Greetings fellow adventurers…
Welcome to a more modern story of Deathlord Bloodrott!
I will be taking quite a few liberties this time around, as this story takes place after the fall of Fyrakk and just before the War Within.
I open the door to any who wish to become involved in the story, for there are parts in the story that may mention other players with their permission, naturally
Here is one such event I am trying to get started!
Deathknight cameo-roster!
There will most likely be more cameo opportunities in the future.
But without any further ado, let us commence!
Shadow, Blood and Steel
-Bloodrott-
The Incarnate lay dead.
A glorious battle it was.
All was made right in the realm of nature; The Emerald Dream. You’d think a dragon could put a smile on that scaly face after this feat… All thanks to the heroes and adventurers of Azeroth. Even thanks was given to those some would think walking abominations.
Were things so desperate they called upon the likes of those furthest away from nature herself? , the Deathlord thought as he meandered about Valdrakken’s grounds, a mounted armoured Tauren colossus of dead flesh and necrotic energies. He was all too relieved to be out of a realm that he was considered to be the antithesis of. All the while he lingered there, that unwelcome feeling grew, and grew, and grew…
His shadow-plates seemed to shine despite their dark-grey color, tapering to deathly points about the shoulders and the various joints of his body. Underneath lay toughened, woven hides, and clad about his waist, back, and hooded head were cloth of deep, crimson colour, much like tapestries honouring a career of killing.
Deep crimson.
The colour of blood.
The medium of which a being’s Anima resided and flowed.
Delicious, supple Anima…
It has been a while since the Deathlord’s last “meal”, his hunger forever teased in the presence of the living.
The heat of the day was of no help. If anything, it advanced the decay of his dead flesh, demanding more Runic energy to maintain.
To keep cool.
Soon enough the living would start to complain about the “stink” of a lingering deathknight. Sometimes, that fact alone was enough for Bloodrott to consider the school of Frost; Those cold brothers and sisters… They, at the very least, were never complained about regarding their dying flesh in the presence of the living. The envy was halted only for his love of Anima.
His forever-thirst for fresh, new blood.
So long as there was blood to shed, a deathknight versed in the ways of the school of Blood could, technically, live forever. Should a limb become lost, it could be “grown back”, or even sewn back on to ease regeneration, much like they did with the various abominations that the Ebon Blade have created in the past, back on the floating fortress, Acherus. If mastered enough in the ways of Blood, some could even manipulate their size and shape, growing to enormity, or to even shrink down, storing their blood away for another time.
All at the cost of being dead.
No joy to be had.
Barely any feelings to be shared.
Walking, empty shells.
Created, at first, to destroy the living. Some were fortunate to keep some semblance of their former personality, even emotional feelings they may once have exhibited. The vast majority of the time, all was lost and forgotten. Taste, smell, feeling… Not needed for a deathknight.
To say they have come a long way from the days of killing for Arthas’ Scourge would be a massive understatement.
Bloodrott was one such thrall, until Darion Mograine was first to defy the tyrant. Since then, they slew many of the Twilight Council, traversed the mists of Pandaria, stepped through the sands of time to confront a Horde threat from a previous generation, and even went on to sunder the Burning Legion. They even aided in pacifying the constant threat of the Old Gods!
Such feats for dead ones, indeed.
Yet, THEY remain, Bloodrott thought as his ice-glowing eyes stared down a female Forsaken Priest among the grounds of the Valdrakken common area.
The Forsaken.
A problem Bloodrott considered long overdue for rectification. He considered them to be renegade undead, unchecked, walking amok in their vain attempts to reclaim their former lives to return to some form of what they once considered normal.
And look what happened.
Sylvanas Windrunner.
Arthas was cruel to keep her as his banshee queen-pet. All that festering vengeance… all that hatred. If she had just died with her brethren-in-arms the remaining undead would be united under one banner by now…
But such was obviously not the case. And should another rise to take her place… Another vile, scrawny little wretched Forsaken, it would not be in the presence of the Deathlord.
“Ah, what a pleasant day, Deathlord!”, She sarcastically stated from the ground below. This to-and-fro exchange happened on the regular. Yet, today, Bloodrott was feeling more self righteous than usual…
He paused atop his vicious steed, Midnight; An armour-clad war-horse dressed in crimson barding who was effectively “confiscated” from the huntsmen Attumen by the deathlord himself. He stared the shadow-priest down.
Dismounting by de-summoning, he casually strode towards the scrawny Forsaken woman.
“Yes, it WAS. Vile little wretch.”, Bloodrott spat out a mere foot away from her face. His eyes shifted from that blue eerie glow deathknights are known for, to a thirsty blood red.
“Ever so polite, Deathlord.”, she casually responded with a relaxed but clearly amused face, “I am quite blessed to be in the presence of a fellow undead.”.
