[Story] [Mature Content] Born of the Night

[Deleted]

((I asked Garots if this was okay to post this, and was given the thumbs up so long as I tagged it.

Enjoy the first chapter of a blood elf's fall into warlockery.))

Born of the Night

A Dark Curiosity

HER SENSES WERE overflowing.

The red silken sheets flowed over the soft skin of her ankle as she writhed on the mattress. All across her lower half, the tangle of delicate cloth twisted around her undulating body, tightening its grip around her thigh as it slipped away from the small of her back.

She took a deep, shuddering breath to stop the muscles of her thighs from burning. The musky scent of copulating bodies filled the small chamber, so strong that it made the air thick. She felt she could snap her pearly teeth and bite a chunk of the excited static around her, settling rather for the nape of her lover’s neck.

Blood was drawn, the body atop of her freezing in its timely motions to register the pain. She barely noticed as she lapped at the small wound with all the delicacy of a cat to a bowl of milk, her hungry mewling pushing its way between ecstatic sighs and languid groans of lust.

He spoke, although she barely registered what he had said. She though he called her a bitch, or a whore. Her palm whipped the side of his face in response and he rolled beneath her, lost somewhere between the sharp sting of the slap and the hedonistic heights of her body pressed to his.

Supple flesh melted against his chest, warm, scented breaths tickling across his cheek as she draw her teeth across his skin once more. She was made for this, he thought as he pushed his grimy hands across every contour of the woman’s pale body. He barely remembered such a perfect heat in coupling, or such an alluring frame that screamed its fertility.

Shaking hands clasped into her thick, matted mane of ashen hair and pulled sharply, throttling her head skywards and arching her back. Sweat trickled down from her shoulder blades, every small ball sending electrifying jolts of sensation rippling down her spine.

Moments later she lay on her back again, panting and shivering in the sudden cold that rushed in between the absence of bodies. Her vision swam, the crimson hued room still spinning as her unbalanced chemicals struggled to right themselves. She reached to her stomach, feeling the warmth of mess coated there.

Her lips curled into the smallest of grins that soon faded when she realised that despite it all, she felt hollow and unfulfilled.

‘Soraya.’ A voice throbbed into her head like the heavy thump of a migraine. She closed her eyes. ‘Soraya? Hello?’

She turned to the voice, her motions slow and lazy. ‘What?’ she blinked, trying to focus as she licked her fingers clean. There was no joy in that sensation, either. *‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, no,’ he chuckled. He was handsome, with stark, lean features and eyes that glowed brightly. ‘I’m merely curious as to what your husband would think of you,’ he sounded pleased with himself. Soraya thought him a smug bastard. ‘Filthy little lynx.’

‘My husband,’ she began, leaning over him to fix her gaze to his. She smiled sweetly before continuing, breathing in the scent of this lover one last time. ‘My husband will be disappointed that when I go home, he’ll have to hear how boring I found all this.’ She watched his jaw slacken, and the confidence drain from his eyes. It pleased her infinitely more than the hour of lovemaking they had just shared. *‘Goodnight, Athelas.’

He remained gobsmacked as he watched her leave, her bare form slipping from the room, trailing her robe behind her.



SHE HAD BEEN born of the night.

Over one hundred years ago, in the pitch blackness of midnight’s shroud Soraya had entered the world; pale, naked and perfectly still. She did not respond to their voices, leaving both parents to fear her deaf where, in reality, she was just simply disinterested.

Her wide, blue eyes blinked away the gummy sheen that coated them and stared out into the darkness. She caught sight of her father and tiny lips formed some instinctual expression that filled his heart with joy.

In the darkness she was comfortable and in the years of her adult life to follow, she would remain a creature of the night.



MURDER ROW CAME to life in the early hours of the morning when the rest of Silvermoon slept. The long street was situated deep at the heart of the tranquil city, and Soraya had always found a certain symbolism that it was placed so. At the heart of her people was a shrouded pit of desire and like the thick drapes that criss-crossed high above the quiet Row, keeping it locked in a perpetual twilight, that desire was also hidden and seldom allowed to see the sun’s beauty.

Soraya enjoyed her time in the Row, loathe as she was to admit it. Almost every building was a den of carnal desires, hidden pleasures and things unknown. She knew full well that beneath the almost silent exterior of the street’s surface there was an abundance of life, and death, teaming around her. Actual murder was uncommon, but not unheard of. Rather, debase acts of violence were favoured and she recalled that on numerous occasions she had been forced to deal with the aftermaths. Blood Knights weren’t welcome in the Row.

Most Blood Knights, anyway.

‘Quite a show tonight, my little law keeper.’

She tried to suppress a shudder. The last thing she had wanted was to talk with her manager. The term wasn’t technically accurate, but she refused outright to refer to him as an owner, which fitted the description of their tenuous relationship much better. *

‘It was no different from any other night,’ she breathed in the cool night air, sparing no glances his way. ‘If you’re going to tell me they like it when I wear the tabard again, you can spare your breath.’

He chuckled, his grin thin and scheming. ‘That temper is what puts you above the rest,’ he dropped her earnings in a small pouch at her feet. She grit her teeth and she picked it up, feeling his eyes burn across her form. ‘Do they recognise you?’

‘Some.’

‘And that doesn’t worry you?’

Soraya grunted, letting him have his moment of smug satisfaction. She stepped onto the street, ready to make her way home.

It was eerily silent away from the quiet din of the bar. She could hear the distant, heavy thud of an arcane golem and the gentle flap of fabric as the purple drapes above her head fluttered. Everything around her enticed her to stay just a few moments more. There were other inns she could explore, pleasure houses or sanctums of taboo practices. Her skin prickled at the thought of what she could witness if only she let herself go. Perhaps she would not only witness it, but indulge and experience too.

She made her way across the street, stopping before a small building with thick, red drapes that covered the doorway. Thin slithers of purple smoke rose from beneath the curtains, losing themselves in the darkness of the open air. They tantalized her senses, reminding her all too clearly of the aphrodisiac she had been under less than an hour before, and the drug-induced haze she’d rutted in.

Her hand pressed to the heavy fabric, but that was as far as she dared go. She wet her lips and stayed still, listening as she tasted the air. There was pleasure down there, wherever the draped room lead to. She could hear the alluring sighs of coupling and practically feel the heat that burned from behind the dark partition.

Above it all, though, was a sense of dread. The hairs of her nape stood on end as she recognised the stench of fel magics. As if suddenly regaining her wits she knew below her were demons. She felt their presence as keenly as she felt a lover’s stare.
What was worse was the sudden feeling that she belonged there.

The thought pierced through her clarity with alarming force, so much so that it felt as if it were not even her own. She shook her head and stepped back from the archway. This hadn’t been the first time she’d had such a thought, and with a thick sense of foreboding, she understood it wouldn’t be the last.



THRACEN WAS JUST where Soraya had expected him to be. Stripped down to a thin, grubby undershirt and worn linen trousers, his calloused hands worked deep in the soil below the bedroom window. In the time she had been away in Outland the flowerbed there had been transformed into a perfectly woven masterpiece of colour and shape.

Many of the small flowers sported orange or yellow petals, their shades varying from the deepest on the outside until the most pale and beautiful of plants were left in the centre of it all. It reminded Soraya of a sunset of sorts, and her heart rose to see such a thing of simple beauty.

Her husband had a true gift of creativity and an eye for perfect detail. It was something which she envied him for and she had told him as much. He would ease her insecurities with kind words, all of which were truthful. She was a creative being in her own right, but her expression of such thing was a world apart from the delicate gardening or woodwork of her lover and she often failed to see it despite herself. Where he carved things of lasting beauty, she crafted loving scenarios and pieced together an innocent sweetness of phrases that he only dreamed he could reflect upon her.

She crept upon him quietly, the soft grass beneath her bare feet barely making a sound. Her footfalls were slow and delicate, her breathing shallow. It was only when she was kneeling beside him that his mind was torn away from his work and he realised he was no longer alone.

‘Hello.’ There was a mild irritation at being disturbed in his voice. It eased away with his smile as he turned to face his lover.

‘Hello,’ she returned, planting a kiss to his lips. ‘Do we have a Jianna today?’

‘We do,’ Thracen nodded, immediately busying himself with pulling up the blades of grass that were longer than the rest. ‘She’s sleeping on the bed, tired from the trip from her mother’s.’

