia Norvallen, Death Knight of the Scourge, pressed a finger to her forehead, and closed her eyes.
The Darkfallen, a pallid, gaunt figure with empty white eyes and a hollow visage, oblivious to the gesture of irritation, continued to pace back and forth across the marble of one of the few rooms still intact in the old titan fort. "Furthermore," the vampiric elf was saying, "though your reports on the activities of Valiance Landing have been nothing short of comprehensive, too much remains vague about exactly what we're dealing with. And we still know
nothing," the vampire whirled to face the knight, "about Dalaran."
"Stop haranguing about it, Barthus." Norvallen sat up in her chair, meeting the elf's eyes glare-for-glare, "His Royal Malevolence is placing his worries in the wrong place, but if there's anything to be learned of Dalaran's activities, we can pull them from our guest."
"How do you know she's even
from Dalaran?"
"Intuition." The response was bland.
Barthus gave her a withering look, and folded his arms. "Let me question her myself."
"No." Mary's look was flat. "I'm afraid that your own perverse little tastes aren't called for in this situation, vampire."
"...I'm not going to beg."
"Isn't that a shame." The woman took a sip from her mug. A high-pitched shriek resounded through the keep. She swallowed, a serene expression on her face.
"Ambiance?" Barthus deadpanned.
"No. Seems the princess has awoken. Now stay out of sight."
* * * * *
Genise raised her fist to pound on the cell door once again, only to lurch forward as it suddenly swung open. A carrion reek assailed her nostrils. Standing in the wide hallway was a ghoul, looking at her with a pair of empty eye sockets, a large key clutched in one taloned fist. The mage recoiled as the ghoul thrust a hand towards her, but stopped short of her face, pointed, then deliberately pointed again in a direction down the hall.
A chill ran down her spine. She took a step back into the cell, shaking her head, scowling and folding her arms. "I'm not taking orders from a ghoul," she growled, "if you want me somewhere, send that...that harridan of a Death Knight that probably orders you around!"
She gave an involuntary shriek as the ghoul staggered into the cell. The creature stopped before barreling into her, but the reek was almost overpowering. The ghoul one again raised a hand and pointed at her, then, slowly pointed out the cell door, but then, made a sort of jerk of it's torso that may or may not have been a shrug, pointed at her once again, then pointed at it's own grotesquely enlarged maw, followed by another shrug.
"Oh." Genise sneered past the momentary onset of panic, "I've got options. That's nice of you. Now get out of my way."
Dressed in a featureless shift and magic-dampening shackles as she was, and still feeling as if her innards were painstakingly turning themselves inside-out one at a time, she managed a passable angry stomp as she hurried down the hall, her expression stormy. She stopped at the end, confronted by a huge, engraved door, and wrapped her hands around the high handle, pulling. As if on cue, the door jerked away from her, opening the opposite direction, with such sudden force as to nearly dislocate her arms.
Every door in this place hates me, she managed to think to herself as she staggered into the room beyond.
The breadth of the chamber was at odds with the size of the occupants as well as that of the furniture. There was only one small wooden table throughout the entire high-vaulted room, with a few bits of scattered debris, and worn-away frescoes on the walls hinting at long-since-decayed opulence. The only light came from a few braziers near the table, as well as a sizable hole knocked in the ceiling near one corner. A breeze came forth from the hole, disturbing the few shreds of what have must once been banners hanging from the ceiling.
It was, needless to say, freezing, and Genise was the only person in sight that seemed at all cognizant of that. None of the dozen or so ghouls that stood still as statues about the room were at all responsive. At the small table sat a lone living figure, legs crossed and dressed comfortably in fleece under a black tabard, sipping from a steaming mug, the Death Knight.
Mary, she had called herself. As Genise stepped into the room, shivering, the woman gestured at the empty seat across from her. A ghoul, on cue, pulled it out for her.
