The Celess Collection

Here I'll post the backlog of Celess stories. There are enough to fill a forum, so I'll put them all in this post, in chronological order.

Feel free to read and critique as and when you like =)

I'll probably add new ones to this too. =P

:: Celess Soulbinder ::

For as long as he has known, Celess’ father was a Farstrider, one of the Guardians of Eversong Woods, and for equally as long, Celess had longed to follow in his fathers footsteps. For years Celess had trained himself to use a sword yet no matter how hard he trained, he never progressed, and his inability earned him his fathers scorn who questioned that, in light of the Sunwell’s destruction and with the Sin’Dorei being forced to wean themselves from the arcane, what use was an elf if he could not wield a sword?
And so Celess was driven to train ever harder, determined to prove his worth to his father, to reckless extents… And indeed, one day it was to prove his families undoing.

It was a day not unlike any other, the spring sun shining through the boughs of Eversong Woods and his father was out on patrol. Celess spied a lone Scourge wandering between the trees, and it seemed weak, perhaps a remnant from a group that the Farstriders had apprehended. In a moment of blind action, drawn to the chance to prove himself, Celess stole away one of his fathers many swords and recklessly charged the undead. Even for Celess’ poor swordsmanship, the foul creature fell quickly, but in his moment of triumph, Celess was ambushed. A swarm of shades and zombies poured onto him suddenly, and even a Farstrider would have been overwhelmed.
But it was not Celess’ time to die; the fates had crueller plans yet for the Elfs downward spiral. His father, heading back from his patrol had seen the Scourge attack and rushed to his Son’s aid and fought valiantly, Celess’ sister (a Blood Knight in training) charged from their home with her swords drawn and flung herself bravely into the fray.
The three fought as hard as they could, but a stray blow knocked Celess out cold and all went dark.

When he awoke, Celess found himself face down in the dirt, buried beneath several Scourge corpses. Throwing their foul forms from him, he stood up and looked around, but his father and sister were nowhere to be seen. He headed home, hoping to find them safe there, but found only his mother. He explained what had happened and she was overcome with grief, blaming Celess for her husband and daughter’s demise; or worse, capture.

Immediately, Celess swore to rescue his family from Deatholme where they had surely been taken, for their bodies were not amongst the corpse-pile, and moreover, he vowed to see the destruction of the foul place. Seeing his swordsmanship training as a wasted pursuit, he ventured north to the ruins of the Sewell where he sought teaching in the ways of the Arcane. Eventually, one evening in the Great Library in Silvermoon, Celess stumbled across an ancient grimoire, buried in a musty forgotten corner of the library, and was intrigued by the notion of demonic energies. He was later to learn that such energies where what had fed the Sin’Dorei since the Sunwell’s destruction, and the seeds of darkness had been sown in his mind.

Outside of his mentors teachings, and away from the scornful gaze of his peers, Celess practiced his dark magics in a small refuge in the Ghostlands. Slowly, his power grew, but without proper training, it was sure to outgrow him as the demonic powers scraped away at his sanity. Sure enough, one day, Celess’ mother’s comments got too much. His guilt at his father and sisters loss was great enough already, without her constant reminder. The dark powers took their chance and seized control of him in that moment of weakness, and when he regained self, he found his hands dripping in blood, and his mother dead at his feet.

Realizing what he had done, and unwilling to further shame his families name, Celess changed his surname to Voidwalker and vowed to learn to control such fearsome power. He paid the Farstriders a handsome sum of money to fake his execution, and so Celess Duskstrider, last of the Family Duskstrider. In order to keep his identity secret, he offered to pay them each month.

Soon, he journeyed back to Silvermoon City and sought tuition in the ways of the Warlock and his power quickly grew.
During his time there, he was taken under the wings of the Rangers of Eversong by the great Sir Aturin where he met Kazaia, Noble Advisor of the Guild. With time, Celess grew, and his power with him, but inside he yearned for something more. He had stagnated and forgotten his goals, and though he had joined Kazaia as Noble Advisor, the Guild began to fall apart after Aturin disappeared.

As the Rangers collapsed in on themselves, Celess found himself exploring much more of the world and finding his feet again. He decided that the time of waiting around and sleeping drowsily in Silvermoon was over. It was time to broaden his horizons and once again shoot for his goals. The time for action was now, and a mighty army needed to be mustered.
Journeying as far as Astranaar and Booty Bay, Celess called upon other warriors to aid him in his fight against the Alliance and the Legion and the call was answered by Lassinus (a Blood Knight), Waerithra, Asdrubael of the Forsaken and many others. Each pledged their name to the Order and vowed to shepherd the weak to become strong; and thus the Order of the Dark Path was formed.

It was not long before a mighty force had mustered itself around him, and soon Kazaia herself left the ruins of the Rangers of Eversong and joined the Order as High Lieutenant, and many of the old Rangers were gathered to the cause, young and old, Warriors to Warlocks, Mages to Rogues, the Order was diverse and powerful and ever growing, and their foes would not know what had hit them.

:: Finding One's Feet ::

With time, the Order expanded, it’s ranks swelling to well over a century, and supported by such a backing, many of the Order rose in strength, including Celess himself. Outside of the Order, despite being diagnosed with Abyssal Cavosis (an ailment akin to an extreme allergy to the demonic), Celess formed bonds with powerful allies, and equally as powerful foes. He soon learnt the inner workings of Factio Funestas and it was not long before he would eventually cross paths with Mordekaine the Black, the Executioner of the Revenant - Factio Funestas’ Forsaken wing. Though it was through another, far less expected avenue that the two would meet.

Months past, at the Mannoroc Coven in Desolace, Celess had met one Celessia Novalie. At first, the two joked at how similar they were both in appearance and with name; but over the weeks, their paths crossed time and time again from Grom’gol to the Plaguelands, and it seemed their destinies were inexplicably intertwined and a deepening respect and camaraderie blossomed.