Soraya stood and peered through the open window into the circular bedroom. Just as told, there lay Jianna in the middle of her bed. Her small body was curled in on itself, wrapped around a small wooden figurine of a Lynx. ‘Does she know I’m home?’ Soraya asked.

Thracen shook his head as he got to his feet.

‘I’ll surprise her when she wakes, then.’

The pair stepped closer, meeting in a long overdue embrace. With a few, fleeting visits to home over the five month campaign to Outland, Soraya barely had the time to spend with Thracen as she would have wished. She near damned herself for once again choosing the soldier’s life rather that settling down as she should. To make things worse, she had let her dancing be a priority upon returning home. He would understand her position, she was sure. She simply couldn’t just leave that work behind.

A quiet sigh fell against his chest. She was here now, and that was what mattered. She would make amends for the weeks that had gone past with barely a night spent between them.

Soraya tensed into the embrace, feeling a sad truth trickle into her senses. As much as she loved Thracen, and as much as she was grateful to him for the life and the family he provided, she wasn’t meant for a life like this. Soon enough, it would be too mundane.

It was a dangerous truth, and like the night in Murder Row she felt, somehow that it had been surfaced against her own volition. She shook her head an ignored it, willing her mind to be silent.

‘I smell another on your skin, little goddess.’ Thracen’s words were mumbled against her shoulder.

‘Work, my love,’ she replied, the embers of excitement flickering beneath her breast.

‘Did he please you?’ He clenched her tighter, his desires enflamed with the thought of his lover, his wife, with another.

For a short while, he had. Or perhaps it was the aphrodisiac. ‘I was bored.’

‘Bored?’

She nodded against him and pressed her full lips to his jaw, determined not to lose the moment to his disappointment.

‘He must have been a poor lover to bore you, little goddess.’

‘He was,’ she lied. Athelas had been fine as a lover. He wasn’t particularly skilled and he lacked the passion that she felt between herself and Thracen but for her to literally be bored by him seemed obscene. Yet bored she was and her mind itched to remedy that. She had bitten him, hit him, tasted his coppery blood. What more need she do? ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she lied again. ‘These things happen.’

Thracen raised her chin on his knuckles and kissed the tip of her mouse-like nose. ‘Go and wake Jianna. She’ll be pleased to see you.’

Soraya grinned. ‘If she’s anything like me, she won’t be pleased to see anyone who wakes her from a nap.’



THE ROOM WAS illuminated with the faintest of green glows that came from Soraya’s open eyes. The dim light was enough to give the slightest of outlines to the human eye. For her elven physiology, however, it was enough that she could see the far end of her bedroom in all the detail of daytime, except now everything was a grey and colourless.

Sometime during the night Jianna had slipped into the room and nuzzled herself between Soraya and Thracen, her small head now pressed against her father’s chest where a thin sheen of drool seeped onto his bedshirt. Jianna’s intrusion had been enough to stir Soraya from her sleep, although she had pretended otherwise.

Soraya didn’t want to be a mother and it was time like these that her brooding nature was pushed aside. Being woken in the middle of the night annoyed her more than it did fill her with sympathy for the young girl. She was vaguely guilty over such thoughts, but she was young and the pressures of motherhood, of Thracen’s past life, shouldn’t always have been hers to bear.

Was she young?

The thought had plagued her ever since the Illidari had questioned her blood.

“If you are not half-blooded, then... I would be surprised. You are everything that is beautiful in such a union."

His words riled her; still enough flush her cheeks with the thought, the embarrassment, that her mother would ever do such a thing. She was sure Daroven didn’t understand the insult, worded as it was into a compliment. In his eye, truly it had been. In hers, however, there was not much worse to be said.

Between them it had turned into little more than friendly banter. Most of the time Soraya allowed herself to look over the unintended insult and trust that there was nothing malicious in the Illidari’s words. Rather, she would strike back at the traitor-whoreson and they would goad one another on and on.

Yet still, in the dark recesses of the night, the very concept lingered around her, heavy and choking. The implications of its truth, ridiculous as that was, were terrifying.

Was she young?

Once Daroven had left her that night, she’d had time to think. If she were of half-blood, a perfect mix of human and elf, she was, to the best of her knowledge, at the middle-point of her life. As a trueblood, bred pure and without human taint she was only a young adult. This… this changed everything.

It was there, after a hundred and eighteen years of life that Soraya realised her own mortality. It came upon her like a crushing wave that wanted to suck her into the depths of the blackest ocean. Realising, truly, that she would one day simply end filled her with the greatest dread. All that she had come to enjoy and love would be meaningless, her very consciousness ripped into oblivion. She felt suffocated. A part of her innocence had died that night.

Soraya slipped from the bed, quiet and careful not to wake the others. The cold kiss of night touched her skin and she reached quickly for a night robe. Every curve of her body was soon covered, her lips twisted at the blessing and curse of her figure. It was the cause of every doubt and worry the Illidari had planted into her head.

She left the house without as much as a whisper of sound. A mile or so to the north stood one of many unmarked graves of Eversong, erected for those thousands who fell to the Scourge.

Her skyward glance only saw the foliage of autumn-leaved trees but from the stillness of the air she knew she walked within the early hours of the morning. She could see the great spires of the city tease their way between the thick treetops and a hundred yards or so to her right, the faint blue glows of arcane light that guided the path from Fairbreeze.

The grave was a small, elegant sprout of marble, crested with a red circle which sported golden lining, thicker on the topside. Notes had been left beneath small pebbles and the strips of parchment flapped wildly as they tried to escape with the wind.

Soraya didn’t quite know why she had come here. She was sure that both her parents were alive, somewhere. It had simply become a matter of habit that she would come here to speak to them. A tiny slither of breath passed her lips, a quiet laugh at her own stupidity. There was no talking to be done besides speaking at marble.

‘Mother,’ her words were barely a whisper and she stood silent again. This was stupid.

What was more stupid was the rush of vertigo that threatened to overwhelm her as she realised she had no desire to be remembered like this. Never did she want to be reduced someone’s memory, a slab of carved marble all that remained that she ever was.

No. Soraya would do something about it, if she could.

‘Mother,’ she breathed again. ‘Why have you done this to me?’



WHAT WAS WORST was that she had ignored a summons to come here. Or, perhaps, that was what was best about the choice.

The Scryers had requested her presence alongside a representative of House Valantir. Another “thank you” she had assumed, and she had no time for such things. It could even be worse; a request for another campaign, another battle which she had no desire to fight. The whole thing required too much pomp and she knew that whatever happened, she would be embroiled in the scheming politics of both sides for hours on end. The very thought made her head hurt.

Her freedom had been all but stripped away from her in the past months. She worked on the whims of those superior to her in rank and class and even in her spare moments she felt chained to those things which she had obligations to do.

No more, she had decided.

Soraya stood at the same draped entrance that had tempted her to touch four nights past. Her hair hung free down her back, framing her face perfectly on either side. She allowed some of the thick mane to fall across her shoulder, leading the eye with purpose to the rise of her breasts.

The dress she wore hung on her shoulders, joined behind her neck. The neckline plummeted down to her naval, displaying the paleness of skin below that stood in contrast to the blood-like hue of the translucent fabric.

Even if her visit proved fruitless, she would not be forgotten by any inside the shady grotto.

She held her breath, fighting back the nagging feeling that this was somehow wrong. Surely it was never wrong to indulge one’s curiosities. It was worse to live an unfulfilled life; to spend every waking moment fighting off boredom.

Soraya hungered for more. She lusted after greater things.

Her heart beat fasted beneath her pale breast. She pushed the curtain aside and entered.

[Exxile87]

I like it. Though you should know, Athelas has been my blood elf rogue's name since TBC launched. To see it pop up here was...a bit shocking. Purely coincidence, but a nice one.

[A Playful Dog]

Great! I liked how you portrait her fears in bed... It made me feel sympathetic about the whole age thing. I myself have always asked myself if I'm too old haha.

[Deleted]

((This may change a little later. Consider it the first draft if chapter 2.))

Sanctum

THERE WAS NOTHING beyond the veil except darkness. Soraya could make out the shape of the room, small as it was. It was entirely empty. There were no furnishings of any sort and certainly no elves anywhere in sight. For a short while she considered turning back away, but the murmur of voices told drew her on. There was more to witness, only if she could discover where to find it.

The smoke that had been rolling beneath the drape into the outside air was thick on the floor. It wisped and caressed her ankles as she took gentle strides towards the centre of the chamber. Soraya glanced down, watching the flow of purplish mist. She traced its path to the point of origin, seeing that apparently it stemmed from a solid stone wall. That, she knew, was madness.