Genise looked at the chair, looked at Mary, looked at the ghoul, then back at the chair. Then, she looked around the room. There were several other doors leading out of it, none an obvious exit. There were about a dozen ghouls--and more could be hiding behind various piles of debris or hanging cloth. She could try to bolt, but there simply wasn't anything that seemed like a viable plan, and she was still without her magic. With a defeated sigh, she moved to the chair. It was only then that she noticed that what in actuality had looked like a pile of skins draped across the back of it, her vision blurred as it was without her glasses, was actually a thick winter coat. She stared at it suspiciously.
"It's not going to eat you, you know," said Mary.
Genise looked at the woman, and glared. Not taking her eyes off her, with a huff, she sat down, the jacket untouched. The Death Knight simply raised a narrow brow, then gestured at the full, steaming mug in place in front of the mage. "Surely you at least want something warm to drink."
"It's poisoned, isn't it!?" Genise's voice was shrill.
"Oh, yes, of course," Mary rolled her eyes, "I dragged you here and cleaned your wounds, only to diabolically
assassinate you with my
death jacket and," she sneered, "my
malevolent murder mug."
"...probably!"
Mary sighed.
In truth, even if the coffee was perfectly mundane, Genise didn't dare risk it. Her stomach already felt like it was devouring itself, empty as it was.
The jacket, however, she had to concede to. She huddled in on herself as she wrapped the thick, padded leather around her, mumbling something.
"I'm sorry," Mary said, watching her expressionlessly, "I didn't quite catch that."
"I said
this better not be made of, like,
human skin!!"
Mary bit back her retort, taking a long sip from her own mug, before setting it down. Genise simply glared back, taking in the other woman's appearance as best she could without her glasses. She almost seemed normal, the same as the harried dockworker she'd met back at the port, though she wore her lank, ash-blonde hair down now, spilling lifelessly over her shoulders. She had rounded features that would have seemed pleasant on anyone else, but for what seemed like a permanently sardonic knit of her brow, a faint scowl, and that tell-tale frigid cast to her eyes that almost seemed to make them glow, hinting at a sizable infusion of necrotic power. In a single concession to vanity, her lips were painted a deep red. Genise blinked. There was a cast to her face that seemed unusually familiar, but she couldn't place it. The all-around blurriness made it difficult to tell.
"So," said the Death Knight, "you're probably wondering why anyone bothered to drag you out here. Needless to say, your chances of making a real escape are improbable," she gestured towards the mage's wrists and neck. "I wouldn't recommend testing the limits of those, by the way."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Genise snarled through clenched teeth.
"Smart girl. We're going to start with a basic question, then: Where's Dalaran?"
"What?" Genise blinked.
"Where is Dalaran? It's gone. Where is it?" Mary's tone was mild.
"I don't know!" Genise shouted.
"Girl, you're a mage. Mages are, by default, associated in some way with that conclave. You know something, and you're not saying."
"Look," Genise said, "you even mentioned that at...at the
dock where you tricked me--"
Mary interrupted, "I didn't trick you."
"Yes you did!!" "You didn't
ask if I was a servant of the Scourge, nor did I say I wasn't."
"But you
are."
"I believe we've established that, genius." The Death Knight rolled her eyes.
Genise snarled, "What
were you doing there, then?"
Mary's brow perked, "Are we asking the questions now?"
"Yes," Genise's tone was livid, "We are. What are you going to do to make me
not?"
"My, you're terrifying." A faint, humorless smile crossed Mary's lips. "If you must know, what I was doing at the docks in Valiance was exactly what you saw me doing. Nothing more, and nothing less."
Genise opened her mouth to retort, then hesitated. "Wait..."
"You're getting close to it, there," Mary took a sip from her mug, "Keep grinding those gears. It's coming to you."
"You were spying." Genise said finally.
"Once again," sighed the Death Knight, rolling her eyes again, "we reestablish the sordid truth for what it is."
"No." Genise frowned, "Now I don't get it. What could you
possibly," she fought to control the level of her voice, "want out of
me that you couldn't pick up just mingling with the people there? This is pointless!"
"I think you're standing on it now," nodded Mary, "just ask yourself, dear girl, 'what am I?'"