One evening in Silvermoon City, Celess was introduced to Celessia’s boyfriend, Xelios Morningsun. Unlike most of the Warriors of Silvermoon, Xelios claimed to be no Blood Knight. His power, he claimed, came not from the enslaved Naaru bound below Silvermoon’s streets, but instead from Uther himself. This placed Celess and Xelios at opposite ends of the spectrum, one a Warrior trained in Light by the Light-Bringer himself, the other, the Fel Warden, a harvester of souls and master demonologist.

The following evenings were to shape Celess’ future in ways none could have predicted.

It soon became apparent that Celessia was not happy with her relationship, and Celess found himself as referee between the two. After speaking with them both, Celessia called off the arrangement and left Xelios.

This was not to be the end of it, and for the next few evenings, the two were hounded by Xelios’ friends, and Celess was accused of “poisoning Celessia to him”. The two became the subject of scrutiny to the entire of Silvermoon it seemed, and the final straw came when, upon the evening Celessia signed to the Order, the meeting was cut short by the arrival of a powerful undead mage.

Having heard of the legendary Mordekaine the Black, Celess knew exactly who stood before him. The hissing figure claimed innocent reasons for his arrival, though due to the solitary placing of the meeting, the lie was obvious; further proved by Xelios’ restrained presence in the distance. On the ride back to Silvermoon, the method of their being found became clear as the two rode past Gweneth Stormcrow. Celessia was outraged that a supposed friend had seemingly betrayed her.

This broke Celess. Furious at the invasion of his privacy and at the hurt caused to his travelling partner, Celess immediately sought truth.

Fearlessly questioning the Executioner, Mordekaine announced no allegiance with Xelios and denounced all ties. Leaving the conversation, Celess was introduced to Dalethas, a Priest of the ‘Hammer of the Dawn’. Dalethas confirmed Celess’ suspicion, linking Xelios as to almost an acolyte of Mordekaine’s. Dalethas sought Mordekaine’s destruction, and Xelios’ removal would be a means to an end.

Having journeyed to Shattrath City weeks before, Celess spent much of the next few days inside the Scryers Library for incantations and ways to suppress the powers of light. Celess found his answers deep within ancient tomes, some ripped from the darkest libraries of the abyss, sealed away in the Scryers Vault.

At this time, Kazaia, High Lieutenant of the Order also returned, seeking an audience with Celess with a troubling query on her mind. Seeking answers to her problems, Celess buried himself further into the Vaults, and taught himself the language of demons.

During his research, he fell upon an ancient tome never meant for the eyes of any mortal, the ‘Liber Sanguine Nex ad Sargerii’, sealed away within the Scryers Vault pending the discovery of a way to destroy it. By all rights, nobody should ever have stumbled across it again, nobody should have been allowed to touch it, and certainly, it’s binding chains should never have been broken again…

:: The Liber Sanguine Nex Ad Sargerii ::

The room stank of old musty tomes, the scent of ages past lingering in the air as he swept past shelves coated with dust and the withered husks of dead spiders, running his fingers along the spines of the books, each leather-bound tome sealed away here to prevent them falling under the wrong eyes. He stopped momentarily and coughed a little through his blood red face-mask, the gust kicked up a little cloud of dust which made him wince and turn his head away slightly. This place reeked of the Fel and arcane, and it was doing nothing to help his ailment. He coughed again, this time feeling something moist catch on the cloth over his mouth and he knew immediately he was fortunate the mask was red. The power here was incredible if it was doing this to him while he was wearing the imbued mask…

He fingered his way along the shelf, flicking a stray strand of electric blonde hair out of his face deftly as he paused on one particular tome. He pulled it slightly from its resting place, a simple, small leather book, stained a deep green, it had no markings at all on either the spine or the cover so he flicked open the cover and found it handwritten. Inside was the name “Pagatha De L’Aurent” scrawled in barely legible handwriting. He paused for a moment, recognising the name somehow, then flicked a few pages in.

Pacing backwards and forwards in the dimly lit room, he strained his eyes to read the text; a research journal it seemed, an old human warlock who apparently had once lived in north eastern Lordaeron, not far from Stratholme. She had studied the demonic for most of her life, and had dealt with them on a personal level. Perfect.

“Emotions…” he heard Kazaia’s voice in his head as he stood reading, her unusual accent ringing with clarity in his mind “Are they mine or hers? And how could I be sure either way?”
He let out a thoughtful hum as he took the book and perched on a small wooden chair to one side of the room, hunched over it reading on. The author had done a lot of research into all areas of the demonic psyche, though it seemed that she couldn’t be certain about anything at all… Everything she suggested, she argued and counter-argued for, and eventually he was left quite confused. He snapped the book shut single handedly and slipped the journal into his bag before standing up and heading back towards the shelves.

As he stood towards the shelves, he stopped and fell to his knees as a violent, sudden pain blazed into his head with the fury of a thousand flames and his nose erupted in a flurry of blood, pouring and puddling on the cold stone floor at his knees. He hissed in agony and clawed deep at the sides of his head, pulling his mask down momentarily and spitting more blood onto the floor. The pain subsided for a while and he reaffirmed his mask and rose to his feet. Something powerful had caused that attack, and so sudden… It was almost as if something were calling out to him… It was almost as if something wanted him to find it…

He snapped to reality, shaking the daze out of his head and suddenly questioned where such thoughts had come from. He steadied himself and tried to calm his racing pulse as he looked around; and there it was… In the wall, one of the stones was awkward, it appeared to jut out at a weird angle compared to the neighbouring stones. He took a step closer and gently pushed it curiously with two fingers.