She drifted further through the room, stepping closer to the mist-spouting wall. With a delicate kick of her foot, Soraya sent the smoke rolling backwards on itself, building in a small plume that she had half expected to crash against the stonework. When it drifted through, leaving nothing but a small ripple in its wake, she hardly felt as surprised as she should have been.

‘Simple trickery,’ she grinned to herself, pleased to have not been fooled.

The voices continued, still too muffled to make out anything they were saying.* For all Soraya imagined they may well have been speaking a different language entirely, the tone of their words harsh and flat compared to the rolling pleasantries of Thalassian dialect.

Soraya placed her hand against the illusion of a wall. Rather, she placed her palm as close to it as possible without slipping through. She curled her fingers, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of a million cold prickles across her skin as they seeped into the illusion. It made her uncomfortable enough to step through unceremoniously, almost stumbling out of the other side. She shuddered, her skin flushing with pins-and-needles as her blood flushed to make her warm once more. In that moment she wished she had worn a robe that wasn’t so thin as to show her flesh beneath.

Beyond the fake wall was what remained of the true chamber. Smaller than before and still without furnishings, Soraya was still waiting to be impressed. Nevertheless, at least this room had a way out; a spiral staircase leading from which purple mist churned. What she could see of the walls was lit faintly in the orange light of flame, the shadows of the golden banister flickering with every lick of fire.

The talking had become clear beyond the veil of the illusion. She could pick out conversations now, male and female voices, around five people in total. It was still hard to gauge what they were saying, some of the dialect clear Thalassian whereas some – a female voice in particular – was talking in a language she couldn’t place. It sounded foul to her ears.

Soraya stood beside what little there was of a banister overlooking the deep stairwell and peered with care over its edge. There was no one she could see on the circling stairs. The rolling purple mist was absent, and she couldn’t reconcile how on Azeroth that was at all possible.

Magic, she thought to herself, always some twist of magic.

The only thing left to do was to make her way down, yet she remained hesitant, lingering at the top of the stairs like a lost child. It was difficult to shake the inhibitions that were building up with every step further she took into the dark building. Something felt wrong. Something she couldn’t quite place was screaming at her in the far recesses of her mind that she shouldn’t be in this place. Her curiosity, however, was the stronger feeling by far. Soraya had spent too many months of her long life denying herself the indulgence and pleasures she deserved. The very fact there was a wrongness to this place fuelled the thought that whatever lay at the bottom of the stairwell, it was something worth investing her time in. Whatever it was, it was taboo. In its very nature, there must be pleasure, however perverse.

Like an assassin in the dark she slowly crept down the staircase, her right hand trailing across the wall to keep her steady as she drifted ever lower into the building. It wasn’t far to the lower floor, and a trip that would have taken mere seconds of her time was extended to just under a minute through her sneaking, cautious steps. The talking had stopped, although she didn’t quite realise when. Whoever was below must have seen her feet long before she ever had a chance to dip her head and take a look into the chamber below.

When she did, she froze on the stairway, making sure her glowing eyes took in every detail of the room she would soon find herself standing in, for better or worse.

It was lit with candles and flame braziers. Hundreds of the small flames flickered on tables or on tall, think candle stands. Wax melted and dripped from their edges, making small solid limps of red or white on the floor beneath. In some cases, the wax had solidified as it dropped leaving delicate strands joining the floor and furniture together.

The décor was rich and fine, like the inside of a noble’s bedchamber. Whereas Soraya had seen such furnishings imitated in poor taste too many times in Murder Row, down here in this secret chamber, there was all the expensive finery she would come to expect of a prince. Plush cushions and soft-furred rugs spread across the black marble floor. Amongst the candles on small tables, books piled high, some twisting endlessly on arcane bookshelves that floated and spun on the spot. There were countless vials of coloured liquid, some frothing, bubbling and spewing thin trails of smoke into the air. She sniffed and licked her lips. The stench of fel magic teased her senses. It was only gentle, but enough for one such as her who knew it all too well.

Thick, mauve drapes that were lined along the bottom with shimmering golden thread separated the larger segment of the room from her view. She could see through their translucent hue, but only shadows of what lay beyond caught her eye. More candles flickered back there, and she could faintly make out the shapes of people moving. After a while they fell still, pairing off and talking. She drew a sharp breath as she felt certain a head turned her way. When the figure walked her way, there was no doubt at all she had been noticed.

She held her breath, willing her heart to be still. It was like telling the Elrendar to stop flowing, for all the good it did her. The curtains parted, and the figure of a male stepped through. He wasn’t smiling.



TALRIS DAWNREACH WAS not as young as he appeared. In fact, he was many hundreds of years older than the age which he chose to present himself. He had been coming close to the end of his natural life at the dawn of the Third War and such a close brush with death, quite literally, had made him seek unnatural ways to extend what little life he had left. If Talris realised anything as the world burned around him, it was that he had no desire to burn with it.

He realised, as the voluptuous woman made her way tentatively towards him, that he was at the very least three generations her superior; old enough to be her great grandfather, at the very least. It pleased him to know that if he wished, he could still mate her. He enjoyed the tender flesh of the young and fertile.

The presence beside him didn’t share his enthusiasm. In fact, she had been whispering obscenities into his ear ever since she had broken through the illusion on the upper floor.

Syltheria hid in the veil between realities, invisible to the naked eye. She had been Talris’ succubus minion for some years now, although she perceived, quite correctly, that it was he who was firmly beneath her heel. This newcomer was trouble and from the very moment she had caught a whiff of her presence, she had hated her, and made no small show of hiding the fact to her master.

Hated, hated, hated.

Syltheria spoke into Talris’ mind, her words thick with venomous disgust.

+ She should not be here. +

+ She shouldn’t. But I will see what her business is. +

+ You will not seed her! +

Talris fought off a chuckle. Syltheria knew him too well, and oh, how her jealousy stung. It was exceedingly difficult not to wish to bed the stranger who had entered his sanctum. She was dressed to please.

Her robe was bordering on the scandalous, with almost more skin showing than cloth. What little fabric did cover her body was carefully placed to accentuate every curve she possessed – and she possessed many. The red material was thin enough to appear translucent, folded back on itself around the neckline that plunging neckline to hide the most private areas of her pale breasts. It split around her legs, leaving them bare as she walked. Even standing still, the stranger struck an alluring figure. The only thing more difficult that not wishing to bed her was not letting it show on his face.

‘Are you lost, my dear?’ Talris asked, forming his voice into the soft tone of a schoolteacher.

‘Perhaps,’ she replied, her own tone giving away nothing of any anxiety. ‘Can a girl not be curious?’

Syltheria seethed behind Talris’ back. The woman was oblivious to her existence, but still managed to make the succubus uncomfortable. She pressed herself against her master, wrapping her warm arm around his neck as she peered over his shoulder. She hissed as her eyes caught sight of just one of many reasons she hated this woman.

+ She is warded. She pains me, and she knows not what she does. +

+ What? +

Talris gave himself a moment to reassess the stranger’s figure. Perhaps he’d spent too long being enticed and not seen the danger she may possess. ‘Of course you may,’ he answered the woman. ‘But there is little of interest to you here, I’m sure, miss…?’

He saw nothing unusual.

‘Soraya Skydancer.’

‘My name is Talris.’ He bowed low in formal greeting. Soraya curtsied, or rather, made a rather awkward attempt at a curtsey. Here was a girl quite unused to such things, Talris thought.

+ She is inked, you blind fool. + Syltheria’s voice in his head sounded more agitated than ever.

+ Oh her thigh, yes. That is no warding tattoo. +

+ On her breast! +

Surely enough, there it was. Most of the inking was hidden by the fabric she wore, no doubt a circular tattoo as the ward would require. What small segment of an arc Talris could see was close to skin tone, a slightly darker hue of her natural complexion as if the inking had been tanned onto her. It was similar to the pattern that rested on her thigh, but whereas that was mostly decorative (for all he could tell, at least) this tattoo had purpose. It was written in a runic language that he would be impressed if she even understood what it said.

The words were of ancient form, long before the sundering of the world. What Talris could see read:

‘… from daemon’s grasp. Cast into the night …’

Demon warding, indeed.

+ Get her out. + Syltheria nagged him again.

‘Since you’re here, Miss Skydancer, is there anything I can do for you?’

Syltheria screeched into his brain. It was hard not to wince.