"Me? I'm a...a mage. What has that got to do with anything--" Mary opened her mouth to speak, but it was Genise's turn to interrupt,
"Don't ask me about Dalaran! I DON'T KNOW!" her shrill declaration echoed through the empty chamber.
After a moment's silence, Mary retorted, "That's plainly obvious, fool."
"That p--" Genise sputtered, "Okay,
look, I don't have to sit here and take your insults."
"Actually," Mary's tone was pleasant, "You do, but let's look past that for a moment, and return to our question--what are you?"
Genise sighed at length, before finally bringing herself to answer, drawing herself up as best she could, "I am Madame Genise Astera Crownsilver, The Sorceress of Elwynn, proprietress of the Silver Feather, and a renowned Archmagess of Outland."
"Hm. I didn't know that 'Archmagess' was a real word," mused Mary, tapping her painted lips, "but that's exactly what I wanted to hear."
Genise was confused. "What?" she managed.
"Your adventures in Outland," said the Death Knight, her tone not unlike that of a therapist discussing some trauma with a patient, "Tell me about them."
"They were, uh..." Genise stammered, "They were
a long story, is what they were." Mary tilted her head inquisitively, as the mage's scowl returned, "What do you want to know about them?"
"Let's start with your companions," Mary said, "The Outlands campaign was, reportedly, a smashing success by all accounts. I want to know what sort of people you fought alongside."
"You're not going to get anything out of me," Genise glared flatly, "you're not going to--you're not going to
see what's coming." The mage managed to part her lips in the semblance of a grin, though no humor was evident.
Mary's expression, however, turned quite suddenly from pleasant to flat. She stared unblinkingly across the table at the mage, the icy light in her eyes literally seeming to glow, and spoke; "I will, girl. I am going to know
exactly what will land on Northrend's shores."
"Oh, really?" Genise leaned forward, her voice cracking, "and how? Are you going to torture me? Have one of your ghouls chew off my fingers one at a time? Steal my voice so I'll never cast a spell again?" She stood, placing both hands on the table, "No,
Mary, you're getting nothing from me. I'm not a turncoat..."
She leaned forward, "...not a
backstabber..."
She met and matched the Death Knight's gaze, "...not a
filthy, despicable TRAITOR!!" Shrill as her final oath was, it echoed through the vaulted chamber, and Maraviglia Norvallen did not respond, her expression unblinking, and completely unreadable.
Finally, the Death Knight spoke, breaking the silence. "That's a shame," she said with a heavy sigh, reaching into a pocket on the inside of her tabard, "I suppose I took the trouble to find this for nothing." She held in hand a vial. Inside was a coarse, blue, fibrous powder, itself having a faint, soft luminescence.
Genise's bleary, bloodshot eyes widened. As fast as she could, she made a grab for the vial. Mary snatched it back even more quickly, though, stuffing it right back into her tabard. The mage, both hands on the table, stammered, and collapsed back into her chair, putting a hand on her head. The dragonmoss. It was reputedly the one substance existing in Azeroth that could be used to remedy her dependence on, and withdrawal from, excessive use of magic. An end to the pain, the discomfort, the sleeplessness, the horrible dreams, and the infernal craving.
"But wait," Genise said, voice cracking shrilly, "something doesn't add up. I didn't tell you what I was here for. I didn't say anything to
anyone. How could you have known?"
Mary simply shrugged. "We did our fieldwork, dear," she answered, her tone once again neutral, "You're a magic user, and you've a distinctly frayed look about you--is this not right? Precisely," she nodded, and continued, "it was easy enough to follow you into the Dragonblight, egging you along as we did, but there was a pattern to your search that you didn't even bother to conceal, divining and seeking out the location as best you could of dragon bones--they're everywhere, here--and not even stopping in between. Don't look so surprised," the Death Knight folded her arms, "There have been parties out of Quel'thalas searching ostensibly for the very same thing, so it was easy enough to pick up. It seems your little addiction is something of an epidemic."
Genise's expression fell.