With that quip, the Forsaken woman turned around and slowly began to walk away.
Bloodrott’s plated arm shot outward toward the Forsaken shadow priest, firmly clutching the entire torso of her body within his grasp. He held for a moment, conscious of all those fellow adventurers around…
“I could crush you like a grape… little wretch.”. He stated with an eerily calm voice, his grasp holding firm. She did not flinch, and kept her relaxed disposition despite the three pointed, large, cold steel plated fingers anchored to her cloth. After an awkwardly long pause, and a curious raising of the eyebrow of a few onlookers, the Deathlord released his grasp, slightly pushing the Forsaken woman forward.
“Hmmph.”, Bloodrott exhaled through his nose as he re-summoned and re-mounted Midnight.
“May the light bless you this day, Deathlord…”, the unfazed shadow priest said, casting a blessing of fortitude upon the Blood deathknight. He quickly turned and glared at her. She simply turned and continued about her day.
I still… to this day… do not know the name of that scrawny little wretch …
It, perhaps, was for the best anyway. The Deathlord had many an hour to brood upon a solution the Forsaken problem.
They would join the Ebon Blade, or they would die.
A simple choice.
One that should never have had to been doted on after Arthas fell.
And one that was never considered since.
Just then, another of his order approached him, matching Midnight’s stride.
“Sister Rimeheart.”, Bloodrott greeted with a salute and a nod.
“Deathlord.”, the Blood Elf Frost Deathknight acknowledged atop the Acherus death-strider, her breath condensing to a cold mist before her.
Bloodrott casually studied the grounds around him. There were far too many ears about the Valdrakken common area. Even the flowing fountain that dominated the Agora would not deafen their words enough for what information would be exchanged.
“Stride with me here, sister. Towards the bridge over yonder.”.
No doubt this new information would entail the latest progress regarding “the project”.
Should anyone discover this, there will be a reckoning… They would all come for me…
The Project…
Shortly after the Dragon Isles were re-discovered by the denizens of Azeroth, the Deathlord ventured to Northrend to assess the remnant Scourge situation at Icecrown. He sought out Darion Mograine, the Ebon Blade’s current leader and “Lich King Interim”, as Bloodrott humorously deemed him as (since the stepping-down from Bolvar Fordragon). Many issues were brought forth by Deathlord Bloodrott, hounding Darion on the issue of the Forsaken and the ultimate purpose of their order; The Ebon Blade.
Roughly two years ago…
“You realize our order only becomes useful when there are unchecked undead still roaming amok about Azeroth. What thereafter, Darion?”, Deathlord Bloodrott’s deep Tauren voice echoed all around a frost ridden chamber at the base of Icecrown Citadel, it’s bland yet harsh tone accompanied with a slight rasp.
After a moment in thought, a voice joined the cold ice-blue stare given by the former Death-rider, “What we have always done, Deathlord. Defend Azeroth in ways the living cannot.”
Bloodrott pondered momentarily, slowly turning and pacing about the room, his massive frame rhythmically thundering throughout the halls with every step.
“In ways the living cannot…”, he repeated what was said to him after a while, “I do agree with our… unofficial charge and duty. The enemies of Azeroth will always thirst for her power… but… Darion… we thirst evermore… for blood. For the essence of the living. The eternal hunger, Darion. The Anima. Have you a final solution to that? Do we feast upon the perpetuated war and strife until we are no longer needed, and die off, one by one?”, his eyes met with Darion’s as he finished his bout. The two knights of the Ebon Blade basked in silence brought forth by the questioning of their existence. Deathlord Bloodrott would break the lingering silence with another issue.
“And what of the Forsaken? Those… scrawny wretched fools who think they can still claim their past lives? Why have they not been inducted into our ranks yet?”.
“Deathlord, you cannot possibly expect me to ransack the remnants of their faction by force. Even if I did consider it, there will be repercussions, let alone the debasing of our order we have fought so valiantly for to bring it to a reputable standing, enough to keep the living from condemning us entirely from Azeroth. They tolerate our existence enough as it is… as custodians of the dead and remnant Scourge forces. We shall remain as such.”, Darion finished with thud of a plated finger on the stone table.
“You do nothing, then? What will you do should we have another “Sylvanas Windrunner” on our hands? You DO recall how our forces were decimated within the first day of our little “foray” into the Shadowlands?”, Bloodrott shot back at his leader interim.
“Bolvar had little time to respond to the kidnappings, you know this, Deathlord…”.
“At the cost of nearly all our standing forces? Ever more reason why we need to proceed with the acquisition of the Forsaken.”, Bloodrott demanded, followed by a slow-shaking head from Darion.
“If you do not, then perhaps I will.”, the Deathlord coldly stated.
Darion Mograine’s cold eyes were now wide open.
“With what army? By what decree? No. You cannot do this, Bloodrott. After all we have been through… This is madness! No other knight of the Ebon Blade will even consider following you.”.