Soraya stood confidently, more at ease now than when she had first been caught entering his sanctum. She trailed the tips of her finger across a table’s edge, brushing across a few leaves of parchment that sat there. ‘I just wanted to know what happens down here. I couldn’t resist entering as I passed any longer.’ Her lips curled into a devious smile that Talris found a little too infectious.

+ Talris! +

+ Be silent, Syltheria. I will remedy this. +

The succubus slinked away from him, lingering in her concealed realm, letting her eyes burn on the threat of a woman.

Scum. Demon-killer. Whore.

Talris smiled at the newcomer. ‘It is a private gathering of acquaintances. We indulge our needs, there’s no need to hide that,’ his arms gestured wide, ‘I’m sure you can smell it on the air.’

‘The drugs. The after-scent of coupling. The fel. Yes.’ Soraya seemed unfazed.

Talris cringed at the latter. ‘You must understand, not everyone find it easy to state their needs on more trivial things. Not after such exposure to potent forces.’

‘I understand.’

‘You’re a Blood Knight, are you not?’ Talris felt Syltheria freeze up and saw her frustrated padding stop. She unfurled a whip as if from nowhere, her dangerous glare narrowing impossibly at Soraya.

The Blood Knight finally showed some discomfort. ‘How did you…?’

‘First, I noticed your demon ward. Only those who combat the agents of the Burning Legion would have any need for such a thing. From there I’ve been piecing you together as we spoke, Soraya. You hold yourself like someone who has been taught their posture. You’re not naturally of the noble caste, its military conditioning. Your skin, beautiful as it is, has the odd blemish of a scar here and there – although you hide them well. What’s more you have just enough tone, especially in that stomach you’re kindly showing me, to suggest you exercise regularly. Also, your nails are cut, or bitten, short. You need to wear gloves often and you can’t grow them long for practicality’s sake. Your left hand also has a tendency to linger at your hip, as if resting on the pommel of a blade. Is that enough?’

Talris kept the kindly smile on his face as he watched her piece together his observations. How she reacted next would be the key to whether or not she came out of this little meeting alive.



SORAYA CONSIDERED LYING. It didn’t necessarily follow that she was a Blood Knight, or a law keeper of any sorts. Even the truth of the matter was surely not what Talris had imagined; her days of patrolling the city for criminals were long over.

‘I’m not here as a Knight,’ she confessed, her voice low and as soothing as she could make it without being condescending. ‘Although, yes, it is my profession. A combatant, as the ward suggests,’ she placed her hand upon her inked breast, ‘I’m not here to cause trouble.’

Talris remained quiet and still for a duration of halting heartbeats. Soraya wet her lips, feeling suddenly small and somehow dangerously out of her depth. Syltheria paced behind her, fighting back the uneasy pain that came from being so close to the warded female. She reared her whip, but backed away as she caught a glare from her master.

‘Your desire to explore must be strong, Soraya.’ Talris commented eventually. ‘Our illusion on the upper floor, simple as it may be, is often enough to make most think they’ve stumbled upon nothing.’

‘And what of those who it doesn’t fool, like me?’

Talris showed his teeth in a wicked smile. ‘Each case differs.’

‘If I may be so bold?’ Soraya ventured, taking a small step forwards to close the gap between herself and the robed elf. There was no better way to defuse tension than to take the lead and throw people off guard. She pulled a leaf of parchment from the table as she went, feeling her skin crawl as she held it in her hand. She dared not look what was on it. ‘You haven’t told me the entire truth, either.’

The old elf tensed as Soraya pushed the parchment to his chest. He could smell her scent strongly and it was intoxicating. It took all of his restraint not to clasp his hands around her and hold her close. Oh, how he longed to feel her warmth. If it wasn’t for Syltheria’s incessant ‘whore, whore, whore!’ ringing between his ears, he was sure he would have.

+ Touch her and die. + The demon finished off, her beautiful features drawn into an angry, terrifying mask of hatred.

Talris stepped away uneasily, glancing to the scroll he had been handed.

‘We study, also. It’s nothing sinister.’

‘Then may I?’

Talris cocked his head. ‘May you what?’

+ Do not indulge the fleshy whore! +

‘May I study, too? As a sign that I’m truly interested in what this place has to offer.’

Syltheria had reached the end of her patience. She spat a torrent of demonic curses at her master before fading into the void.

For a moment, the young features of Talris’ face contorted into a vile grin. The elation was too much to control. This chance, this rare chance to take a girl so naïve and twist her. It would be a glorious fall to watch and an even more glorious ascendance as she realised her potential. This Soraya Skydancer brimmed with a hunger for more. Even if she didn’t know where it would eventually lead her, Talris was certain the night would take her.

He turned away, fumbling across a small tome, and for the briefest instant the ugly countenance of his true visage showed through. The taught skin across his cheeks slackened and wrinkled, turning so thin and pale that the blue veins climbed up from his neck like vines. He took a breath to compose himself and felt the mask return before turning back to the curious woman, who was tapping her fingernail against the side of a small vial with an infuriating ting, ting, ting, ting.

‘Please stop that.’

She did. ‘Sorry.’

‘Study the first chapter of this book,’ he handed the tomb to her, a shiver passing his spine as he watched her crush it protectively to her breasts. ‘You will be permitted to return within a week. If you understood the text, we will see what happens from there.’

Soraya grinned and nodded. ‘What is it about?’

‘The basics of the arcane. Nothing taxing.’

Not to you, perhaps, Soraya thought. ‘Of course not,’ she said. There was a pause. ‘It won’t go further than the arcane, will it?’

‘We only indulge in fel as a narcotic, as did we all in times gone by.’ Talris smiled reassuringly. ‘Worry not, Miss Skydancer. There’s no foul play here.’

Talris took her by the shoulder and turned her back to the stairway.

‘One week?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘One week.’



THE OTHERS CAME from behind the drape once Soraya had left, their curiosity at the evening’s events too much to be left unattended.

‘What was all that about?’ asked a pale woman with exceptionally drawn, gaunt features. By all standards of the word, she looked ill.

‘That, my dear Annaria, will be a regular to the Sanctum soon enough.’

Annaria snorted, scratching her arm viciously enough to draw blood. Her fel green eyes washed over Talris with disinterest. ‘You just wish to mate with her.’

‘Why does everyone assume that?’ Talris feigned being hurt.

‘Because Syltheria is usually right.’

Talris grinned wryly. Yes, Syltheria. He’d have to get back in her good books after tonight’s little disagreement. He reached his mind into the nether, searching her out of the thousands of tormented demon souls that lived there. A night’s pleasures should ease her jealous pain.

[A Playful Dog]

Another Great installment!

I wasnt aware you could extend your life with Fel Magic. I always though it did the contrary, shorten it. Also that Talris is a womanizer :C.

[The Madgod]

Another Great installment!

I wasnt aware you could extend your life with Fel Magic. I always though it did the contrary, shorten it. Also that Talris is a womanizer :C.

Agewynn extended her life via what one would have to assume is arcane magic, though the art is very unstable. Since fel magic is essentially concentrated arcane energies, it could theoretically do the same, though it would most likely be more volatile.

[Deleted]

Another Great installment!

I wasnt aware you could extend your life with Fel Magic. I always though it did the contrary, shorten it. Also that Talris is a womanizer :C.

Fel Magic has life preserving properties. For instance Grom Hellscream was still in his prime at the time of his detah not seeming to have aged since he underwent the Blood Pact. Additionally depending on the time line you follow his age ranges from 70-150 years of age.

[Deleted]

Another Great installment!

I wasnt aware you could extend your life with Fel Magic. I always though it did the contrary, shorten it. Also that Talris is a womanizer :C.

I'll be honest - I don't know for certain if it can or it can't. Warcraft lore is notoriously hazy about such things. I know a lot of people get ratty when you 'fill in the gaps' but I tend to believe, so long as it's not too obscure, it can be alright.

And it's not necessarily the use of fel magic itself, here. Warlocks are nasty chappies who desire all sorts of power. Talris, perhaps (no spoilers here!), has bartered with demons for extensions on his mortal life. The powers of demon lords are many, or they wouldn't be so terribly appealing to people, after all.

[Deleted]

A good read, you seem to be quite the proffessional in the genre. You don't happen to E.R.P do you?

[A Playful Dog]

I'll be honest - I don't know for certain if it can or it can't. Warcraft lore is notoriously hazy about such things. I know a lot of people get ratty when you 'fill in the gaps' but I tend to believe, so long as it's not too obscure, it can be alright.