The stone slid back a bit, turning slightly to reveal a hidden alcove. He raised his eyebrow questioningly and pushed the stone again so that it fell to the floor with a rough crack on the other side. He glanced around him cautiously, suddenly aware that he probably shouldn’t be prying here, that this was something the Scryers had meant not to be found, and that dire consequences were possible for any actions he may yet take. The pause didn’t last long before curiosity kicked back in.

Pressing his face to the hole, he peered within and was amazed at what he saw. Behind the wall he could make out a stone plinth, and set upon it was a large blood-red tome, bound together with heavy brass borders and a large brass clamp keeping it shut. Heavy fel-iron chains were wrapped around the plinth and book, apparently to keep it firmly in place. As he looked at the book he felt slightly ill, though this wasn’t his ailment… Unlike the other books, this was not leather… It’s cover was blood-soaked flesh, and seemed to pulsate as though still alive.

A sudden movement caused him to physically jump. At first he thought someone had come down after him to check up on him, but when he glanced around, he found himself still alone and the truth more sinister. As he turned back to the book, he saw it moving and stepped back, wide-eyed. How was that even possible?

A few moments later and he’d steeled himself again. Truth be told, he’d asked for privacy, and the Scryers were usually very good for respecting that. For the past three days he had been down here and never been disturbed once, which would also suggest they were fairly confident this book would not be found.

He smiled to himself a little and began slowly, carefully dismantling the wall in front of him, each stone had only been placed loosely, though with every touch he could sense an arcane enchantment upon each, most likely to stop the aura of the book giving it’s presence away. The fact one had not been put back properly had allowed the aura through, it seemed.

Pain wracked his mind again, and he had to fight hard not to writhe in agony and stumble into the loose wall. As it subsided, he continued to carefully move the stones away until he was there, in the room, next to it.

He smiled to himself as he ran his fingers across its surface. He was right, the book was blood soaked flesh, and as he took his fingers from the cover, he found them blood soaked and dripping. He shook them dry and began examining the chains, eager to free this book and find what secrets had been shut away inside. As he searched, he quickly found a link in the chain that appeared weaker than the rest, almost as if he’d been guided there by someone. He reached to his belt and pried at the link with his dagger until it broke free and the chains unravelled and snaked to the floor with a loud clink.

He smiled broadly and evilly as he held the book in his arms; heavy and full of untold secrets, he laughed aloud as Celess Soulbinder, Lord Infernal of the Order of the Dark Path, held the “Liber Sanguine Nex ad Sargerii” in his hands… “The Book of the Deathblood of Sargeras” had been reawakened; the book that nobody should have found, that nobody should have touched, that nobody should have ever opened… was about to unleash it’s dark secrets upon the world once more…

:: The Hillsbrad Incident ::

“That what you’re after?”, he asked, wiping a splash of murloc blood from his screwed up face, grimacing at the stench of stagnant fish that hung in the air around the tiny wooden huts on the shoreline. He pointed to a scraggy, battered and soiled book half buried in the silt near a pile of wooden detritus washed up on the beach.

Kazaia nodded, kneeling down and removing it from the silt, not caring for the blood and mud splattered along her robes. She reaffirmed a loose strand of hair back behind her ears and smiled wickedly at Celess pushing the book into her leather knapsack, her green eyes flaring slightly, he guessed at the bloodshed.

“Thank you, Celess” she said cleanly, her unusual accent clinging to the air slightly, nodding to her Voidwalker at a job well-done and pulling her hood back up to shelter from the nights rain, “I was hoping we could talk?”.

Celess nodded, wishing a little that’d he’d brought his hood, and signalled to Thootom, his Felguard bodyguard, to follow as he began to head up the burms, inland north, towards Tarren Mill.
“There’s a ruined tower north of the road between Hillsbrad and Tarren Mill. We can take refuge there.”
He didn’t see the wicked grin on Kazaia’s face as he walked ahead, and he certainly didn’t see her check her blade in it’s sheath.

* * *

Celessia clambered down from the giant bat awkwardly, cursing both the creature for being so difficult and the rain that lashed around her. She pulled her white dress around her defiantly, trying to appear graceful despite her dismount. She flicked her blonde hair around her, whipping the sides of her slim, beautiful face with her delicate, soaked locks, and gently stroked them out of her vision.

She glanced around her; she had no quarry with the Forsaken, but that didn’t mean she had to like being around the majority of them. The broken shacks of buildings, the slowly rotting (yet still moving) corpses… It had been barely bearable trying to learn tailoring there all those months ago, but still, Celess had said to meet him here, although there was no sign of him anywhere.

“Penny for your thoughts, ma’am?” came the low growl of one of the locals, making her jump a little. She turned down to see quite who was talking to her and was confronted with a short hunched corpse in tattered linen clothing, seemingly unfazed by the rain.
“Oh, uh…” she stopped a little, “Yes…”
She gave the man a description of Celess and of Kazaia. He nodded, a little confused as to why she gave such a pleasant and dashing description of the first, but a rushed and uncaring description of the woman, he shrugged and pointed south-west to Southshore, “They headed off down the southern road, half-hour ago…”
She nodded and thanked the undead as she pulled a whistle from her bag and blew on it. Within a few seconds, a large frost wolf had arrived next to her. She patted the creatures humongous cheek and ran her fingers through it’s soft, thick fur as she flipped herself over it’s back, far more gracefully than her dismount, and took off, side-saddle, over the hills south and into the rain.

* * *

The rain lashed down around onto the stone floors and gathered as little puddles in the cracks, but at least it was a little dryer under the staircase where they had taken shelter, both thoroughly soaked. Celess Soulbinder shook his head violently, trying to shake the rain out of his bone-blonde hair, running his hands over his gaunt face, readjusting his mask and glancing to Kazaia as she pulled her hood down and turned to Celess.

Thootom strode in behind them, his axe dripping with blood as red as his armour from bears on the way. His master turned and nodded, muttering in Eredun to wait before turning to Kazaia.