“This is progress, Darion”, Bloodrott reassured his Ebon Blade colleague, “And it is perhaps long overdue that we found a true, elected leader of our order…”.
“You have crossed a terrible threshold here… Ebow’ji Darkclou-”.
“THAT NAME… NO LONGER HOLDS ANY MEANING TO ME.”, Bloodrott’s plated finger darted out towards Darion Mograine, his eyes flaring red, enraged of being reminded of that weak Tauren he had been those many years before…
Darion continued, “Know this, Deathlord. You will be stripped of standing with the Ebon Blade should you continue this route. You and those who would follow you in this folly of yours…”.
Bloodrott briskly made his way to the exit, before stopping momentarily, “IF that is what is to become, then so be it. Sit here and do what you do best. Rot.”
His pounding stride echoed through the halls as he approached the exit.
“Suffer well.”
Return to present day
The pair of Ebon Blade deathknights crossed the bridge and made their way near a vista overlooking the grand waterfalls of Thaldraszus and the span before them, gaping the distance from the bordering mountainous terrain of the Ohn’ahran plains in the distance below. The setting sun lingered above the horizon, the perfect private setting for a romantic couple.
Though, what was to be discussed was anything but romantic.
“I take it things are progressing as they should?”, Bloodrott asked of his order-sister.
Sister Rimeheart informed, “We have ransacked nearly every grave and battle-site in the Eastern Kingdoms. Progress continues but we will need a lot more biomass… What do you propose, brother Bloodrott?”.
“I knew this would become an issue. What of our runic machinations? Do they still uphold and function well?”, Bloodrott inquired of his project.
“They function flawlessly. They integrate well with Maldraxxian construct technology. And of course, of no small part regarding your runic mastery.”
Indeed, runic concepts was one of the endeavours Bloodrott mastered in his undeath. The ability to wield magic in a stored potential form had many a use for the Ebon Blade. It gave the deathknights the ability to wield schools of magic they could otherwise have no access to. Such raw magic could have limitless possibilities… should you delve into an understanding of it.
And Deathlord Bloodrott delved deep.
“This is excellent to hear. We must remain concealed for the entirety of the project. Any compromise may very well destroy us, and any hope of ultimately saving Azeroth… our beautiful earth mother…”
-Malorogg-
The Portal remained open at the expense of the demon Imps that fuelled it, their bodies struggling aimlessly as the soul-cages that slowly sapped their existence remained sturdy in their function.
The Orc warlock recoiled at the piercing cold winds of Northrend’s Icecrown province. What the deathknights had planned here near this open plain remained a mystery to him. The souls they would be providing in return for his services was more than enough for him to bother asking questions. Such a commodity was hard to come by these days, in lieu of the legions defeat.
I wonder what gadgets they’ll haul in from the Shadowlands this time…
He had been compliant on his end of the bargain thus far. It had been over a year since he had accepted the terms of the task they had carefully and selectively sought him out for. The import of strange artifacts and technology from Maldraxxus did pique an interest from him, time to time, as he kept open portal after portal on the “down low” for the Ebon Blade.
Or was it the Crimson Maw?.. I can care less what these deathknights call themselves these days…
Always in the same spot.
An open plain of large snow drifts and ice in the valley of a glacier. A quarry that was mined out for Saronite those years ago could be seen in the distance. Other than that, there was nothing around him save for the massive looming profile of Icecrown Citadel.
No signs of the living anyway.
Once in a while he would have to reduce a ghoul or two to smouldering green fel-cinders. The deathknights did warn him of remnant scourge forces…
You’d think these deathknights could clean up their backyard after all these years , he thought as the last bit of Imp-essence was drained from one of the soul-cages. He was quick to refill it with another unfortunate Imp minion begging him not to be used as fuel.
After a short while of shivering and a shoulder-check or two, a steel sabaton of wicked steel-craft stepped forth from the green glow of the portal, slamming down into the tundra as if to brace for lifting something heavy.
About time.
The remainder of the Human deathknight came through, hauling the end of a Maldraxxian rune matrix. It’s profile was spire-like, made with a dark metal that emitted eerie turquoise pulses from it’s various pointed ends. On the other end of the dark apparatus emerged his Draenei partner, steadily lifting what was obviously the larger portion of the machine.
With a simple cast, the portal was closed, and the grovelling of the spared minions began.
It was a strange machine of odd make. Malorogg had ventured into Maldraxxus for a short time, during the pursuit of Sylvanas Windrunner. He would think he had seen such craft before, but this machine was… different. It reminded him of scourge constructs but with a Maldraxxian touch…
Whatever use it would see did not concern him in the least. Only the souls promised to him once this was all over. And if things had gone according to the schedule, this would be the final service rendered.
