Belaena settled her sword against the wall, in the corner. Stripped out of the armor. Pale, even in the candlelight. She ran a hand over the scar, over her heart. The only scar- well, not counting the entry wound, its twin, on her back. She did not scar, now. There was only this transection of her heart, that had felled her, those years ago, in the shadow of the citadel…
Time to “stop and smell the roses”… Days awake, in the swamp, or in the desert. In the mountains, a short slip across the sea. She didn’t really sleep, anymore. Elves could go great stretches without sleep, to begin with, and undead ones, well…
The tub filling with hot water. She didn’t really care about the temperature, but, baths were hot and so she went through the motions. A bottle of rosewater, as always, dripped liberally into the bath. A small vial of a nice sin’dorei vintage, nearby, as she sank into the steaming tub. Familiarity… A bit of scrubbing, then, mostly lying there. She could enter a restful state, a reverie. Familiarity…
Back then…channeling a shield, desperately, above the healers, as everyone trudged forward through the masses of Scourge. Inch by inch. The front line, bit by bit, falling and dying. The shielding bombarded with rocks…old, old spears…pieces of the soldiers that had been at the front… They stopped moving, after a time. Everything to stay in the spot they had made it to. Closing in…seemed hopeless. Then, the hands came, from out of the ground. Was, hopeless. Clawed at…bitten. Shield failing. Everyone, dying. Harder to tell Scourge from the living, as the gore rained down. And then, that rusty blade, in her back. Inch by inch. And reappearing, point gleaming, out the front. Darkness.
Later, in a box. Not truly dead. Not awake, or asleep, really. Changing. Hearing. Hearing him. Admonishing. Cajoling. Royal edicts to the deadish. Some time passed, and then, he gloated. Surety, and fruition. But then…Familiarity: Shock. Disbelief. Loss. And then, nothing. The shrieks of the ghouls rose, and then- Someone Else, sat the Throne. Trying to calm them. Dark, and teeth-gritted concentration, trying to herd that flailing far-flung flock…
More time passed. In her box, beneath the Blood Queen’s chambers, somewhere in the tower. The runes and magic fading… Eventually, the treasure-seekers came. Opening doors they should probably not have. Opening boxes that may have best been left sealed. A cracking, and a hiss…A very bearded face. “We’ll nae be left oot, there’s still treasures tae be had, lads- Oi, it’s jus’ a bleedin’ el-” The disappointed statement started, cut short as she leapt for his throat, a mouthful of beard unheeded. Tearing, and drinking. Gelid, near-dust, in her veins, rapidly watered. Dwarf. A bit dull. Mundane. The milk-cow, finally unable to stand, slaughtered. Rough, but hearty. So very very hearty indeed! His compatriots finally startled from their fright, at his gurgling. Stabbing. The blood flowed from those wounds. Up their blades. In their eyes and ears and mouths, and back out, pulling, pulling theirs along with it. Some human. A gnome? An odd flavor, that. Husks and shiny-slick blades flung away, and no more scarring. She howled. Spat out beard. Stumbled through the tower, and out. Out into the snow and ice. Scrabbling about a glacier…a few weeks? Rancid leftovers, the odd ghoul, or construct…
A cooling bath. The reverie, paused. Scent of roses fading. A sip of the vintage. Sin’dorei, was surely the best. A tinge of mana. A good breeding stock, assuredly. Those hale and healthy farm girls…
But that familiarity, that caused the reverie…a new land…a heavy-handed monarch…mmm, it simply wouldn’t do. No more rancid leftovers. Not again…Never again.