Iskara

Here follows a repost of the first encounter between my paladin Michaella and Izai. Once again, thanks to Izai for making this story possible; it proved to be a defining event in Michaella's backstory.

* * * * * * * * * *

Night covered Stormwind.

Beneath the Cathedral of Light, deep in its catacombs, Michaella was kneeling in prayer before a particular tomb. Only a single candle flame struggled valiantly to keep the dark at bay from her; a darkness nearly total cloaked everything mere feet away. Somehow, this felt curiously right to her, it seemed to fit the state of her soul just now.

The night before, she had received a strange letter from someone calling herself Izai. The lettering and wording seemed uncertain, as if written by someone not sure of the language, and it stated that this Izai wanted to meet Michaella at the Light's Hope Chapel -- and that Izai was a Forsaken, and wished Michaella to hear her confession. Michaella had read it through three times and had at length decided that it must be genuine. That, of course, had not made the decision of whether to come or go any easier.

* * * * *

Michaella paced restlessly around in her small bedroom. It could be a trap. A setup, to lure me into the hands of the Forsaken. Immediately on the heels of that thought followed, Why me? What makes me special? Who could possibly have any interest in me amongst the walking dead, apart from... She blocked that line of thought off. The idea of her father or anyone of her fallen kin making contact with her in such a manner was not to be contemplated. She might barely be able to handle it if they attempted to extend feelers honestly. The notion of them using something like this... no.

And besides, the note clearly stated Light's Hope. Even if it is a trap, it would be an odd place for any Scourge subterfuge to place its snare in. But, Light help me, that isn't the problem. The problem is that I'm not really afraid of it being a trap. She bit her lip, forcing herself to face the dilemma square on. No. What I am afraid of is what it might mean if it is genuine.

She stopped her pacing and stared at her sheathed sword and armour lying ready for her on the table. But... it is really simple. If it is genuine, it is nothing less than my duty to go. And if it isn't... then it's just a trap, and the only danger I'm in is the kind I'm trained to face. So, my fear is irrelevant, and I have to go anyway. Taking deep breaths, she forced herself into a semblance of calm and donned her armour with measured care. At last she armed herself and headed out the door, only just remembering to lock it. The trip to the gryphon handler passed almost in a daze, and the man had to prompt her twice before she realised that she had to tell him her destination before she could go.

* * * * *

Now past Aerie Peak, the gryphon banked high above Caer Darrow and turned due east. From behind her, the setting sun's light painted the Plaguelands an all too appropriate blood-red. By now she had managed to compose herself and silence the turmoil of her emotions. Nearly all her life humans had been at war against the undead. Before she had turned ten, every single other member of her family had fallen to the armies of the Scourge. At the age of thirteen, she had found the opportunity to train as a warrior against the undead and had seized it with both hands. It should have been simple. She was a soldier of the Light, the undead were the enemy, she should oppose and destroy them at every turn... it should have been simple. But it wasn't.

Images crossed her mind. The withered warrior who had aided her when she had been beset by ogres, the corpse-mage standing at bay against Scourge-driven zombies, defying them with his magic... most painfully of all, the face of her undead sister who had saved her life, changed her life with a single unexpected act of mercy. The Scourge-driven were monsters, yes, mindless grotesqueries or slaves of something utterly malign. But were all the undead truly pawns of the Scourge? Michaella could not make herself believe it. The Forsaken hated the humans, fought them with a cold passion terrifying to behold... but they weren't all alike. She had beheld too many strange situations to believe that. Most of all, she had seen what she had not been able to imagine on her fallen sister's face. Pain, sorrow... and regret.

The gryphon alighted at Light's Hope with a last thunderclap of wings. Michaella started and recalled herself to the present, sliding off its back with a brief murmur of thanks to the handler coming to take charge of the tired beast. Almost involuntarily she smiled when the handler led the gryphon off with soothing, tender words, hardly noticing its passenger at all. The gryphon handlers were said to be eccentrics more at home with the animals they cared for than with other humans or even near-humans; there was obviously some truth to that in this case. Then she turned to gaze at the chapel of Light's Hope, its tall spire glittering in the last rays of the dying sun. She took a deep breath, saluted the Argent Dawn soldiers as she passed them and headed for the chapel's entrance. The time for doubts was over, now she would see what she would see.

But when she stepped inside, the chapel stood empty save for the Argent marshal meditating at the other end. She looked around, feeling a little foolish -- could she have been too early, or was the other late? Just in case, she headed out again and looked west down the hill... a hissing sound behind her made her whirl and look back inside. There, standing in shadow, stood a dim form barely visible in the candlelight that illuminated the insides of the chapel. An undead woman with twin swords at her side. Michaella swallowed and almost recoiled, then mastered herself and stepped inside again, resolutely keeping her hand off the hilt of her sword. She had been asked to come in peace, she would not break it unless forced to.