And it's not necessarily the use of fel magic itself, here. Warlocks are nasty chappies who desire all sorts of power. Talris, perhaps (no spoilers here!), has bartered with demons for extensions on his mortal life. The powers of demon lords are many, or they wouldn't be so terribly appealing to people, after all.

I see, demon magic indeed. I mean arent most demons age immortal? Also I dont mind filling the gaps, I know WoW lore at times is like you said. Really good up to now do continue.

[Deleted]

Azaya what server do you play? as on on [AD-EU] there is a player called Soraya in a guild about Blood Knights called the Blood Knight City Guard

[Deleted]

Azaya what server do you play? as on on [AD-EU] there is a player called Soraya in a guild about Blood Knights called the Blood Knight City Guard

Not me. My Soraya is on The Sha'tar EU.

And part 3 is in the works. Just takes a while for each chapter. I don't like to rush.

[Deleted]

Not me. My Soraya is on The Sha'tar EU.

And part 3 is in the works. Just takes a while for each chapter. I don't like to rush.

Oh cool I used to play The Sha'tar in a guild called The Ashbringers that later got renamed to the Eburi

[A Playful Dog]

Not me. My Soraya is on The Sha'tar EU.

And part 3 is in the works. Just takes a while for each chapter. I don't like to rush.

Rushing never been good :] Take your time!

[Deleted]

Five Weeks Ago

THE DEMON WAILED in its death throes, a thick gouge sliced between its twisted neck and shoulder.

The thing was a monstrosity. A knotted lump of bloated muscle, thick hide and sharp bone horns, the demon-creature was at least half a body taller than the elf who had slain it, and around three times her girth. Its head, or what was where the head would be if one were to consider things logically, was a small, rounded blob atop the thick neck and broad shoulders. It was cut open wide with a gaping maw of thick, needle-like teeth. There was no discernable nose, from what the Blood Knight could tell, but the top half of its head was covered in a thick, yellowing carapace that spiked forwards and up dangerously, mimicking the larger spinal spikes across its back.

As it screamed, the gash caused by the Knight’s light-infused blade, it spewed a rancid black bile. Its last ditch attempt to do some harm to the petty creature that had slain it.

It spoke its last, gargling wetly on the fluids trapped in its throat. ‘Xar goth zon. Reksta nal xpah!’ You will burn. Pathetic elven witch!

Soraya grunted and stamped through its teeth. Anything to make the thing shut up.

She pressed her back against the cover of the wall, catching her breath. The fighting was relentless and her regiment, outnumbered and if they weren’t careful, The Sunfire Vanguard was soon to be outflanked.

This was the final push. The final slog in a months and months of cat-and-mouse skirmishing with the enemy. They had cornered him, the traitor seer, to where he had fled in a satellite structure of Tempest Keep.

The inside of the floating vessel was a tangle of broken walkways, fallen rafters and crate barricades. It was a wonder that two years ago the structure had served as a perfectly functional offshoot to the main fortress vessel. More of a wonder, Soraya thought, that it had been left in such a mess. The craft was swamped in a thick blanket of darkness that was punctuated sporadically with brief and painfully bright flashes of illumination as the remaining systems surged power into the crystal-like lighting.

It made the fighting more dangerous that it already was. Just as her eyes settled into the darkness, they would be shocked with the stark flashes of light, making everything around her move in short jolts as though there were second-long lapses in reality.

The room they were fighting in was too large to cover for much longer. She looked to her left and right, noticing her comrades becoming locked in close combat with the swarms of demon enemies that mobbed around them. For her, it was hardly a trouble. But they were not her. Some were spellcasters, battling the best they could in such tight parameters. Those who favoured bow or gun suffered similarly. They simply couldn’t stay where they were and hope to survive.

‘This is Skydancer,’ she spoke through her scry-gem to them all. ‘Form up on my position. We’re heading further in.’

There was a small hail of confirmation chatter ringing in her head, blocked out by the sudden need to roll away from an axe blow. She got back to her feet and destroyed her assailant in a blast of holy power, shuddering as the remains of the beast showered her in a smouldering mess.

Those who remained of Soraya’s regiment were soon closed in on her position. All of them looked worse for wear, but they could move and they could fight and that was all that was required of them.

‘Bloodwarder,’ Talavar, her fellow Knight panted the formal greeting. As if now were the time for such things. The rest, eight elves of varying skills and professions, nodded their silent arrival.

‘Into the corridor.’ Soraya pointed to the thin strip of walkway a over her shoulder. The enemy was massing again, their gurgling cries spilling from tears in the void.

‘Is that wise?’ The question came from captain A’lorai. Alyxandria was slight of build with raven hair that now fell in a tangled mess across her features. Matters of rank were hardly an issue with Soraya and A’lorai sharing captaincy. Still, it was a jarring moment when she questioned orders.

‘Wise? No,’ Soraya admitted. ‘But we don’t stand a chance unless we’re covered from at least two sides. We’ll bottle-neck them, and go from there.’

The Vanguard moved swiftly, covering the short distance under a rain of searing green flame shot at them from the demonic sorcerers closing all around. They piled into the tight corridor and split into groups without a word. Five covered the entrance, two knights and three supporting ranged. The remaining five faced the darkness of what was to come, pushing forwards with caution.

‘We can keep them at bay here, Bloodwarder, but not for long,’ Talavar, left at the entrance, pulsed through her scry-gem.

‘Do what you can. Sha’velas is with you – she’ll keep your wounds suppressed.’

‘Yes ma’am. Kill the sun-damned bastard for us when you find him.’

‘Consider it done. Skydancer out.’

Soraya pushed her group on, the sounds of the battle behind them dimming as they stepped further into the otherwise silent walkway. Still the lighting here was broken and erratic, stinging her eyes with every sun-bright flash. She almost felt she could see skittering shapes in the darkness, but when the corridor illuminated there was nothing but strewn crates.

Her eyes rolled, thinking herself going mad with anxiety. Then it dropped from the ceiling.

The creature screeched like a harpy as it fell, the sound terrible enough to make every elf cover their ears and grip their teeth with the sudden pain. There was a wet thud as the beast landed, crawling on four limbs. Soraya snarled. The thing was made to walk on two legs, and its hunched, skittering gait sickened her as she recognised the creature for what it was.

Once an elf, a Sunfury no doubt, the body of a female was now twisted and warped by the demonic powers it had worships and fed off for years since the Outland wars. Felblood elves were one thing – still somewhat dignified in their posture, somewhat graceful in appearance despite the discoloured skin, the horns and the malformed wings.

This elf-thing was another matter entirely. Its webbed wings were fully formed, the few black feathers that had once coated them dangling perilously as they unfurled. Its arms had developed too many joints, curling back on themselves to aid with the disgusting spider-like walk. Its skin was a vile brownish sludge that seemed to drip and reform instantly. Its eyes burned, literally burned with fel green flames and its teeth were long, pointed and looked ridiculously brittle.

Soraya felt ill.

‘Kill it.’

They did, with startling ease. Whatever the elf had turned into was not made for fighting. Its malformed head rolled wetly across the floor, severed from the neck by Soraya’s own crimson blade. What was left of the body thrashed and writhed as it died slowly, burned and stabbed in every place possible.

The lights flickered again. There was a slow clap and a low, rumbling chuckle.

‘Well done, well done!’ The rich voice filled the air, bouncing and echoing off the walls. ‘You’ve done a fine work of killing my pets, as always, little Vanguard.’

Soraya let her gaze follow where the head had rolled. The elf-thing’s twisted visage was acting as a small stool for the elf who rested his foot atop of it.

Sarath Valantir, the traitor seer and primary target of the Vanguard stopped clapping and spread his arms – one of which was a disgusting, un-elven graft – wide. A dark grin showing beneath his cowl.

‘This is the endgame, my friends,’ he couldn’t help but chuckle.

The five elves readied their weapons, Soraya and Alyxandria leading the way. Soraya grinned. This fight would be the end of things, for better or worse.



SARATH VALANTIR HAD once been many things. A noble. A scholar. Respectable. A far cry from what he eventually turned out to be, and the creature he was when the Vanguard brought him his death.

He was one of many sons to a cousin of the head of Noble House Valantir. The House itself was one of few to have survived the razing of Quel’Thalas with most of its members alive and well enough to continue life in the upper echelons of society. Sarath, however, was never a prominent figure within the House. He was barely even looked upon with a kind eye.