“You said you wanted to speak?” his voice muffled behind his face wrap, but still lilting and deceivingly gentle.

Kazaia nodded slowly, but made little sound and no comment.

After a brief awkward silence, Celess turned to her and stopped, shocked, her face was streaming with tears, and even slight emotion was something rarely seen on Kazaia’s face, let alone such a blatant display.

“Kazaia…” he muttered, offering his open arms as a comforting embrace. She stepped forward and he gasped, blood curdling in his mouth and spilling onto her shoulder as he felt cold steel sliding through his stomach flesh, piercing his guts with a cool, yet searing pain. His vision slurred and his head clouded, the world seemed to drop to an almost stand-still. The sound of the rain seemed a million miles away, and he could see each rain drop slowly falling, plummeting slowly to the icy floor below. He turned, amazed, watching the drops, gasping at the air and there in the doorway… Shining, an angel…

Then his senses snapped back as Kazaia span him round so that she was stood behind him, the skinning knife held to his throat. His hands dropped and clutched at his wound, warm blood cascading through his fingers.

“Celess?”

He recognised the voice immediately, “C-Celessia…?” He stood there still dazed, though painfully aware of his the knife held against him; but there she was, beautiful, in the doorway… Was she the angel to guide his tainted soul from this world.
“Kazaia?!” she stood there aghast and stepped forward towards the two, though stopped when Kazaia tightened her grip on Celess, slicing a small red line onto his neck and a little trickle of blood ran down the blade.

“Thootom…” Celess murmured in demonic, but was interrupted before he could continue.

“Don’t even think of it, sweetheart… I speak Eredun, remember?” Kazaia’s voice was cold and heartless, even more so than usual, almost as though it weren’t hers - almost, but not quite.

“Kazaia… Why?” he managed to mumble as blood gathered at the back of his throat, “Why?”

Celessia had frozen to the spot, petrified with terror, her eyes wide and fearful, afraid that she might make one wrong move, afraid that Kazaia might-

At that moment she saw emotion slowly bubble back to Kazaia’s face, and saw her grip falter slightly. Almost instinctively, she muttered a prayer to the Light and Celess’ body was enveloped in a golden aura, and he gathered all the strength he could to burst free from Kazaia’s grip, smashing her arm aside in an instant. Pain soon caught with him, and he collapsed to his knees, blood pooling onto the floor below from his wound, diluted by the puddles and being washed away by the cold rain that fell through the towers open roof.

Kazaia stepped back, her face almost hinting at remorse, before she turned and flicked the knife straight for Celessia’s chest. Nimble on her feet, Celessia ducked to the side that the knife soared past and clattered heavily onto the flagstones outside. Before Celessia could react, the traitorous High Lieutenant had vanished, leaving her alone with Celess, now unconscious and lying prone on the towers floor, a deep crimson puddle slowly extending around him as he lay dying in the rain; eyes wide open both from the pain of the wound, and the confusion of the situation.

The world seemed to slow and fade, and Celessia’s voice became distant, like an echo of a dream inside a dark cavern, and whatever she had said was lost to eternity. He looked up wide-eyed and said simply “My pack… Felblood…” before it all went dark.

:: Kruellagh ::

Darkness. Everywhere… Oblivion in every direction; an eternity of blackness spreading out for infinity flooded her eyes, silence, deafening silence drowned her ears. Who knows how long she had been here, or even if she -was- here, time and space were beyond value here…

So this was death… Blissful, relaxing… A respite from the pain and torment of life, the cankerous purgatory that had wracked her mind for over two decades. It felt pleasurable that the sepsis of life had been bled away. Those last months had been the worst, blistering, pestilent skin, peeling and oozing while she had coughed up black mess that the priest had told her had once been her lungs. The agony that had wracked her body was finally over…

Suddenly the eternity of black was flooded with unimaginably bright light, her ears were blasted by the sound of a breeze echoing in the dank crypt that was suddenly, painfully thrust upon her senses. Her body immediately began to ache and felt like she’d been flung from a cliff, her head felt like it was going to explode as it received a sensory overload. She lay there for a moment, her hands clawing her face as she contorted with agony, then she paused, shocked, horrified.

Her hands had passed her eyes, but had found no eyelids nor eyeballs… Her fingers had reached her mouth, but her jaw was long gone, and a metal fitting had been placed instead. She gargled with disgust, feeling around her “new” face, inserting her fingers into her empty eye sockets, and running them along her metallic jaw. She felt desolation slam into her, and felt the sensation of crying, though no tears came.

She found the strength to haul herself to her feet, then was horrified at herself. The robes she wore, her burial gown, was tattered and torn, as was her flesh. Bones protruded from her thin, pallid flesh, some of which had torn away revealing the pestilent flesh beneath. She nigh on convulsed when a grave worm slithered its way from her arm, then dropped to the floor. A maggot ridden corpse… Is this what she had been damned to?

Clambering slowly from the mass-grave, she looked around her and a sudden sense of misplacement fell upon her like a shroud. Dark, clouded skies hung over pale, tainted fields and broken mills slowly churned in the dead wind.
“Welcome back…” came the low growl of a shambling corpse next to her.
Stunned at the scene before her, she ignored the grimacing, hunched man and continued her way down the hill to the small town ahead. A part of her recognised the hollow, withered town, but another part of her refused to accept it. This couldn’t be… How much time had passed?