The undead woman spoke to her in hissing tones Michaella could not understand, then knelt before her. Michaella curtseyed in greeting, then sat down facing the woman, taking her in as her eyes gradually adjusted to the dimmer light inside the chapel. No, this woman did not look like her sister, only the shock of her sudden appearance had made the image of her flash across Michaella's mind... but whoever this undead warrior was, something clearly troubled her greatly. Michaella wondered what it might be, and what she could possibly do about it... then set speculation aside and concentrated on the present. "As you have asked, I have come," she said softly. "Let us see what I can do for you."

Michaella studied the dead woman's face. Withered and dry as a husk it might be, but the emotions playing across it could not be mistaken. Fear, sadness... pain. Wondering what she could possibly do to help her, she shifted her legs slightly. "What is it that drives you, Izai? What is it that has made you come to this?"

Izai spoke, harsh, hissing words Michaella could not understand. Still, the tone at least she understood. Resigned and resolved all at once... the dead woman had decided to confront something dire and unavoidable, maybe? But then she rose to her feet and gestured at the doorway, inviting Michaella to follow. The paladin nodded and rose as well.

Outside, night had fallen. The wind came from the west, bearing the musty grave-smell that always covered the Plaguelands. The sighs and moans of dead and damned creatures seemed to echo everywhere, and shadowy forms shuffled about just at the limit of vision. After one swift look around her that seemed to take in everything, Izai vaulted into the saddle of a skeletal horse standing untethered next to the chapel. Michaella nodded at her and after exchanging a few brief words with the Argent beastmaster obtained one of the remounts stabled there. Izai rode into the night as soon as she saw Michaella mounted; Michaella gave her horse's sides a brief squeeze with her heels and followed, trying to ignore her misgivings.

Soon after they passed the huge chasm that marred the landscape near the chapel. In its deep, amorphous shadows oozed around. A rotting, repulsively sweet stench of corruption wafted in the area, drowning out the ambient mustiness. Michaella grimaced in disgust; to her surprise, the unbreathing Izai seemed as disgusted as she did. The Forsaken spoke a single word in her guttural language; Michaella needed no translation to understand that it was a curse. But before she could make any gesture of query or confusion, the Forsaken rode on into the night.

They rode for a while with no words exchanged. Then Izai suddenly reined her horse in and slid off it with no more sound than a feather landing on a velvet pillow. Michaella, too, dismounted. As soundless as a dozen kettles falling off the top shelf, she thought ruefully. Well, even Gnomish ingenuity has yet to come up with a working suit of stealth plate armour. Pushing that thought away, she cautiously came up to Izai's side to see why the Forsaken had halted. Izai pointed at a looming shape ahead, one of the grotesque bloated abominations patrolling the outskirts of Plaguewood. She then unsheathed twin slim blades and moved toward the abomination without a sound. Michaella nodded and drew her greatsword, waiting a few moments to allow Izai to get into position, then charged the abomination.

The lumbering creature turned its head toward her in a moment's brief confusion. Using that moment, Michaella stabbed her sword's point at its face, calling on the Light as she did so. The sword flared brightly, dispersing the darkness for a brief moment, and the abomination roared in pain and brought an axe brutally down on the paladin. She parried the stroke, but only barely, and the impact sent her tumbling off her feet. She rolled and tried to scramble to her feet, but just then Izai struck, her twin blades cutting into the creature's thighs with merciless power. For a brief moment, the abomination stood stunned; Michaella recovered her footing and drove her swordpoint into the monster's belly. Light flared from the blade again, the Scourge-beast howled in agony, and then Izai drove both her blades into its neck, severing its spine. For a brief moment it shuddered, then it slowly sagged and fell, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Michaella automatically brought her blade to guard position, scanning around her as she controlled her breath. She spotted the emerging shadows barely in time to defend against the first blows, and then there was no time at all to think or speculate, just the clash of blade against blade and naked edge cutting all too vulnerable flesh. Next to her, Izai's blades wove a glittering pattern of death, a razor danse macabre. Michaella could not later remember how long they fought, but when they were done, the bodies of four more Scourge soldiers littered the ground near the slain abomination.

Gasping for breath, barely keeping her hands from shaking, Michaella turned to see Izai kicking at the dead bodies, cursing them in her harsh language. When the Forsaken finally turned to meet her gaze, her pallid gaunt face showed hate and disgust -- but above all, fear. Fear of what?

And then at last Michaella understood Izai as she recognised that fear, knew it for the twin of the all-consuming fear that haunted her own dreams every night. She fears becoming like them. She fears becoming one of them.

