บท 72: Chapter 72
Whilst Varrus had been hosting the gala, and was busy fighting against the old Convocation, the largest threat to Elf-kind at the moment, the Scourge, had not remained idle.
Within the provincial capitol of the Ghostlands, the city of Deatholme was a smoldering pile of ruins, and destruction.
The city stood upon the remains of a once ancient, and proud forest. One in which a world tree-a being of life vital to the entire continent, one that fought off the corrupting forces of the Old Gods-once stood.
Now transformed into an Undead treant, the world tree, Much like a smoke stack, or unfiltered nuclear power plant, inhaled life from the air, and spread pollution and death from her mouth. Sitting atop the highest point of the city, Tha'salah's roots stretched across the entire province, and acted as an instant spy network. Her corruptive tendrils transformed every tree they came across into treants, furthering the Scourge's ranks.
These roots seeped up water and nutrients from the soil, and pumped them up to the surface, weeping poisoned pools of toxic green sludge.
The odor of these pools was sweet, and magically ensnared passerbys, like how a venus flytrap caught an insect. Any lifeform foolish enough to bath in this poisonous waste was quickly turned into nothing more than bones, and raised to join the ever growing ranks of the Scourge.
Impaled upon her branches were those souls too strong willed to be raised into willing commanders. Former Heroes and Elites who refused the succor of willing Undeath, yet deemed too valuable to be turned into a mindless automaton, these poor unfortunate souls served as fuel for Tha'salah's unholy taint. The bright blue souls shrieked in endless agony, crying out for release. Yet their only method of relief was to willingly sell themselves over to the Scourge.
Needless to say, after 3 weeks, the will of many a Hero and Elite had run thin, and the Scourge had bolstered its ranks to heights unseen.
The ghostly wails of these few Elites however, were only a fraction of the suffering to be found within Deatholme.
Banshees-ghostly Elven women who had lost their corporeal form, and took on the appearance of pale white/blue ghosts-were practicing their new racial ability. Possession.
A few handful of survivors had been captured, and made for easy pickings from these would be infiltrators. Any mortal possessed by one of these wicked ladies of the night suffered the fate of hearing, seeing, and experiencing all of the normal sensations of life, but being unable to move. It was as if they were a character in a game, or forced to experience life through a TV screen. Their words were not their own, their direction unknown. They were living in a personal Hell few could fathom.
When a Banshee was done with her host, she could leave freely with no consequence. Yet the victim would more often than not remain twitching, and stare vacantly off into nothing like a mindless lobotomite.
The horror continued, as those Elves who had kept their flesh-rebranded as the Darkfallen-likewise were practicing their new magic.
Obsessed with blood, they weaved the sanguine substance into shapes, and healed themselves, similarly to how a priest would use Light magic.
The most favorite torture method of the Darkfallen was desanguination. That is, to place their elongated fangs upon the victims neck, then slowly, painfully, rip the very lifeblood from their target until death.
Where once a river ran through the town, bringing fresh water, it now ran red with diluted blood, thanks to a twisted spell by the Darkfallen.
Yet for all their cruelties, the Darkfallen were still Elves. Instead of solely focusing on taking the province of Eversong, and uniting against Silvermoon, they had prioritized the pleasures of this new unlife.
Besides magical practice, they had begun to clear the rubble, reconstruct buildings, and paint them as a form of expressing the next chapter in their unlife. Unlike typical Undead, who had their emotions suppressed, the Darkfallen were uninhibited, and in fact, greatly enhanced from the typical Elf.
Every notion of anger was immediately acted upon. Lust oozed off the Darkfallen every time they feasted, and the addiction to magic increased five-fold.
Orgies of literal blood, sex, and open murder became the norm amongst this dysfunctional group. Machievelian ploys, treachery, and backstabs had become the norm, and paranoia gripped the hearts of many, fearful that their newfounded immortality could be taken away just as easily as it had the first time when the Sunwell was destroyed.
Only the fear of Queen Lana'thel, and her exquisite torturous methods, kept any semblance of order within this sick and twisted city.
Whilst these new creatures made of Death magic explored the depths of their newfound power, and depravity, the war between the living and the dead was being planned from within the keep of a castle.
Resting just beneath the eaves of Tha'salah, a grand castle-more art than defensive fortification-stood in defiance of the broken city down below.
Within the central hall, torn banners, and dim lights drew ones attention towards the back end of the building. There was a throne made of blackened wood from Tha'salah's branches whereupon rested a fair skinned woman.
Her long white hair, and glowing crimson eyes marked her as one of the Darkfallen.
Surrounding the throne were numerous lieutenants waiting at her every beck and call.
Yet she ignored them all in favor of the projection hovering before her.
The projection was an imposing, winged, and hoofed Demon. It was one who inspired fear wherever his name was spoken. It was the leader of the Dreadlords, Tichondrius.
"How goes the war against your kin, Queen Lana'thel?" Tichondrius inquired, his deep bass voice boomed into the hall like an earthquake.
"Our plan is proceeding according to your instructions, Lord Tichondrius. We have secured the southern passage, so that your brothers cannot meddle in our scheme." Lana'thel spoke in a submissive tone.
"My scheme is more complex than to simply limit those treacherous siblings of mine." Tichondrius admonished.
"But of course, Lord Tichondrius. My spies and saboteurs are within Silvermoon. This kingdom and the remains of the Sunwell shall be yours upon your return." Lana'thel smiled, and bowed.