The bastard son of a hired whore, the sins of the father scorned the life of the son. Unable to gain the respect of his noble family, Sarath was continually distanced through military service. To the elation of his House, he was one of many who went to Outland when the time came to claim a new home for the sin’dorei.

Sarath was also one to defect. Along with Voren’thal the Seer, Sarath chose the life of a Scryer, collecting and documenting lore within the vast library. Like the Seer, he too was gifted with foresight. For Sarath, however, this gift was more of a curse; his visions nightmarish, inaccurate and often causing terrible pain.

The day the sorcerer changed was the day he found a book – the book – that would twist every budding insecurity to its whims.
The Valendictum was a rare book of power, its very words so twisted by the darkness they contained as to allow the demon-masters of the void to act and speak through it. The moment Sarath touched the book, the very second his hand met dusty, yellowing pages, the demons had him in their grasp.

Sarath returned to the library changed. The expedition party with whom he had left had all died in a tragic accident (by his hands) and he had found nothing (spare the book concealed beneath his robe). He wished to be alone, and from there spent countless hours in his chambers. It was all but too late when suspicions arose and Sarath had fled, what remained of his room plastered with the blood of five comrades used in dark rituals.

The Sunfire Vanguard had been tasked to hunt and dispose of the wayward noble. As his visions grew in strength with the book’s malevolent power, so did the threat he had become.

Here, now, in the dark chamber of Tempest Keep’s satellite, Sarath barely resembled what he once had been.

The elf was powerful beyond imagining. He sported horns and the beginnings of wings. His right arm, once cut off in a previous engagement was freshly grafted, unhidden by robes and disturbingly un-elven. It’s red, puss riddled flesh ended in claws, not fingers.

How simple it was for insecurities to warp a good man.

How simple to begin down a dark path.



THE FIGHT WAS short but brutal.

Zyriah’s bow had been broken within the opening seconds and she found herself forced to fight in close quarters, along with Soraya and Alyxandria. The melee of combat was difficult – there was barely enough room to cram around one being and to allow the remaining spellcasters to aim straight. What should have been a simple task of a five-on-one brawl was proving to be overwhelmingly complex.

Fuelled with the dark powers of his demonic masters, Sarath was impossibly fast with his own blade, the gruesome alien hand flinging spells without incantation.

He locked eyes with Soraya as she came around to fit in her blow. His split lips grinned to reveal blackening, sharp teeth and he whispered a single, corrupt word.

Soraya’s body tensed and froze her blade less than an inch from his neck. The fight was no longer simply physical; he assaulted her mind too. What lasted less than ten seconds of real time was almost as many minutes in her own head. As he wore her like a puppet, bringing her to strike at her closest comrade, Soraya battled him alone.



HE CHOSE HIS battlefield well. Soraya had to admire how he had picked the worst possible projection from a vast swath of memories to choose from. She stood in the Netherstorm, precariously close to the edge of the crumbling, purple wastes. She wondered briefly what would happen if she were to fall off within the confines of her own mind.

As the thought swept over her, the memory of Deldorian, once her student, flickered into being and fell backwards into the endless pit of nothingness. Just as it had happened in reality, minus her sword through his chest. Oh, no. There it was, manifest through thought again.

She shook her head, finding it impossible to comprehend thinking within thoughts. Best she simply ignore it.

‘You’re surprisingly resistant, Soraya.’ Sarath’s voice, then his projection appeared. Curiously he envisioned himself as he had once been, perfectly elven and somewhat handsome.

‘It doesn’t feel so to me. Get out of my head.’

‘It took me some time to get in here. I’m not going to just leave. You’re well conditioned, Soraya.’

She snorted. ‘What did you expect? The Order trains all Knight-Masters to resist such things.’

‘Ah, but you’re no Knight-Master, little Soraya.’

‘I was.’

His vision flickered and his face contorted into a blur of frustration. Was that an oversight on his behalf? How amusing.
‘Do you like the place?’ Sarath spread his arms, circling as he stepped from the shade of a mana-forge pipeline. Deldorian’s memory followed him. He had done similar.

‘I’ve seen it before,’ Soraya replied, allowing herself a small smirk.

‘Does it pain you? To watch yourself stab him, again and again and again?’

As he forced the memory it manifest in the corner of her eye. Like a broken hologram she drove her sword through Deldorian’s chest over and over, stuck in the loop of his words. She bit down the surge of rage, trying not to lose control. To do that would be to lose herself to him.

‘Just get out.’

‘Not before I’ve shown you something.’ He stepped close to her, took her chin in his palm and forced her to look up at him. ‘You’ll want to see this. My vision.’

Soraya shook herself free of him and draw her sword. It was too late. He was already shadowing her mind with his thought. She saw…

…herself with Thracen.

He is standing apart from her. So very far apart. She feels the coldness of the air between them and the tension she knows she could cut with a knife. He is shouting, but she cannot hear the words. The scar on his cheek pulls tight and makes him ugly in his rage.

Jianna stands beside him, clinging tight to his leg. Her face is buried into the cloth of his trousers. She shakes as she cries.

Soraya clenches a book tighter in her hands. She feels how possessive she is of it. Thracen wants it – demands if from her, but it isn’t his to have. He wouldn’t understand its purpose, or what it means to her.

She turns to leave. He grabs her by the arm. With a ferocity unknown she strikes him. Jianna screams and runs into another room.

Thracen pushes himself…

… from the floor. Why was she on the floor?

‘Whoreson! Stop it!’

‘I’m only showing what is to come. My parting gift to you, Soraya Skydancer.’

‘This will not happen.’

Sarath circled her. She struck at him and missed. Missed again. Physical combat wasn’t going to work here.

‘Oh, but it will. My very presence here has tainted you. Watch.’

The landscape…

… was dark. Only small flames lit the room in which she was kneeling. Beneath her there is a circle of purple markings. She doesn’t understand what any of them mean, but she feels the power of them coursing through her.

Still, Soraya feels unsatisfied. She is crying and the tears are staining her dress. So is the blood that trickles from her nose.
There is something in the room with her. It is small and annoying. It won’t leave her be, feeding off her sadness, cruelly taunting into her ear. She shrugs her shoulder, but the creature clings tighter. There’s pain as its tiny claws dig deep into her flesh. She turns to face it. An imp – her imp, she realises. She drew this demon to her.

She was sobbing…

…the next time she came back to her sense.

She met the projection’s gaze. In the corner of her eye, she was still stabbing her beloved Delrorian. ‘This is all a trick. Get out of my head!’

‘It is not!’ The Sarath vision screamed so loudly her hair flailed around her. ‘You are tainted. You must combat the taint! Know it, and fight it!’

She fell to her knees again, shaken and overwhelmed. ‘You lie!’

‘I am about to die, Skydancer. Let me atone in my last moments. If nothing else believe me now! Fight this future!’

She curled her lips into a snarl. Enough! Enough of this bastard’s stupid games! She stood, finding herself a head above him in height. Two heads, three, four. He seemed pathetic and small against her rage.

‘Out!’ She commanded, watching a blistering wave of psychic energy lash him away. The world crumbled shortly after.



WHEN SHE CAME to her senses the fight was as good as over. Alyxandria barely had time to stop the pommel of her blade ramming against Soraya’s temple as she realised the Bloodwarer had control over her body again.

There was no time for apologies. Soraya knew, somehow just knew she was poised for the kill. wrenched her body around, sword arm stretched in an arc. There was the satisfying feeling of skin giving way to steel and the wet gurgling of a throat being slit.

Sarath Valantir dropped onto his back, finally lifeless.

‘Bloodwarder?’ Zyriah seemed concerned.

‘Contact the others. We’re done here.’

‘Shouldn’t you rest? You weren’t yourse--‘

‘Just do it!’

The ranger nodded her compliance and sprinted back down the corridor. The others stood in the silence of an anti-climactic victory. Soraya’s eyes lingered on the fallen body of her most intimate foe. In his palm, his elven palm, was a single page of the Valendictum.

* * *

SORAYA HAD NEVER believed a word the bastard had said. Every bit of it lies to keep her occupied as he toyed with her body and tried to destroy her resolve.

Still, the memories of what he had shown her were fresh and painful. She spoke of them to no one, not even the Scryers as they congratulated her on the victory of the regiment. They of all people, Voren’thal especially, would know if there were any truth to what Sarath Valantir had supposedly seen in her future.