She reached out towards the Forsaken, a gesture of comprehension, and nodded. "Lead on, my sister," she told her softly. "Show me what you need me to see." She no longer feared following Izai. Whatever this woman intended, she meant no harm to her. Understanding her tone if not her words, Izai nodded and leapt back into the saddle of her skeletal mount. Michaella also remounted; together, the two women headed off into the night again. Soon, the outline of fallen Stratholme loomed against the night sky, and Izai reined in her horse. Without dismounting, she pointed down at the undead Scourge-driven haunting the city's surrounds and spoke harsh words in her strange language. Michaella now clearly understood the intent of the words if not their exact meaning and nodded in agreement. "As to the Scarlet scum, they're not a jot or tittle better," she half-growled, punctuating the phrase with a rude gesture at the Crusade-held part of the ruined city.

Izai turned her mount and rode off again without another word. Michaella followed, what caution she still felt now aimed at the hostile land around them, not Izai. It now seemed Izai wanted to return to Light's Hope, to which Michaella had no objection, and when the Argent camp finally became visible, she waved a salute at the sentries and led the paladin straight to the Chapel. After dismounting Izai entered the chapel; Michaella followed with no hesitation.

Once inside, Izai knelt before Michaella again. Michaella sat down, contemplating what to do or say now. But Izai seemed to have something important on her mind, she spoke urgently and intensely at the paladin, trying to communicate her need through sheer raw emotion. Michaella shook her head in confusion, which seemed to agitate Izai even further. Then, without warning, the Forsaken drew her swords and cut at Michaella. The blades met with a sharp tchinng, their needle points only an inch from her face. Involuntarily, Michaella jerked back.

Izai repeated her loud demand, gesturing threateningly with her swords. I don't understand. She's been trying to tell me something, she can't be wanting to duel me now...

The chilling truth became clear. No. She doesn't want me to duel her. She wants me to kill her.

Michaella shook her head in denial. "You can't mean that. You can't want me to do that!" she protested, rising to her feet.

Izai howled and brought her blades at Michaella with impossible speed. Michaella controlled her desire to flinch, didn't move. The blades stopped just as they made contact with her sides, razor edges gently resting against weak spots in her armour.

Michaella shook her head. "I don't think you want to kill me, Izai. But..." she trailed off. She had been about to say, I can't give you what you want of me. But... she could. That was the ghastly truth of it, Michaella had been perfectly trained to kill undead creatures with surgical precision. More, could she deny Izai what she wanted? Could she really? When she herself had believed that all her hope of escape had gone she had sought death, could she deny Izai that? True, a miracle had saved her, but she had no miracle for Izai. All she had was the chill mercy of the edge of her sword.

Saying nothing more, Michaella met Izai's gaze and nodded. Izai understood, obviously, she sagged, lowering her swords and returning them to their sheaths. She knelt again, wheezing softly, it sounded like she was crying. Tears welled up in Michaella's eyes; ignoring them, she placed a comforting hand on Izai's shoulder and squeezed it softly.

It is time. No more excuses. Give her what she so desires. Give her what it is your duty to give. Her face a mask as rigid as that of any corpse, Michaella drew her sword again and blinked away her tears. She intoned a soft prayer to the Light, partly for Izai, partly for herself. Then she struck, the sword flaring with light as it played its deadly arc. Izai shuddered briefly, went limp and collapsed with a soft thud, a sound louder than any she had made while still... alive. Her heels drummed against the floor for a moment, then a sound like a dusty death rattle, and she lay still at last.

Michaella stood still for a long moment. Then she turned away and headed for the chapel's exit. Once there, she saluted Izai one last time with her sword, then she went towards the gryphon handler and into the night.

* * * * *

The memories receded and gave way to the present. Next to the paladin, the candle guttered and flickered, its rays now only barely illuminating the name on the tomb in front of her. Kassandra Stern, the woman who had given Michaella the miracle who had saved her, the woman who had trained her, helped her become what she now was. Michaella continued to pray, heedless of the failing candle. When its flame finally died, leaving her in darkness, she stayed there for a long, long time.

* * * * *

With many thanks to Izai for letting me write this story. Thank you, may we meet again.

Heresy

Beautifully written, Iskara - I finally had the chance to read this over lunch today though I must admit the title gave me a start - I thought Izai was leaving us there for a moment!

One thing that has coloured my Alliance roleplay for sure with my Draenei is having been undead for so long - but also, an undead rogue that once saved her life (and it wasn't Gharb, hehe, I don't know who it was) in Jintha'Alor and yet died himself. From an IC perspective, Selwan never forgot that moment and much like Michaella realised that the issue of the human undead was not a simple one. Nicely written, I must say, and glad to have another writer among us...we have a few, actually, but Elanos isn't among our most prolific *pokes*, and I do hope to see more of Sancha's work here in the weeks to come.

-H

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