"It's wonderful," the Death Knight smiled, "It's yet another weapon that the Scourge could conceivably use against all of you. And that's not even the best part of this whole affair," her smile turned malicious, "You
missed this." She indicated the vial, "This came off a skeleton you'd already searched. Isn't it wonderful to know that, had you your wits about you, you would be perfectly alright now?"
"Shut up," the mage couldn't manage anything more, "Just...oh, dear Light. Just shut up."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Madame Genise Astera Crownsilver." Mary's expression was once again placid. "Because you still haven't answered my question."
It was all Genise could do to suppress a sob. She didn't respond. Her head felt like it was full of lead, her eyes were blurry and unfocused, she felt an itch on her chest and face for no particular reason, bile filled her throat, and she was positive by now that her digestive tract had fully inverted itself. She sniffled. The air was freezing despite the coat she was wearing, and the black metal bindings on her wrists and neck were like ice. She was dimly aware of the Death Knight pulling a plain, white handkerchief from her pocket, and calmly placing it in front of the mage on the table.
She looked up that the small square of white cloth. With a feral glare at the serene Death Knight, she snatched it and blew her nose loudly. With a sharp inhalation, she slammed the sodden kerchief back to the table, and stood.
"You want to know about my companions?" she said, in a near-whisper, "You want to know about Outland?" Genise kept her voice as level as she could manage, "Fine. I'll tell you. Yeah. It was a success."
She began pacing, heedless of the reeking ghouls standing nearby, "All we knew at first was the portal had reopened, and the Legion was on the attack. That," she gesticulated, stopping, "that didn't last long." She began pacing again, "they pushed us, and we pushed back. Soon it was like...it was like the stories about the First War, but in reverse. It was
us pouring through. Horde and Alliance. They didn't stand a chance at the Portal. They couldn't even
begin to hold on to Hellfire. Us, me and my friends, the Riders, we were there the whole way."
Her voice strengthened, "we weren't with the vanguard past Hellfire, but we were there on the flanks, in the field, wherever, all throughout." A smile cracked her features, "we--we had men in the front in all sorts of places. Bricu became King of the Ogres," her tone swayed between harsh and reminiscent, "Tarquin took on Lady Vashj. Sonya..." Genise inhaled, interrupting her tirade, and turned to look the Death Knight in the eye.
"Honey...", she said, "I've...I've sat down for a drink with the one who took the Blades of Azzinoth off of
Illidan Stormrage's bloody corpse after Maiev gave him his last rites." Genise's voice was clear now, her breathing level. "Is that what you wanted to hear?" She did not break her gaze. "Does that tell you how Outland went, about the kind of people I know?" Her pace quickened, "This is who we are," she declared, "
this is who is coming for you!" Heedless of her pitch, her voice rose to a shout, almost a laugh, "Dear Light, do you have any
remote idea of just what's in store for you and your shambling, frigid dead things!? Lady...Death Knight...whatever...
we are going to obliterate you, and you can sit there and scheme and in the end..." her voice quieted suddenly, to a near-whisper once more, "there isn't a damn thing you can do about it."
Breathing heavily, Genise collapsed back into the chair. The aches and pains slowly returned as she caught her breath, but they seemed lessened somehow, after the outburst.
The Death Knight was silent. The mage thought she caught a flicker of genuine worry cross her otherwise frigid visage, gone as soon as it came, and fleeting in her own blurred sight, but there all the same. Finally, she spoke.
"Thank you," she said, seemingly forcing her tone to remain level, "That is exactly what I wanted to know."
Genise allowed herself to meet her gaze again, "So then--" she began, but Mary was not finished.
"Four days past, shipments of grain arrived in the ports of Booty Bay and Ratchet." She spoke softly, unblinking, looking the mage directly in the eye, "Commerce travels. Nobody was wise to the trick, just as good the second time around."
Genise's eyes widened, "Wait..."
"Yes," Mary continued, "within a
day, settlements all over the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor were flooded with a plague that rendered it's victims the walking dead. The reports," she said, "are that the streets of Stormwind are a scene out of a horror show, now. It is said that even the Outland refuge of Shattrath has been infected, possibly even overrun completely thanks to it's isolation, thanks to careless use of portals."