"For your sake, I should hope so, Queen Lana'thel. I saw great promise in your race, which is why I broke your chains binding you to the Lich King. Complete your task, and the Darkfallen's place in the Legion is all but secured." Tichondrius commanded, before slowly fading away.
"Your will be done." Lana'thel stood from her throne, and bowed towards the projection as the call was cut.
"Why bow to that cretin? He is on Kalimdor, a world away. The Night Elves will defeat him, just as they did during the first Legion invasion 10,000 years ago." Crown Prince Tenris, a handsome Elf with black hair, and cultured features spoke with confidence, and haughty derision.
Upon his entrance, Lana'thel gestured towards her lieutenants to clear the room. The fact that her own child would so boldly discuss treachery in an open courtroom irked her to no end.
"Fool of a son! The Night Elves did not defeat the Legion! It was only when the Well of Eternity sundered the world, that the endless tide of Demons was driven from Azeroth!" Lana'thel was quick to drop the servile demeanor from earlier, and harshly rebuked Tenris.
"With our newfound power, why should we fear the Legion? Furthermore, we should exploit their inner discord. There is clearly high tensions amongst the Dread Lords, not to mention this figure known as the Lich King." Tenris proposed.
"Do you take me for a simpleton? Of course I have begun counterespionage efforts. However, it is not that simple. Silvermoon has become a blindspot, as all of my spies have become incapacitated. No doubt it's that witch Faedra's doing." Lana'thel hissed in anger as she mentioned her name.
"So you lied to Tichondrius then, very naughty mother." Tenris wagged his finger.
"Enough. I will not brook any more disrespect. Especially after you failed to bring your brothers back." Lana'thel said icily.
"It couldn't be helped, he had a run in with the Vandercross whelp." Tenris held his hands up, professing his innocence.
Lana'thel narrowed her eyes at Tenris, knowing he was lying, but decided to let it go.
She was in need of capable lieutenants, and as much as her eldest son irked her, he was capable.
"Very well. How is the army progressing? How goes the siege of Tranquillien? The sooner that thorn in our side is dealt with, the sooner we can march upon Silvermoon." Lana'thel said as she leaned back into her throne, and idly sipped from a goblet full of blood.
"Not well, I'm afraid." Tenris seemed to grin in schadenfreude.
"And why not?" Lana'thel spoke sweetly with a smile.
Tenris's grin shriveled, and he bowed his head as he spoke.
"Keleseth cannot source any new blood. Our reserves are running low. Without it, your project cannot proceed, and the Darkfallen are unwilling mobilize unless they are paid." Tenris explained.
"Your brother is more capable than you think. I will speak with Keleseth on this matter at a later date. What the real issue is, is the rate of consumption. The Darkfallen are a hedonistic curse upon this kingdom reveling in violence, and are squandering our most precious resource. Cut access to the blood pools, and ration the supply. Let them remember that it is through my grace that they have access to fresh blood at all!" Lana'thel imperiously ordered.
"Yes mother." Tenris gracefully bowed, then turned on his heels to carry out his task.
"What do you think, Ariel?" Lana'thel questioned a corner of the room.
"He intends betrayal, my Queen. After some investigation, I learned that he slew Prince Taladram, and failed to destroy the anti-Undead tomes, as he had claimed in a previous report." Ariel, a white haired Darkfallen ranger cloaked in black said, as she decloaked from camouflage.
"Silvermoon is retaken, my spies within eliminated. The Scourge are clearly plotting betrayal, as the Lich King is in a position not to dissimilar from our own. My children and subjects are more interested in playing games, and the Legion will not tolerate failure. Are we doomed to face defeat, my dear?" Lana'thel spoke tiredly, and errently swirled the goblet of crimson sanguine, and looked at it with disgust.
The Darkfallen were next to useless as they partied themselves into excess. Their new sense of fashion saw them cover everything in skulls, paint everything in purple and green, and replace instruments with screams of pain.
They had fallen so swiftly on a cultural level, that Lana'thel was shocked and dismayed. There was very little to work with when your most adept archmages were either trying to fuck her, kill her, or both at once. At this point, it was only thanks to her reputation, and surprisingly high skill in Blood magic that left the creeps at bay.
"...you could always answer Lady Faedra's missives. My rangers have also contacted Sylvannas. A coup against the Dreadlords is in the works." Ariel slowly suggested, flinching upon mentioning Lana'thel's most hated rival.
"And if the Legion should get ahold of the Well of Eternity, a limitless font of mana, mind you, all these plots and schemes would vanish in the face of overwhelming power." Lana'thel bemoaned, and palmed her face in despair.
Lana'thel recognized that she was only a tool, and that Tichondrius's promises were as valuable as a wet fart. Yet should she refuse him, then an even worse fate than being cursed to live as a Darkfallen awaited her.
"My Queen, you have played the game against Anastarian, Vandercross, Faedra, and more for millenia. You cannot allow one failure to cause uncertainty and doubt!" Ariel spoke up with heat and passion.
"Of course, thank you for the reminder, my dear. If only you didn't have to marry that fool, Helios to keep up appearances, then I could have you all to myself!" Lana'thel said huskily as she disrobed.
"My Queen, I-!"
"Come comfort your sovereign, Ariel, your Queen demands it!"
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AN: Read 25 chapters ahead at: patreon.com/KarpQQ
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