The sun had just begun its descending arc for the day in the skies above the Howling Fjord, providing little enough warmth for the creatures below despite its brightness. Cold was no issue for Kirendar though–the quel’dorei death knight having shed his mortal coil several years ago. Under normal circumstances he would be back in the Eastern Kingdoms with his ranger band, conducting operations against the Horde. Cultist activity in Northrend though had been unusually high of late, thus when the Ebon Blade requested his services for spearheading an investigation he obliged…perhaps to his detriment, given that his comrade had deserted him in the middle of the mission. Not that he could blame the other death knight–the man’s sister was apparently in some kind of serious trouble that required immediate attention, although Kirendar had been nearly certain beyond a doubt that all familial ties had been long abandoned.
Kirendar shifted his position in the brush, keeping his watchful gaze resting on the sprawling vrykul graveyard before him. He had found plenty of signs of cultist activity–exhumed remains, traces of dark magic and reagents left over from rituals–yet he had been unable to catch any of the culprits themselves. Questioning the townsfolk of the nearby Valgarde Keep had yielded little information other than that strangers had been coming more often to town with unknown purpose, serving to confirm that he was indeed on the right track. Thus, he found himself with little other course to logically pursue other than wait. And wait he could certainly do.
Time crept by at a snail’s pace, though the quel’dorei remained unyielding. With a statue-like stillness he kept watch, long minutes beginning to turn into hours. Only at the appearance of a human warrior did he perk up, peeking above the concealing brush for a moment to get a better look. She didn’t look much like a cultist, given the rag-tag appearance of her armor and weapons–the shield on her back having clearly seen better days. Her darkish-blonde hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail and appeared to be clean rather than dirty, and she seemed to be more curious about the writing and depictions etched into the stone cairns than she was about disturbing the graves.
An adventurer then…perhaps a clueless one at that… he mused, watching the warrior’s progress as she wound her way through the graveyard. Or a clever disguise, if not a newcomer seeking to join the Cult of the Damned…
His expression hardened as he crept out of his hiding spot, quietly unsheathing the twin runeblades from his back and stalking forward. His long stride closed the distance quickly, while uncounted decades of experience as a Farstrider allowed him to pass unnoticed. “And just what do you think you’re doing?” he asked sharply, bringing the left swordpoint to rest on the back of the warrior’s neck.
The warrior yelped, freezing in her tracks and shaking in fear. “D-d-don’t hurt me, please! I didn’t mean any harm!” she stammered, cautiously turning her head to catch a glimpse of the quel’dorei over her shoulder. “I-I…I’m just looking for my brother! He was supposed to be here on a mission!”
Kirendar simply snorted, circling around to stand in front of the warrior. “I’m sure you were,” he replied, tone dripping with sarcasm. “And what, pray tell, is the name of this so-called brother that you would just happen to be meeting here in a graveyard, and not in civilized company.”
The warrior blinked, shrinking away from the blade as much as she dared and continuing to shake like a leaf. “Mor-Morician Blackborne…sir…have…have you seen him?” She studied his tabard for a moment, some of her trembling ceasing as she finally looked him in the eye.
Kirendar’s eyes widened in shock at the revelation, though he was quick to regain his composure. “Possibly…what is your name, girl?”
“M-Margaretta Blackborne…”
He cursed himself inwardly at the response. If she truly was Morician’s sister–and there was certainly some family resemblance there–then it very likely meant his companion had been duped into abandoning his post. Perhaps it had been a ploy of the cult, if they suspected they were being watched. Or perhaps fate had decided to play a cruel trick on him for past sins.
Before he could offer a response, however, a startled shout rang out nearby, followed by a shadowbolt whizzing by his ear. A large gaggle of cultists appeared over a nearby rise, spreading out to surround the pair in a loose ring. “To arms!” he snarled at Retta, turning to charge into the fray. “The pleasantries can be exchanged later!”
His initial strike felled one cultist, while the second felled another. Keeping his momentum, Kirendar pressed the advantage, laying low two more cultists with a flurry of steel. Only a terrified cry from Retta gave him pause.
"Lay down your arms, or your little friend here won’t be long for this world!" barked what appeared to be the lead cultist, pressing a knife to Retta’s neck and drawing a trickle of blood. Kirendar hesitated. Not only had he overestimated Retta’s combat capability, but he had also failed to pay attention to the surroundings with her unexpected arrival, allowing the cultists to gain the upper hand. While he had no obligation to defend her, allowing her to die would inevitably ensure her brother’s everlasting hatred…something he certainly wasn’t keen on. He was treading on thin enough ice as it was already.
Kirendar swore as he stabbed his blades into the earth, retreating a few paces and shooting the lead cultist a sour look. “I’m so glad we could come to an…agreement…” the leader sneered, shoving Retta at the quel’dorei before motioning at the pair. “Bind them! The master will be pleased to have such prizes!”
Blackborne…you’re going to owe me for this… Kirendar thought bitterly as the cultists proceeded to bind his hands and feet, doing the same for Retta as well. Or at the very least it will make us even. His ears twitched as footsteps sounded from behind–a sharp blow to the back of the head and he knew no more.