Truth or no, she simply wanted to forget. There was an abundance of spare time without a battle to be fought. She was thankful for the rest, but even after a week her mind was wandering and she found herself bored. Too much time to think was a bad thing for a girl with a striking amount of hidden insecurity.

She paced her room again within the dark corridors of the Blood Knight’s Temple. Her own room, once more, a luxury long forgotten since her demotion from the inner circle of Masters. She hadn’t been restored to her former rank, but she hardly cared. That they were beginning to trust her again, after all the efforts of the past year, was a good enough sign for her.

Soraya brought her glass to her lips, tasting the rich Thalassian whiskey warm her throat. No, she decided. There was no truth in Sarath’s words or his vision. With careful ease she shut and locked the draw of her desk, sealing away the single yellowing page within. Keeping it had been silly. But she would keep it still. Just in case.

[Deleted]

The First Step

THE SANCTUM CHAMBER seemed more vivid and alive than Soraya had ever remembered it. What was once a place of shadows and gloom was bright with vibrant reds and purples that reflected the flickering flames of a hundred scented candles. It reminded her now more of the room in which she danced, where the light was designed to glint of her naked flesh and the smells were made to make men part with their hard earned gold.

And dancing she was.

But that was where the similarities ended. There was none of the slow swaying or smooth undulations of a seductive dance. Her clothes weren’t being slowly peeled off from her sweating skin as she slipped and swayed between the spread legs of desperate men. Instead she was dancing with unabated joy, her wild movements more like the throes of a madman than anything else. Her hair spilled around her in radiant plume of white-gold as she shook her head violently from side to side. The colours blurred in her vision as she span, mixing into a delirious sunset pallet.

A hand gripped hers and pulled her to a halt, then drew her close before pushing her away once again, twisting her around and around at arm’s length. She met the face of the dancing man, recognising him immediately. Thracen took her left hand as well and together they span, using one another’s weight to turn in a tight circle.

Laughter overflowed from her, threatening to leave her short of breath. Her light-headedness amplified the ecstasy, pushing her faster and faster, turning the room into a void in which only she and Thracen existed, spinning, entwined and deeply intimate.

Then just as suddenly as he had joined her dance, he stopped. The room staggered to a halt, twisting and rocking as dizziness and vertigo rushed into her head. Thracen’s warm hands left hers, reaching for his head. He stumbled backwards, the scar across his cheek pulling tightly as he grimaced in pain.
‘Thracen?’ Soraya was next to him in a flash.

Her lover ignored her entirely, his hands clawing against the skin of his head, pushing through tufts of brown hair as he fell back and screamed. Soraya fell beside him, cradling him. It was a migraine. It had to be one of his migraines, intense as it was. She rested her palm on his forehead, trying her hardest to sooth him but he would not quieten.

Everything was suddenly dark now. The vitality and life the room had once held was all but seeping from the walls and curtains, the colour pooling onto the floor in thick, blood-like stains.

Similarly, his eyes bled. Then his ears. Then nose. Soraya screamed, trying her best not to recoil away from him as he thrashed in her arms. As if that wasn’t enough, she felt herself pulled from him as though something, somewhere she couldn’t see, was drawing her. When her fingertips were barely touching his skin, the creature strode by.

She was as tall as any elf, but with cloven feet, a whip-chord tail and leathery wings that folded from the bare skin of her back. Jet black hair framed the too-perfect face of the naked demon, a succubus in all her seductive glory.

As Soraya wrestled with invisible bonds, the creature leaned across her stricken partner, black talon-like nails tearing open the cloth of his shirt. The succubus didn’t stop there. Thracen’s back arched and he screamed in newfound agony as the demon dug her claws deep into the middle of his chest, pulling through his skin like a knife to warm butter. There was a tell-tale crack of bone splitting just faintly audible beneath the elf’s laboured cries of suffering as his breastbone cracked in two, before the succubus pulled his ribcage apart as though it were a child’s plaything.

Thracen’s screams stopped short, as did every movement in his body. Soraya thrashed wildly, picking up the anguished cries where her loved one had left off. The demon turned to her, a wicked smile crossing her fanged features. She tipped her head to her hand, and took a bite of Thracen’s sill beating heart.



SORAYA BLINKED OPEN her eyes. Her heart felt ready to burst from beneath her breast, her limbs aching with the exhaustion of a struggle. It was hard to tell what was going on. She hadn’t just woken from a dream, of that she was sure. Her room slowly focused into her vision. Something was filling her twitching ears with a meaty smack that could have been timed by the ticks of a clock. The air was hot and stung her eyes and there was the taste of someone else’s sweat on her lips.

That was because there was someone else.

She nearly screamed as her tired eyes saw Thracen beneath her. About three seconds too late everything caught up with her and Soraya was washed with the sensation of passionate lovemaking.

‘Fuck…’ she whispered. How in the name of Sunstrider had this happened?

She blinked again, trying to clear her head. It was proving painfully difficult, one moment being in the grips of a horrid vision, the next being atop her lover and not remembering how in the world she had managed to black out of such an intimate moment.

She placed her hands on his chest to steady herself, drawing one sharp breath after another. Her hands felt sticky against his skin. When she managed a glance to see why, she could no longer suppress the cry of fear. With all the grace of a toppling tower she rolled off him, staggering to her feet. Naked, she clasped her hand across her mouth to stop more of the terrified cries from creeping between her trembling lips.

Thracen was bleeding across his chest, ten thin lines drawn down his pale skin where she quite clearly had dug in her nails and tore through his flesh. Bemused, he sat up on his forearms, quite unable to form words at the sudden lack of weight across his hips.

‘Your chest,’ Soraya managed to stammer, pointing with a shaky hand as she backed fully against the far wall.

‘It stings a little, yes.’ Thracen pawed gently at his bloodstained skin, swinging his legs from the side of the mattress. He grinned at her, making his way over. ‘I thought that meant you were having fun.’

‘What?’ Soraya could barely register what he was saying. With every blink of her eyes his dead body flashed into her sight. The succubus demon lingered in her after-vision, blinking in a discoloured haze across the room as though she had stared at a candle for too long.

Thracen frowned at her, reaching to brush her matted hair from her cheek. ‘What’s the matter, little goodess?’

She flinched from him. ‘I don’t want to do that again.’

‘Do what?’ Thracen’s smile faded. ‘I hope that wasn’t the last time we ever rutted.’

Soraya wrinkled her nose and stepped away, reaching for her night robe.

‘I saw something dreadful.’

‘Again?’

The conversation dropped silent as Soraya stalked from the room into the adjoining wash chamber. It was a small, cupboard-like place, dimly lit in the night with a single candle. She stood with her hands on the edges of the sink, hided away from her lover’s gaze.

There was no chance in the Nether that this conversation would end well. Since returning from her campaign on the Broken World she had been suffering nightmares. That Thracen was understanding of, but when the nightmares had become daytime visions where she would simply glaze over for moments at a time, he’d become concerned. Then the concern turned to inquisition as she became increasingly guarded about what she was seeing. He pressed her more and more, and in the past week where she had turned to the study of her borrowed arcane tome, he had outright accused her newfound interest of causing her suffering.

'It's just a bit of war trauma,' Soraya offered quietly through the doorway.

‘Yes. Because that's comforting to know.' Thracen sighed and leaned carefully against the wall that partitioned them, listening to the gentle splashing of water as his goddess wetted her face and skin. 'I know there's more to it than that, Soraya,' he dared after a moment's silence. 'This sudden interest of yours in the arcane isn't right. You barely enjoyed reading and now you're turning the pages of a scholar's book as if your life depended on it. Let me in.'

Before he knew it, Soraya's head was around the door, her lips twisted into a furious snarl. 'And I'm not allowed to better myself, is that it?' There was no hiding the venom in her tone.

Thracen paused. 'I didn't say that,' he replied coolly.

'Then what?'

'I'm worried for you.’ Another pause. ‘That's all,' he added.

Soraya grunted. 'You're correlating things that don't exist, Thracen. I'm fine and you're becoming suffocating.' The Knight’s ear flicked hard with her frustration. She avoided her lover's gaze as she paced back into the room, feeling the hurt she had caused in the air. 'If you think it's the damned book, I'll go and give it back.' She began to pull on her underclothes.

Thracen took a moment to catch up. 'What? Now? It must be near midnight.'

'You know me, my love,' she turned, still half dressed and brushed her hand to his cheek, smiling to ease the grim mood that had set across them. 'I am a creature of the night.'

With nothing more to say, she changed in silence.



