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Ebony Shadowblade stood ankle deep in blood of the Scarlet Crusade, yet inside, he felt… Something. The blood at his feet called to him like the sweetest of nectars - only to kneel and drink his fill. How tempting was it!
Blood cooled on him quickly, cool air of the cave aided by the deathly chill of his body. Soon, it will be hard to wash out.
He has lived this before. The bodies lying about were his brethren once, bleating about the foolish Light till their dying breath, as if it would save them.
Was this nostalgia tingling under his yet-again broken sternum?
It mattered not.
The Undying Lord called, his whispers a holy, nay, unholy divination, and Ebony could only follow its bidding.
While his brothers in death were to attack the chapel, he was to accompany a plague bringer further south.
To lead, guard or to be a fetchboy?
It meant little. The Lich King commanded, he followed.
The undead caravan was packed and ready, the cretin that was the alchemyst prattled out his latest Death-giving concoction like he was a proud father of a babe, the cultist Acolyte an eager listener.
Gah, the ghouls were a better company!
On the third day of their journey, his connection to his master wavered like a fragile cobweb in harsh winds.
Yet, how could that be?
His master was most powerful, his might and his reach eclipsed only by the Light…
No!
Not even the Light could, no, would stop him!
It must be something else.
Ebony unsheathed his blades.
“What did you do!” He roared, shoving the Acolyte to the ground.
The sickly pale,
living
, elf has been casting spells for hours now.
“I - uh, what -” Ebony growled like a hound possesed, pushing the cold saronite into paper thin skin.
Blood welled up.
It was mesmerising.
“What foul spell shields us from our King!”
The little,
living
worm squirmed, his heart rabbiting, pushing more blood forth.
How easy would it be to get more…
A skeletal hand grabbed his wrist, acid eaten phalanges digging between the plates of his gloves harshly.
“Come now, my decrepit bloodhound. He cannot answer without a throat.” The alchemyst chuckled to himself, picking at the haphazard stitching at his own neck.
Ebony relented, letting the Acolyte catch his breath. He himself neend no such thing… Yet another imperfection improved upon by the Scourge.
“My spells will shield us from the Dwarves, not our Master.”
“So we can sneak around? What cowardice! They should know Death, like the rest of the living!”
And in that battle, their blood would spill. What a lovely picture it would make…
“You alone are not enough to kill them all! The winged riders breed their gryphons there, if you wont fall to bullets, you would to claws.”
The Acolyte took a shuddering breath, smoothing down his robes.
“We have been sent by our Master. trusted with this mission. Have patience and faith in Death.”
Ebony's bloodlust still burned bright within him, yet the walking bloodbag was right.
He will
not
fail his Master!
Nodding, he sheathed his runeblades. Their hunger, and his, shall be sated another time.
“Be sure not to disconnect us from our Master. You may not bask in His presence, His
comfort
… You
will
listen to his voice.”
Their journey continued.
The fortress with the winged battalion was well defended, yet when he looked on it, his King whispered of its fall. The Scourge banners would fly on the rampants, the militia turned to ghouls. And the most promising ones, to Knaves of Death.
Ebony ignored the strange longing he felt when he saw a mounted paladin amongst their ranks.
They settled in ruins deeper in the forest, far enough that the freshness of decay would not carry downwind.
With roaming owlbears sating them all, blood, flesh and innards, Ebony had very little time to dwell on the strange fog that now stretched between him and the Lich King. There were ghouls to raise and corral, living to hunt and bring to the camp as well as patrol and gather reagents.
He scouted further east, looking for advantageous positions and anything else to help bring forth the glorious Death.
What he found was a tomb. The dead below felt stale, no pulsing rot that sang in the veins of the Scourge. Let it be Ebony Shadowblade who enlightened them.
Yet when he called upon the might of his Master, the strain made his hands tremble. The few undead he raised looked to him in wonder, like he had before to his King, and so he proclaimed their mission.
They were not perfect, he was not as good as his Master - the dead were there in knowledge, yet not in fervour - witless thralls.
Perhaps later they shall become more.
The acolyte returned with him to the tomb - and how shameful did it feel to need help of the
living
to create more warriors for their righteous cause!
A living troll, his savoury blood a treat smoothed his tumultuous mind.
By the second week they had a sizable force, though poorly armed.
The acolyte and the Brewmaster concocted a plan. The settlement of trolls, vicious and isolated, would fall to their blessing. another shield would hide Ebony from sight as he would venture inside, pouring the Death giving ambrosia into their wells, their foods.
His sense of the living would prove useful, for stealth was of utmost importance.
Oh, how he abhorred waiting to spill blood!
But he would not fail his Master.
The spell fell over him and he went forth at the dead of night. Into a well he poured their gift. Yet when he reached for his King, to anchor himself and soothe his bloodlust, he found the fog thicker than before.
For the first time in his undeath, Ebony felt fear.
Now more than ever he yearned for the splendour of blood, thick and hot on his tongue, hotter still on his blades.