And now I collect my pay…
[Orcish] “Deathknights.”, the Warlock addressed the pair of dead men, [Orcish] “If I am not mistaken, this was the last of the shipments your organization required, was it not?”
The two former Alliance soldiers placed the apparatus down and silently looked at one another before slowly staring back at the warlock.
Malorogg sighed, [Orcish] “Let me guess, you two don’t have a clue what I just said.”, he stated assertively, quite annoyed.
Yet again, both deathknights looked at one another, and looked back. They immediately began summoning undead minions from the ground around them.
Malorogg’s concern for the cold was abruptly replaced with that of his life. He tensed up, ready to flay what remained of the soul of the Draenei in a moments notice.
The freshly risen minions casually walked past him, towards the Maldraxxian apparatus, and lifted it as one, carrying it towards the abandoned quarry in a shambling mass of slave-labour.
The green glow of Fel energies subsided as did the quickened pace of his heart.
Without skipping a beat, the undead human lifted his plated armoured arm and pointed over to Icecrown Citadel in the distance. Seems his payment awaited him at the deathknight’s headquarters after all…
[Orcish] “Lead the way…”, he gestured heavily, stepping aside for the pair of deathknights. Like machines, they began their march towards the base of the Citadel, towards the horror gate; Corp’rethar.
The warlock rolled his eyes and reluctantly followed.
It had been some years since he had last been to Icecrown Citadel. The Alliance and the Horde had finally worked up the nerve to strike at the Lich King, and he could not wait to unleash his newfound Fel powers upon the Scourge. He fought through the horrors of the undead, as numerous as they were, and even fought the Alliance in an aerial battle to maintain dominance of the battlefield.
And here I am. Before two of these wretched former Alliance, ready to collect my due.
The latent heat from the Fel fires he kept about himself sufficed enough to keep him from totally freezing. He could not feel his extremities and was much relieved when he entered past the portcullis leading into the forge of souls.
The Soul Forge.
Where else would he find his payment of souls?
I should have known it would be here…
[Orcish] “Warlock.”, a female Orc deathknight addressed him as he parted ways from the pair of his deathknight guides.
[Orcish] “Throm ka.”, he said with a bow, [Orcish] “I had feared deathknights only spoke human common. I am glad to be mistaken in this case.”.
The deathknight replied with a “hmmph.”, and gestured for Malorogg to follow. Glad to be in somewhat familiar company, albeit undead, his curiousity became the better of him.
[Orcish] “I have been at the service of the Ebon Blade for over a year now. I cannot help but notice the large number of artifacts and gadgets brought in from the shadowlands…”.
With that, the deathknight halted pace, the echoing remnants of the last part of Malorogg’s statement bounced about the chasm as she stared down the warlock with an ice-blue glow.
With a slight look around the chasm, across the span they were in the midst of crossing, she quietly stated, [Orcish] “You are to remain silent about any and all involvement regarding the project.”.
Malorogg grinned, [Orcish] “…Pending my payment. I have waited a long year for souls. Do you know how hard it is to attain sentient souls with naught an enemy to fight?”.
The deathknight remained silent.
The warlock remained stern in his stare.
[Orcish] “Souls. Now. I wish to be done with this business and away from this… accursed cold.”.
He was promised enough souls that he could burn through three per day for five years straight. It was the best source he could find after the Primalists were put down and defeated. How he would transport them to his holdings remained a problem to be solved.
We’ll cross that bridge when we get there , he mused to himself as they crossed the last span over the chasm below, and entered a cavernous room.
He found it quite peculiar that a deathknight would care to lower their voice… in their own stronghold. Something was surely amiss among the Ebon Blade, but it simply was not his station to care.
The pair of Orcs made their way to a platform that was surrounded by ornate constructs that seemed to point to an encircled centre. Malorogg was intrigued as any who would gaze upon such massive machinery.
Ah. This must be where they house latent souls… an interesting mechanism…
Malorogg pondered it’s design, wondering how he could store the souls he was promised.
The Orcish deathknight briskly strode forth, just about the edge of the centre. She turned about, slowly, encasing herself in what looked like a rune-barrier.
[Orcish] “Your payment.”, she stated simply, extending her arm out towards the eager Warlock.
Without a moment’s notice, he was gripped about the neck with dark energies, pulling him in towards the centre of the construct. He was asphyxiated by the same dark energy she cast about herself, prevent him from casting, let alone screaming.
[Orcish] “Courtesy of Deathlord Bloodrott. You will serve Azeroth in ways above yourself, Warlock.”, she explained as beams of pure runic energy stripped the flesh off his bone in a matter of moments, the broken down mass funnelled into the small orifice under him. His bone mass soon followed as he pondered the last panicked moments of his existence until there was at last nothing left of the Warlock Malorogg.
A life time committed to rendering the souls of others for power. It seemed only fitting his flesh would be paying the price.
More to follow! I swear!