The mage was speechless.
"The reports," the Death Knight continued speaking in the same measured tone, "are grim for the Alliance overall. The Horde..." she now put a finger to her chin and narrowed her eyes, "Yes, if I recall correctly, the Horde was also hit, of course, and...well, I can't really say much, but, they're about to have some terrible regrets about so readily befriending the ones that call themselves 'The Forsaken'. Though, no one's fault," her tone was light, "evidently not even they could see what was coming."
Genise's face fell into a look of confusion, the entirety of what was being said beginning to take root.
"Finally," said Mary, "A veritable flotilla of flying necropoli departed Northrend just this morning. The weather forecast for Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms looks..." she finished with a raised eyebrow. "Dire. Tell me," she once again looked Genise directly in the eye, "do you wonder how any friends, or allies of yours, or...family and
children...could be faring now, for all the might of the Alliance and the Horde and their glorious victories in far distant Outland?"
Genise Crownsilver could not respond. It was all too much. She knew there was an invasion, she just didn't know who would strike first. Now, though, it became...it was real. All too real. There was near panic, and then a wave of absolute despair. Followed by a sudden, searing rage. She clenched her teeth, inhaled, and focused. Again, she felt the energy course through her. Again, she felt a disorienting sense of nothing whatsoever as the bindings absorbed it in full.
She collapsed, spent.
The Death Knight stood, and drained the last of her coffee, now somewhat chilly. As the unspeaking ghouls gathered up almost tenderly the crumpled form of the red-haired mage, she reached into her pocket again and pulled out the vial of luminescent blue dragonmoss, setting it on the table.
"It's here for when you need it, dear." She called after the unconscious woman.
* * * * *
A few moments after the mage was safely locked back in her cell, Mary looked up into the hole in the ceiling, the soft white light still illuminating it's corner of the room. "You can come out now, Barthus."
The Darkfallen elf stepped out from behind a layer of shredded banner hanging from the ceiling, it's former design long-faded. He had a worried expression on his gaunt face.
"You realize," he said, voice strained, "that the veterans of the Outland campaign took only about two days to organize, quarantine, and for all intents and purposes in one following night
obliterate what of the zombie plague as managed to actually slip through the cracks?"
She looked at him, and cocked her head.
"Furthermore," the vampire's tone was testy, "the reports from the necropoli aren't good. The forces they're deploying are being annihilated practically before they're even out of the portal." He folded his arms, "That was a brilliant performance, Norvallen, but I'm not entirely positive why you bothered doing so for the sake of one apparently clueless prisoner."
"Barthus," she tucked a loose strand of ash-blonde hair behind her ear.
"What?"
"Please understand," she said in patronizing terms, "thanks to her, I've got everything I need to know."
"What the hell is
that supposed to mean?"
"It means I've got a satisfying confirmation that the Scourge," she stifled a yawn, threaded her fingers together, stretched, and gestured towards the dessicated elf, "is rather doomed."
The Darkfallen did not respond. His vocal chords were full of ice. And ice, namely a solid jagged chunk thereof, could be said to have been full of
him.
The Death Knight approached the frozen form, extracting her runeblade from it's base, as she'd done from the mage's own frozen prison, the night before. She did not take her eyes off the creature as she place her hand on the pommel of her sword, gripping it's ricasso with the other, and driving the blade, with a single-over-handed thrust, straight through his face. She intoned something under her breath, and in a wave of black, the ice, and the vampire, disintegrated completely.
Without another word, she propped the blade on the wall as she began her preparations. The saronite bindings on the mage would lose their potency in a day at most, and thanks to their exchange, there was likely to be a veritable firestorm to follow.
Just as planned, of course,
she's angry. She's terrified. She should be. They all
should be. Anger and fear were the greatest motivators imaginable, and possibly even as useful as good, honest hatred.
Maraviglia Norvallen was in a truly good mood for the first time in half a decade.