He lingered amongst the trolls, far longer than he should have, basking in the percussion they carried within them everywhere they went.
For now, it had to be enough.
It must have been the blighted Light that led all beasts away from his path - nothing to satisfy the itch.
When the spell was taken down from him, Ebony sequestered himself above the ghouls in a tree and reached out for the Lich King again.
Oh how terrible!
How painfully sorrowful was it, that the fog remained!
Ebony felt too large and too small for his skin, unmoored.
Yet again, he felt shame. Has he failed his Dark Lord? Did he frown upon the subterfuge? Or their lack of progress? So little blood has been spilled in His name…
Yes.
Ebony, nay, all of them must do more. He would go to the other troll settlement and spread the Scourge. With that conviction, he went to their ghouls, selecting three. From the pile of bones and feathers and other bits he gave his minions weapons to tear flesh. He carefully sewed muscles to give them strength, swiftness - deadliness.
He announced to his fellows in Death his goal - a settlement further north, ripe for taking.
The Acolyte looked suspiciously sceptical. He even tried to stop Ebony!
Maybe the fog was not just a side effect of the cloaking spell…
The battle was glorious. Blood of the living harmonised with the clash of metal and cries of pain and despair.
Such a sublime symphony.
The denizens fell, and rose again, abuzz with undeath. When Ebony reached out, he heard them, his family in Death. He reached for his Master, to bring the fledglings to His Majesty. And again he waded through fog.
In his despondent daze, he happened on a dwarfish patrol - with his senses turned inward, he noticed them too late.
Just moments before they noticed him.
The portly, sleepy, stumpy, imperfect creatures were slow in the haze of dawn and swiftly fell to his runeblades.
Blood nourished him and brought him to his senses. Their forces were still not numerous enough to take on the fort. A dead patrol would raise an alarm, but one bloodless…
Ebony meticulously cleaned all traces of undeath from the scene. He has even slain an owlbear and used its blood to rewet their bodies.
It felt like a terrible waste, but they had to be bloody. Their mission cannot be jeopardised by his hunger.
When he recounted his mission and all that transpired the Acolyte drew agitated.
Strangely so.
The brewmaster was oblivious to the odd behaviour of their fellow, too focused on his work to care.
It fell to Ebony to watch.
And so he did.
The acolyte became twitchy as time moved on. Oftentimes he stared aimlessly into his scrying equipment, muttering in his maternal language.
Was he planning something?
Was he a spy? A double agent?
Did he lose sight of their unholy purpose?
What became more troubling were the questioning glances. Ebony was now certain the fog was his doing, for surely he would seek to remove it as soon as he found out. Ebony was their link to the King.
So what purpose did it have to hide from Him?
What foul plan did the bloodbag have in store?
And so, he could not share his plans with the mageling. Patrols drew longer and ventured closer to settlements. To stalk lone trolls, hunters or gatherers. Missing bodies were made into more minions, lovingly sown and imbued with whatever concoction the brewmaster made.
And then.
Ebony went to see the progress of the liquid blessing he has bestowed upon one of the troll villages, only to find it in cinders.
Dwarves, men and other living pests were piling the undead denizens on pyres, burning them to ash.
Yet more were going through the foods and their items, putting it all on a pile near-
Ebony was hopeless to stop his gasp of surprise, and prayed to the Death that no one heard it.
Argent Dawn.
Two priests and one mage - and more were sure to be nearby.
His heart broke for all his younger, oh so young sisters and brothers, their journey to the undeath cut so short…
He glanced a scrying pendant, same as the Acolytes, hanging from the mages belt and he understood what had happened. Yet a heartbeat too close made him retreat, for he could not risk being discovered.
Not when he had vengeance, nay,
justice
, to enact!
His precious siblings…
Their voices now shall never join the choir in their shared connection.
Ebony stalked through the forest, a predator hunting prey.
He knew the still patience of a hunter, the deathly calm - the eye of the storm that was his fury, his grief.
The bloodlust of his blades had no sway over him. No beseeching whispers would make him charge the crusaders, the murderers.
He, Ebony Shadowblade, was the master of his hunger for blood.
The camp was as he left it. Brewmaster busy at work, ghouls and other undead puttering about, assisting where necessary.
And then, there was the Acolyte.
Runeblades drawn, Ebony marched up to him, trapping him between saronite and a crumbling wall.
“Traitor! I was right to be wary of you! You have brought ruin upon our mission, our great goal!”
Ebony stepped closer still, heedless of the attention he drew to himself.
“Your blood shall be a paltry price for the fire you have brought onto our fledgling brethren! Your flesh is not worthy of the Death!””
Ebony was heaving for breath he did not need.
“You shall burn just like they did!” He sobbed out and cut the man's head off.
Tears fell from him, and later he would marvel that his body could make them at all.
When the alchemyst questioned him, Ebony told him of the Lightbearers and the children of Death they have so cruelly taken from this world.
Of the new unsure voices of their little symphony cut short into gaping silence.
The Cult of the Damned were enemies of the Lich King and of Death.