THE BOOK IN SORAYA’S hand felt as comfortable to her as the midnight-blue hilt of her most beloved blade. Since Talris had handed it to her just under a week ago she had spent every spare moment of her time flicking through its seven-hundred and forty seven yellowed pages.

What had at first seemed to be a daunting task proved quite the opposite. Talris had asked only that the first chapter be understood; something Soraya had been intensely sure she would struggle with. Arcane study had never been her strongest point, and her failure in the field had hung in the back of her mind ever since. To fail in the very subject which defined her entire culture had only set her further aside as an oddity. The distinction had left with time, as all childhood teases do, yet Soraya always felt the sting of being incapable.

Although, she was anything but.

In her first tentative day of peeling the book open and peering at its contents she realised that many of the opening chapter’s lessons she knew. Not only did she know it, but she had mastered it some years past. The basic tenants of the arcane she was to understand held strikingly similar compositions to the ways in which she had been taught to drain energy from the captured naaru, Mu’ru. What’s more, her progression as a caster of the Light within the ranks of the Blood Knights had set her up nicely for the books further chapters. As she browsed through chapters two and three Soraya found there was little she couldn’t wrap her head around in one way or another. She was a long way off being a master of the art, but she was certainly not in the rut she had first assumed.

This had made it so very much easier to advance her plans.

Meeting Talris for the first time had all been about playing games and assuming a role. In this case, Soraya was the innocent and the lost, playing into the warlock’s hands, no doubt for his own purposes. True, she hadn’t know exactly what the Sanctum held – she still didn’t know, for that matter – but she was no fool, and she had sensed long before she decided to even enter that there was fel magic at work. And so she let him slip her in, treating her like a confused child, easing her down a path which he thought he could control.

In actual fact, Talris had given her what she wanted. Well, almost.

For every day that passed in the week she had scoured the thick tome for any sign, symbol or writing that matched the torn page of the Valendictum locked away in her drawer. The worries that had built up and the boredom of her homebound life unravelled where she considered what it was she could learn… what she could control.

Yet there was nothing in there, and the further through the book she flicked, the more it became gibberish to her eyes. She would have to see Talris again, and step deeper into his circle.

Soraya grinned as she approached the shaded recess of Murder Row, realising that taking the plunge is exactly what she wanted.



‘YOUR WHORE DRAWS near.’

Taris closed his book around his thumb and turned to face Syltheria who stood massaging his shoulders with a surprising delicacy. Her perfect features were twisted in a look of disgust and annoyance, her wings already folded tightly against her back with her building tension.

‘Little Skydancer?’

‘“Little” is hardly the word now, is it?’

Talris allowed himself a laugh as he found a marker for his page. ‘Hide yourself before she enters,’ he commanded.

Like a scolded child the succubus slinked backwards into the shadows, letting herself peel back the folds of reality and slip away into the unknown.

‘There’s no need for that.’

Talris froze and Syltheria grinned madly as Soraya came down the curling stairs. She wore a dress of the deepest red, so dark it seemed almost black until the cloth reflected the light along the curves of her body. The silken fabric hugged her figure tightly, revealing only her pale neckline and the rise of her tightly packed breasts. It stopped short at her upper arms, leaving a few inches of flesh until similarly dark gloves reached up and enveloped the remainder of her slender limbs. ‘I know she’s here,’ Soraya continued, ‘I felt her the first time I came. She hates me so much it’s quite difficult to ignore.’

Talris stepped forwards to greet her with a wry smile. ‘I should have known. You are a Knight of high esteem.’ If the warlock felt rumbled, he was hiding it well.

Syltheria brought herself back to the mortal plane, fixing cold blue eyes with Soraya’s cerulean stare. ‘I need a better book,’ she tossed the one she had borrowed to Talris’ feet. ‘I understood what you asked me. I need more.’

The air hung silent for a moment as Soraya circled herself distinctly away from the succubus. Was this the one? Was she the demon-witch who had stalked into her mind and feasted on her most beloved?

Talris chuckled to himself as he picked up the tome, resting it nearby on the tabletop. ‘I don’t think you know what you toy with, Soraya.’

The elf finally broke her glare. ‘That’s what makes it fun,’ she uttered, only half aware of what was being said.

Syltheria shared a knowing glance with her master. The old elf crossed the gap between Soraya and himself in two large strides, bringing his hand to the soft skin of her cheek. He brushed his knuckles gently down her face and she let him, curious at his moment of desire. He took the tell-tale breath of a man fighting his lust.

‘What are you doing?’ she eventually asked.

‘Tell me why you want this?’ He paused his fingers against her temple.

‘I have my reasons.’

Syltheria circled around her, stepping to her back to block Soraya’s exit. She felt penned in, suddenly uncomfortable amongst strangers.

‘Tell me, and I can show you more,’ the warlock assured her.

And so she told him. She detailed every painful moment of recent life that had made her consider her path. The drudgery of things that would send thrills down the spines of others. How even the most passionate lovemaking was but a fleeting moment’s pleasure to her. How she was becoming too close to being a housewife and mother. How she wanted something – anything – that wasn’t entirely in her own control.

‘There’s something else,’ she finished off, still aware of the thick presence Syltheria had created behind her. ‘Some have claimed I’m of half blood.’

The succubus laughed but said nothing.

Soraya continued. ‘Can this tell me the truth?’

Only once she had stopped did Soraya become aware of the fingers her rested against her head once more. Talris met her gaze and smiled. ‘You’ll have to find out, little Skydancer.’

He flexed his fingers to her temple. Her world exploded with pain and light.



SORAYA AWOKE TEN minutes later, her head still wracked with pain. Slytheria sat in the end of the bed in which she had been rested, her barbed tail coiled around her waist, resting in her lap as she kept her hard, cold glare.

The Blood Knight pushed herself up slowly, blinking the pain away from the backs of her eyes. It felt as though someone had shoved needles into both of them and then rounded her off with a pommel to the skull.

‘Sun’s grace, what was that?’ She reached for her lips. There was blood dripping into her mouth from her nose.

‘Power you don’t understand, elf-slut.’

Soraya sneered at the demon. The very sight of the creature made her stomach clench. Never before in her life had she willingly shared time with such a vile beast and here she was suffering insults and sharing a room with one.

‘Where is Talris?’ she managed to ask. Her head throbbed painfully.

‘Preparing your first lesson. Shut up and be patient.’

The minutes dragged on with Soraya pacing the length of the dimly lit room, keeping at an ample distance from the succubus who remained perched on the bed. It seemed beneficial to them both; Syltheria didn’t much like Soraya stepping close, either.

Talris stepped into the room after half an hour. Not a moment too soon, as far as Soraya was concerned. The succubus’ baleful glare was becoming difficult, and it had taken much restraint not to turn her to ash with a shock of Light.

‘Small steps, Soraya.’ Talris ushered her into the adjoining chamber. It was lit by a sea of small candles, and on the floor sat an open book, circled by a pulsing rune. ‘I’ve laid out the book and the incantation for you.’

‘What is this?’ she suddenly felt repelled at the sight. Every choice that had brought her here collapsed on her shoulders, weighing her down, filling her with dread and nausea. If she did this, there was no turning back.

‘Fel-weaving. It is simple. If you understood the book, you will succeed.’

She hesitantly stepped inside.

‘Kneel. Take your time.’

The roomed was deceptively large. That, or her fears were distorting her perceptions. It seemed to take minutes to reach where the book lay, but she knew in reality it was simply a few small steps. Slowly she lowered herself to her knees and placed a hand on the cold pages of the tome. She held her breath, recounting every moment that had led her here. Every idea planted in her mind, every one of her own lingering doubts, frustrations and fears. How she longed for something more than the life she had.

Here was her freedom. Here was her strength and power.

She licked her drying lips and spared a final glance at the text. Her gloved hands extended outwards, palms open and ready for the surge of energy they would have to contain. Soraya stood on the edge of the abyss. It was time to take the plunge.

She spoke the words.

[Mistress Elizabeth]

Really good! Keep it up :]

[Deleted]

It's actually finished there. It was a 4 chapter prologue to RP that's going to start going on for me in game. I may add a few bits to it here on occasion, though. We'll see.

[Mistress Elizabeth]

Ah very interesting! I wish I could do in game RPing, but I think Im not cut out for it...

[Deleted]

Everyone has to start somewhere.

In game RP actually tends not to be fulfilling as RP across other mediums, but still. I couldn't play WoW without it. :x