of Vandermar

[cindy 2]

TW: Holy body horror, Batman!
Expeditions from around Azeroth are sent to meet the resurgence of the Scourge amid Shadowlands pre-patch. This expedition, sent forth from Dalaran, has traveled to Kalimdor to defend the world tree at Mount Hyjal. Among their ranks is an undead paladin by the name of Abrethana, who has ventured ahead of her party to scout for dangers.
 

 

Gaelindra’s infrequent nickering accompanied the gaunt horse’s trotting atop the elfwood road, though its sound had become more akin to a wicked bone-rattle as the equine’s skull had gradually emerged from its flesh over the years of its unlife. Her rider too bore the wears of decomposition and rot; a feature veiled by the paladin’s own hood and plate. It was difficult enough to evangelize straying souls to the comfort of the Light without being an eyeless, ravenous ghoul whose teeth had sharpened upon splintered femurs. Ironically, Abrethana’s monstrous visage was not an outlier in the demon-soured Felwood.

She had rode ahead of her expedition in the interest of surveying a path forward to the frosted summit of Winterspring, scouting and surveying the lay of the land to then be returned to her fellowship and inform them of the shape of their journey to come. Just the evening prior, Abrethana had brokered safe passage for her company from one of the many satyr tribes who inhabit the valley, a deal that had shaved a notable hardship from their trek but left countless others, including the anxiety of possibly impending betrayal should the trickster-blooded satyr choose to dishonor the previously held agreement. No one could argue, however, that the possibility of safe passage was at least a step up from the prior arrangement of guaranteed strife.

Though the paladin’s warhammer remained strapped to Gaelindra’s side, Abrethana kept a blade just within reach while passing beneath the light of fel-fire. Previously, she relied on the scrutiny of the Night Elves spying upon her from their canopies to watch her back, but she had long since passed the threshold from Ashenvale into the Betrayer’s Mark. She fed upon the aromas of the wilderness, tasted the scent of demons and their consequent rituals, sacrifices and theatrics abound beyond the dim-lit road. In lieu of her eyes, which rotted away years ago, she made use of her heightened, ghoulish senses to lead her. And lead her they did, through the thick of the wood and a few scraps along the way. Her arrival back to camp was signaled by the unmistakable sounds of Gaelindra; the horse and its rider each speckled in blood from demons and the damned alike.

Abrethana had become accustomed to inhospitable welcomes and homecomings. Such was a matter of when and not if for that of the Forsaken. Even so, she met their discomforts with hearty hello’s and carried herself by her own knightly virtues. Her silhouette, cloaked by the wretched canopy obscuring day and night alike, was still faintly illuminated by the orb of fire that she had bound to her weapon. Whenever she had read from her holy text and filled her maggot-nested body with flickering, momentary life, the orb even granted the paladin a sense of warmth to combat the bitter chills of the mountain breeze. It was these brief moments that reminded Abrethana of what little humanity she still possesses. Through the pain and discomfort of feeling every rotting sensation across her body, she reaffirms her constitution and remembers what it is that she’s fighting for.

The memory of an autumn sun glazing the hills of Tirisfal in orange-gold. The memory of dandelions floating atop a noon wind in the monastery courtyard. The warmth of another’s hand, the comfort of meeting another’s eye. The tickle of one’s breath as you witness the first glimpses of a smile break out from one’s face. The softness of watching children run through a summer’s field.

Abrethana had lost much to decay and the Scourge, but buried down, deep within the depths of the heart of a heartless vessel, a picturesque reminiscence of Lordaeron remained unscathed by the plague or its malice. Through it, the memory of how much she loved life bathed her soul in determination and hope. The faithful adherent to the Light that was the Sister Abrethana of Vandermar clung to that memory through the darkness of death, not unlike a storm parting at dawn’s break. If it was the last thing she did in this world, she would defend life, until the heavens themselves parted to finally banish her spirit unto the realm of the damned.

For those who still yet live. For those who are yet to live.

Edited December 14, 2022 by cindy