She glanced around her, the town was a mess of shambling corpses, stumbling around aimlessly. Rotting bodies slowly making their way from place to place, seemingly without purpose.
“The mindless dead…” a soft voice next to her muttered.
She turned and steadied herself, taken aback a little at the sight of something truly alive. Pale flesh, though healthy, long pointed ears and delicate features set to a gaunt face hidden behind a blood-red face wrap, he was looking off in the same direction she had been. She glanced at him a little, peering at his sharp features, gazing at his robes. Long, black; well-worn but well kept, deep purple gloves and shoulder pads ordained with horned skulls. She eyed the tabard he was wearing, deep red, near black, lined with gold trimmings and set with a golden spoked circle. He slowly turned to face her and spoke again.
“You’re a newly risen… Aren’t you?” he spoke clearly, pronouncing each word carefully; it was enthralling. She nodded slowly and coughed, answering in a coarse, rasping voice.
“Aye…”
“It must be quite disorientating,” he continued, “Rising to see this, to find what you have now become… One of Sylvanas’ Forsaken.”
She knew nothing of what he spoke of but listened intently as a large red, bronze-clad demon bearing an enormous axe strode proudly up the hill towards them and stood obediently at the elf’s side.
“Celess” he nodded to her, offering a hand, “Celess Soulbinder.”
She nodded and accepted his hand silently, amazed that anyone would choose to shake her hand now that it was…
“Kruellagh De L’Aurent…” she stammered back. At the sound of her name, his baleful green eyes widened a little.
“De L’Aurent?” the elf questioned, “Not a relation to Pagatha De L’Aurent?”
She nodded slowly to the elf, a little confused at things, “Aye… She is… -Was- my sister, until the Plague consumed her…”
Celess chuckled a little, his eyes almost sparkling as he did, “Don’t assume that her dying is the end of it. Look around you, indeed, even at yourself.”
“She passed on before I did.”
“Then she may have arisen before you too, though for Scourge or Forsaken I can only speculate…” He stopped, imagining how such a powerful warlock as Pagatha might be serving the Scourge. He shuddered.

She’d heard of these Scourge… She’d heard the tales of ghouls and gibbering stitched horrors, ravaging the streets of Stratholme, and Adorhal, even spreading as far to the south of Lordaeron as Tarren Mill. It hadn’t even occurred to her that the corpses wandering around her may be Scourge, nor did it occur to her that the elf before her was Highborne, an enemy of the human realms… When it -did- occur to her, she shrugged it off. He seemed not to care about what she had become and besides, he seemed pleasant enough.

“What has happened here? Where are we?” she stammered slowly with a voice like gravel on sandpaper.
“The lands you see before you are the Tirisfal Glades, and this is what remains of Deathknell.”
As he spoke, her dead heart sank further, she’d hoped her suspicions had been wrong. Before she could ask what had befallen the place, he had already begun to explain. He spoke of Arthas, of the fall of Lordaeron, of the Plague and of Sylvanas and her Forsaken.
He smiled to her gently, he could see a deep anger growing in her face.
“Forsaken indeed” she growled, an old emotion, hatred and fury, bubbling up inside of her. A memory flashed back into her mind like a gunshot, a memory of whom she once had been, of Pagatha, of her homestead at Aggamand. She remembered for a moment who she had been and realised what she had become.
What Celess whispered was the awakening of an angry soul, the simmering of a deep-set anger and the violent birth of a bloodthirsty hatred. She had been spared being a slave to the Scourge, she would not allow herself slavery.
“I am the Lord Infernal of the Order of the Dark Path…” he continued, “An army of warriors dedicated to furthering our own goals and strengthening our own powers. An Order for those willing to do what it takes to succeed. You have promise, Kruellagh… If you have any of your sisters power, then you would be a great asset to us.”
Kruellagh nodded, suddenly much more aware of herself, “Though we both studied the dark arts, Pagatha was a demonologist; I, a destructionist…”
Celess nodded, knowing the Warlock Paths well, “A Mistress of the Flame,” he grinned wickedly, “You’d be a welcome addition.”
She nodded again, staring into the distance, vowing to never rest until the world that had forsaken her lay burning at her feet, “Where do I sign?”

:: As The Memories Fade To Grey ::

It was warm, brutally so, though the dragons flame had long been extinguished, so to speak, and now its black scaly hide occupied the best half of the hall, it’s great leathery wings sprawled out across the floor. He gazed at the beasts dead eyes, empty and slowly glazing across much in the same manner as ice forming on the surface of a winters pond.
Death… He’d seen much of it in his time, yet very few had hit him like the recent news…

* * *

A body, elven, female… Long black hair, pallid features and dark silken robes, lying prone on the floor. Slit throat and a stab-wound in the chest. He coughed and plunged the spade into the grass beside him in silence before kneeling down and hauling her up in his arms with a grunt.

He looked at her for what he guessed was the last time and smiled sadly. She wasn’t the most stunning elf in the world, but there was certainly a mysterious beauty to her. He choked a little as he lowered the body of Kazaia Nightwalker, High Lieutenant of the Order of the Dark Path into the freshly dug grave. The memories the two had shared had been mixed… She’d tried to kill him twice, but there was still a strong air of trust between the two… He was the only one to know her true self, and she’d known his past too, and had even helped reunite him with his sister. The least he could do was give her a proper burial.

He cursed the Mog Nogu for this. Sorrowsong, he had no doubt, those wounds were her blade and her blade only. It’s distinctive curved shape left definitive wounds upon Kazaia’s flesh, noticeable even from the side of the hole as he carefully tipped soil back over her, still coming to terms with this. He detested himself for not being there. He’d been there moments before, and had headed off in a stress. His last words to her… God he hated himself for that; he’d never be able to take that back or make up for it… Still, he could try and repent here a little, give her a proper burial at least…

* * *

He shook the thought from his head and looked around at his companions. A Tauren hunter sat nursing his cougar, dealing with a few small wounds and feeding the creature a hunk of meat. A troll rogue was carving the two dragons that had guarded the General, skinning them for their scales much as he was doing, though with much more precision. The rogues blades danced across the dragon and the scales fell like petals.

