Caecillia – Just a Snippet
Dalaran City glowed with the rising sun, it’s towers sparkling with warm light. The rays cut through the clouds surrounding the city, warming it’s walls and roads of stone. It burned off the chill of the preceding night as sleepy adventurers rolled from their cherished beds and shopkeepers began their bustling. The streets hummed with the vibrations of powerful magic, and slowly the entire city became bathed in the glorious light. Dawn in Dalaran could make soldiers forget their woes with it’s beauty.
As the city stretched and yawned in the warmth of dawn, shadows were cast over the statue of Archmage Antonidas in the small memorial curling away from the city. The gold trim of the statue’s robes shimmered dully, almost appearing to wave gently with the soft breeze that whispered through the secluded place.
Off to the side stood a Night Elf, leaning against the cool stone wall and watching the statue silently. Her eyes flickered in the shadows, a pale icy blue, and she shifted slightly in her heavy plate armor. It was thick and nicked with scars, large spikes dotting her shoulders and catching her ponytail. Resting on the ground in front of her was a huge axe, shimmering with an unearthly glow. Runes danced across the broad edges of it’s sharp blades, and slowly faded up along the handle that was clasped by her long, pale fingers.
She blinked at the statue slowly, pursing her lips. He was lucky, she thought blackly. He doesn’t have to live again after death. Her stomach clenched sharply in hunger, a dark reminder of an addiction to feed, and she sunk her fangs into her lower lip in a reaction developed after days of sating herself. Cold blood welled at the puncture wounds, coating her purple lips and seeping onto her tongue. The pulsing pain eased the ravenous knot in her stomach, and she lapped the blood from her chin while glaring at the mage in all his glory. For him, his death had confirmed him as a hero to the citizens of Azeroth, not cursed him to a life of unwilling servitude and a constant, frenzied addiction to pain.
“If anyone deserves to be a hero, it isn’t you,” she hissed, curling her lip as the city came alive around them. Smoothly pushing off the wall, she tugged on her gloves and hefted her axe onto her back. She turned her back on the statue, flicking her hair from her face, and stalking out into the city. The Death Knight sneered at the glistening buildings, before slipping through it’s streets like a splotch of malevolent ink on a snow white page.
“If anyone deserves it, it’s me.”