He watched as an undead priest was healing the wounds of the injured and began resurrecting the fallen orc warrior who had borne the brunt of the dragons onslaught. Suffering surrounded, though it had had it’s merits and now the great General of the Black Dragonflight was slain. Necessary suffering on behalf of the brave warriors, though he wondered quite if all suffering was necessary…

“Return her pouch!”
“I don’t have it!”

These men and women had fought valiantly and were reaping the rewards even as they sat recuperating as others scooped up copper, silver and even the occasional golden coin.

“Let your soul free, whelp! You will learn fealty!”
“No, sir! No!”
“I gave you one chance, worm. You chose to fight that, now you will experience my dominion, or I’ll shatter this shard and feed your soul to my minions!”

People sat eating and drinking, and he saw Mjalla, a large troll mage pulling a large robe from the treasure stash, a bright red to match her fiery hair. “The Magister’s Robes, mon!” she cried with delight, “It be about time!”. He smiled, he’d assisted her in Scholomance trying to gather the other of the fabled Magister’s Raiment.

“Shará… It saddens me that I have been so lenient yet you have ignored that and thrown it back in my face… You disgust me, that one so pretty could be so vile…”
“Defile the bitch, Celess! Destroy that fucking face of hers!”
“And by the Lady’s will, so be it. Feel cold steel and may you learn from it… Mordekaine, whip her raw…”

Suffering, wasn’t always necessary however, and he questioned if he’d crossed the line with that poor gutter whelp. The agonised screams she’d made as he bored out her eyes and scarred a deep cross across her face, from her eyes, across her nose and cheeks, would echo through his mind forever. He kept telling himself she deserved it, every time he imagined her scrabbling blindly in terror at the dirt after being buried alive. She deserved it, he’d keep telling herself when he remembered exhuming her near dead body and infecting it with the plague.

-She deserved it-

But had she? Yes, she must have. She’d made no less than three passes at his Lady’s life. He turned to look at Celessia now, busying herself healing the wounds left after the combat. He caught her gaze for a moment and she winked before turning to see to the fallen orc.
He loved her, though they spoke little at the moment… And he missed that so much, though he’d been so busy recently in the halls of Scholomance and on the streets of Stratholme. She’d been there for much of that; such a stunningly beautiful elf and a talented healer. He felt safe when she was around, knowing she’d watch his back and keep him in check.

That delicate form was his light in the eternal darkness. That pretty face was the lighthouse in the swirling maelstrom of insanity, to stop him dashing himself against the rocks.
Even in the dark madness beneath Caer Darrow where he’d sold his soul, she’d been there, and besides, it had been for her he’d done so.

* * *

Blood spurted across his gaunt cheeks and against his red face wrap. He wiped the hot fluid off without a blink as he slid the dagger upward, feeling and hearing every crack of the gnomes ribs. He could see the sweat beading on the foul creatures forehead and he could see the terror and pain in the worms eyes as he reached inside the open ribcage. Even through the tight woven gag he could hear the little whelps as he fumbled around inside, running his fingers around the warm internal organs, then a sharp, shrill screech as he ripped free his trophy as claret splayed wildly, running through his fingers as he held the still-beating heart in his hands, smiling evilly at the horrified gnome as it’s eyes faded and death came forth.

He turned and set the heart next to the other two on the rug in Gandling’s office, and dragged the gnomish corpse into the corner next two the broken forms of two others. Now, for the fun. He turned to see the three kaldorei females he’d brought from Astranaar. As soon as he had learnt that the ritual required three untainted hearts, he’d known exactly where to get them.
He smiled wickedly at the three females, neither of them were old, barely to breeding age, perfect. He looked at one of them, seemingly this one was recovering from the potion he’d poured down their necks; unlike the other two who were still in a dazed state, she was wide-eyed and sweating, trying desperately to back away from him, screaming beneath the gag.

He stepped towards her and tugged her hair sharply backwards and glared into her eyes. He hated kaldorei; the Betrayer Brethren… He laughed a little inside at his own cruelty.
Rising to his feet again, he threw her violently to the floor and grabbed the girl next to her by the hair, dragging the dazed body across the gore-spattered floor to the circle of black candles he’d prepared, throwing the cyan skinned girl into the centre of them and rolling her to her back before plunging his dagger in again, hearing two screams this time. A low moan from the girl in front of him and a high pitched shriek from the girl behind, he glanced over his shoulder and winked at her, “Don’t worry dear…” he said in his best attempt at Darnassian, “I’m saving -you- for last.”

* * *

Kneeling, he flicked his dagger to the side shaving yet more of Drakkisath’s black scales off, catching them and stowing them into his pouch. Mordekaine would be pleased to hear he’d finally finished his two tasks and hopefully he‘d soon have that seat on the Magician‘s Cadre. He pulled Gandling’s Dreadmist hood back upon over his head, tucking his silvery hair in behind him, and tied the string on his pouch to hold it shut.

He looked down at his hands as he did so and glanced at his ring, a simple silver ring with a deep amethyst set into it. He smiled as he saw the tell-tale glow from within the gem, the little beacon his soul would flee to on the event of his death. It was such a subtle phylactery that none would assume it to be such, especially when he wore such an ordained pendant around his neck that looked far more suited. Besides, who expects an Undying One to keep his phylactery with him? Indeed, it ran risks… If he fell into fire, surely the ring too would be destroyed and he would be undone… But he had too many enemies to risk leaving such a powerful artefact anywhere unchecked for even a moment. After all, in mere hours, Sorrowsong and Arcanthia had learnt of his possession of Mordekaine’s ring and he’d seen where that had ended up…

He’d never feared death before; but then again, in his mind he’d had little to live for. Now, all that had changed. He couldn’t bear the thought of death any longer; that’s why he’d scoured Scholomance’s libraries and looted the streets of Stratholme for tainted human flesh he could melt into Black Candles.

He looked up and caught Celessia’s glance again and smiled broadly. But it was worth it. He had things to stay alive for now…

:: To Live And Die By Fire ::

The morning air was cool as a gentle breeze blew softly, rustling through the leaves in Silverpine. The sun had risen a few hours past, but was still low in the sky and gently shining upon the field in front of him as he sat on the step at the front of the house, puffing calmly on his pipe. He was physically exhausted and his eyes were heavy, though he refused to rest them for even a moment. Drooghun was pacing up and down the fence around the field, keeping a watchful gaze, and he knew the Felhunter would alert him at the merest whisper of unwelcome presence, but this was no mere diamond or artefact - this was Celessia he was guarding and one hundred percent simply still wasn’t enough.
She’d seemed genuinely terrified the previous night when they had met in the sewers of Undercity, an ironic place to meet now that he considered it, but that mattered little really and some things were best neglected from the memory, her flesh burnt and her eyes wide with fear.
Something within him still refused to believe what he had heard. Certainly, he’d seen the body on Silvermoon’s shores, Celessia’s father, and he’d had his suspicions, waiting a week, exhuming the corpse and performing his own tests. He knew she was capable of it, but Mordekaine? The very thought of the Professor being no more was shocking, not least due to him having been dead for many years already, but now he was gone, just a husk, broken and spent and now the Magician’s Cadre, the Songstone, lay solely under his leadership.
Normally, such an honour would have been gratuitously accepted, but now things were different. Indeed, he’d planned on using the Cadre to slay Mordekaine himself when the Cadre raided Stormwind, but now such thoughts sickened him. He was dead completely and now many were after her blood.
“He’s dead…” she’d told him over and over, and he’d known of course, the Songstone was alight with the discussion. Arridian had wasted no time in alerting him and raging on; he’d reminded Celess of the Scarlet Crusaders…
He wanted nothing to do with the Cadre now. It was nothing without the Professor and he had no idea where to take things. He was just letting it stagnate, awaiting the right time and trying to find the right words to disband it utterly. Currently, his only goals were her protection.
These thoughts had played through his head repeatedly during the night, looping incessantly within his mind. He felt guilty for having not been there; at one time he had meant to be, Xelios Morningsun was to die by his blade; he should have been there. He’d have been able to protect her had he been there. Pangs on failure wracked his mind as he looked down in shame, taking another puff, letting little clouds of the smoke float away.
Celess looked up again at the sky overhead, the trees parted around the field, It was clear and lifeless, little wildlife made home in these woods since the Scourge had arrived and Arugal had taken the Keep as it’s home. He shook his head and stood up, the day was still young but Celessia needed a healers attention. He tipped the smouldering ash within his pipe to the floor then ducked into the house, creeping quietly up the stairs so as not to wake her, gently prying open the door to check on her.
He stopped and peered around a little confused. The door blew open fully, caught on the breeze gliding in through the open window, the curtain flapping softly; the bed was messy and, more importantly, empty. He stood motionless for a moment, his mind still confused from the previous night and reluctant to accept the blatant truth; she had fled during the night.

A bright plume of green fire erupted from the black rocks beside him, illuminating the darkness momentarily as he rode further onwards, pushing Kaestyx as hard as he could, the Dreadsteed thundering across the black land, passing rivers of green lava and the sudden geysers of flame, aptly matching the burning anger that raged within him, occasionally bursting forth as he indiscriminately tore souls screaming from those unfortunate enough to cross his path; first, a Draenei priest, then swiftly followed by the wounded Night Elf that she had been healing. They were not to be the last on his rampage eastwards across Shadowmoon Valley, and as he drew closer to the Black Temple, two more Draenei, of the Aldor, were caught unawares, smashed aside and utterly destroyed in his blind rage.
He stopped as the great shadow of the Black Temple was in front of him, the extensive sprawl of the massive temple towering all around him. He dismounted and released Kaestyx back to holding, striding slowly and purposefully towards the front of the temple, coming to a stop as he spied the great construct that guarded the temple, and smiled wickedly as Thootom stepped up next to him, faithful as always.
“You will be missed,” he muttered in demonic, “Hereby, I release you.” and with a nod sent the great Felguard charging into the construct, which smashed him aside like a fly; the demon disintegrating and returning to the nether long before the grieves that remained hit the walls high up. Celess pulled his hood down, shook his hair free and stepped forward towards the construct and burst into maniacal laughter as he saw the construct had noticed him.

Flames rose high, licking the night sky as the entire place burnt. The stench of melting flesh a welcome change from the sickening incenses that normally fragranced the halls of the monastery, and there he was amidst the flames, striding from the inferno with pride. A young crusader fleeing from the flames was bolting for the door, wide eyed with fear, but he span, grabbed the boy by the throat and threw him back into the blaze emotionlessly.
His face remained cold and stony as he strode down the hill away from the monastery, pleased with himself, and confident that he was able to face any threat adequately.
He had promised the world would burn before he let anyone harm those he cared about.
But what would happen when those he loved betrayed him, pushing him that little bit too far?
“Celess?” came the sound of her voice over the linkshell, “What do you know of Meshavel?”
He glared at the stone and sighed, “Very little. He was guardian to the Cadre…”
“Was his allegiance to the Cadre or to Mordekaine?”
“I said ‘I don’t know’.” he replied coldly. How could she just flee from him during the previous night then act as if everything was alright? That had been the tip of the iceberg. He’d heard rumours of her and Xelios during the time he was away. He’d been dragged around by Illaden and then cheated and betrayed by Mordekaine. He’d been left to pick up the pieces and had charged himself with her protection.
To have it all thrown back into his face so carelessly?
A glancing blow of a mace smashed into his cheek as a Crusader had charged him whilst he was lost in thought. He spat a gob of blood to the floor as he turned and loosed a scorching ray of fire at his assailant, conflagrating the Crusader to dust within his armour as Celess dragged the soul free into a shard, slipping it into his felcloth bag.
No, he was done with being a doormat. The world would learn fealty, or the world would burn with the fire of a thousand dragons and a sea of torment would flood the lands.
Tonight, the final remnants of Celess Dawnstrider died, leaving only Soulbinder, the Fel Warden and Scourge of Astranaar behind.

:: Cleansation ::

The night air was cool and a gentle salty breeze was blowing in from the Northern Sea, the waves softly crashing against the shore, faint in the distance. He looked up at the elven girl hanging in front of him, hanging by her wrists bound to a thick branch, her feet had been tied together and a metal bar had been forced through her ankles, blood still dripping from the wounds. The girl was verging on the edge of consciousness, her head bowed and her face contorted in agony at the curse he had placed on her, her flesh scarred and black from the immolation that was slowly burning away at her insides, and other areas marked with a green, flaky rash where he had placed an affliction upon her. He grinned at the torment the young girl was experiencing before him and chuckled as he turned his back to her and took in the air.

“You’re a traitor to your people, and a traitor to yourself.” he said calmly as he averted his gaze from the stars back to Zangkath who drifted gently in front of him. He smiled a little broader knowing that the demon was permeating her head with thoughts of utter desolation and wracking her mind with the greatest anguish. He knew many people considered his methods despicable and considered him a homicidal psychopath, but he cared little for what general consensus of him was, at least his efforts weren’t going unnoticed.

“It is my duty to Silvermoon and to the Horde,” he continued, closing his eyes and spinning on the spot to face the girl, “That I do this. Understand I take little joy in spending time with unworthy worms like yourself… Your kind…” he spat upon the ground, “Blood Traitors… Quel’Dorei…”

At this, she painfully lifted her head wearily, her tear-streaked, pox ridden face glared at him with utmost hatred with only a slight tint of fear left. She had endured all he had thrown at her so far, and now she had nothing to fear from death, it was welcome, though she glared at him in frustration, knowing that he was holding back, reserved in the knowledge that he could extinguish her with the deft wave of a hand. He caught her gaze, and his face flashed to match hers, utmost hatred.

“Your blue eyes disgust me.” he spat again, striding up to her so that his head came to just below her chest, and he stared up at her, catching her gaze and holding it perfectly, “Such an outward sign of defiance… cowardice and ingratitude!” he shot his hand up and grasped her throat tightly. She winced at the sudden action and gurgled loosely as he constricted her airways, his green eyes aflame with sudden fury.

“You -dare- to endanger Silvermoon with your presence? You -dare- to mock us, openly walking the streets?” he grinned wickedly, loosening his grip a little, “Though worry not… I’m not going to kill you. Of course, that’s what you deserve and it would be much easier, but I am no murderer.”
She held his gaze firmly, attempting to speak, though blood gurgled in her mouth and it was clearly visible his Curse of Agony was still in effect.

“No… M-murderer?!” she spat a gob of blood that had welled around her tongue, “You’re… j-just a… s-s-sick bastard…”

He thrust his grasp to her throat again and clasped it so tight that several of the poxes upon her throat burst and oozes of pus dripped down her neck over her burns causing her to visibly gasp in agony.
“Shut your filthy Blood Traitor mouth!” he growled at her through gritted teeth, “You should be thankful that I gift you so!”

“Th-th-thankful?” she gasped.

Celess threw his hand free and turned his back on her again, “To give you the gift of a second chance…” he raised his hand to his face and raked his fingers through his hair calming his voice, “To infuse you with the gift you once so ungratefully threw aside to the wind. To spare your pathetic life and-”

“W-why sh-should I be th-thankful of… these m-m-methods?”

He chuckled to himself and fell silent for a moment before spinning on the spot to face her once more.

“So naïve…” he chuckled again, “You think I could infuse your body in its natural state?”

He paused a moment then strode to the foot of the tree and began rummaging around within his leather sack and pulling out a large stoppered bottle filled with a deep red fluid. He unstoppered it and set it on the floor beneath her dangling feet.

She looked down with fearful eyes and watched him unsheathe a dagger from his belt and hold it high. For a brief moment, she thought he was about to cut her down as he moved the dagger towards the bindings that held her to the branch, then with a sickening slice, she screamed as he drew the dagger across her wrists and blood arched, spurting free, pouring down her arms and pooling to the floor. She screamed again as her other wrist was brutally torn open. She blubbered in utter agony for a moment, before screaming yet again as it felt as though her wrists had been set alight. Turning to face her wounds, she found them covered in the contents of the red bottle.

“Fel Blood…” he muttered as if sensing the question dangling on her lips, before muttering what sounded like some form of incantation, then searing pain engulfed her, fire seemed to below up through her very heart, her very soul. He held his staff high and used the sharp point of it to tear her robes open violently, baring her naked chest. He stabbed the point into her chest, just above her breast and began carving the word “Traitor” into her bare flesh. Her core felt as though it were melting within her. Then everything went dark.

When she woke up, she found herself lying prone on the sandy shores of eastern Eversong. She sat up, her head swimming, questioning if it had been a dream. She looked down at her naked chest and the eerie glowing of the word “Traitor”, carved into her chest and pulsing a sickening green, brought the reality crashing home. She gathered her robes about herself and hauled herself to her feet.

“The Corruptor…”

She span in fright, she had thought herself alone, but there before her stood a blue-eyed elf clad in grand purple robes, fine features and flowing hair. To his flanks, several other blue-eyed elves stood looking back at her.

She stood stunned, gathered herself for a moment and nodded to the purple-clad male. Xelios Morningsun nodded back to her, and offered his arms as an embrace.

Celess Soulbinder, Celess the Corruptor, the Seed of Change stood watching. He gathered his Felheart robes around himself and turned away, removing a small stone from his pocket and whispering, knowing the stone would carry the message to his Lady, “Another is cleansed. The hour of Reckoning is upon us.”.