Lights of neon green colour danced around her, at first mere tendrils, but as seconds went by, their might increased, as did their speed. They were no longer swaying in a fine rhythm, but aggressively, a vortex of fel and shadow. All senses were dulled and heightened at the same time. There was a call from the other side. The apprentice felt her flesh torn, ravaged, her soul twisted and abused. She screamed.
And then...
... It all danced in front of her eyes. The pain. The terror. The end.
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What came first? Was it the thud, as metal hit the ground, or was it the pain? The pain. It must have been the pain. A horrific sting into her blood, into her flesh, into her entire body. Her mouth was suddenly dry, as if she was being fried alive, as if someone was taking away the oxygen and all liquid from her body.
"Save... Yourselves..."
The sound was hollow into her ears, yet it managed to reach her. Celysiel raised her eyes, but all shapes were lost into the blurr. Into the pain. She could feel Noraiel's comforting weight as he had collapsed by her side, see the black and red armour of the Blood Lord as he had sacrificed himself to get them a chance to escape. She could not abandon him, she could not. He would die if they left him there.
Or worse...
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"Fight her, Noraiel! Fight her! Fight against her!"
But it did not work. He kept coming closer and closer, as she felt drowning, her hopelessness increasing. His fist rose, though their eyes met briefly, each one asking the other for forgiveness.
Forgive me.
Words that never left their lips. They were seperated by a burst of verdant fires that found their mark on the Oathsworn's stomach. It left her shivering, wanting to vomit and give up for what things had come to. For the fact that she had been made to strike a friend.
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A white light flashed in front of her eyes as something hard made a strike against her face. A burn took over her cheek, while her teeth grazed against her chest. She felt a splash of warm water washed into her mouth. Its taste was peculiar, bitter, almost like licking metal.
That is not water, she thought to herself. That is my blood.
The morbid scent had taken over her nostrils as the crimson liquid was oozing from them, or spat out of her mouth, painting her pink lips. Her skin was burning and her bones were aching. Each punch was worse than before. Each punch made her certain that she would vomit and break. However, Sherazel did not deserve that pleasure.
Soft grunts were only leaving her lips and she hated herself for it, for she could hear the Doommaiden near. She could hear the poison in her voice as she controlled the Oathsworn, urging him not to spare her, not to cease this relentless beating. As he was made to beat the apprentice's face like she was a lifeless husk that deserved no mercy and could feel no pain.
Above her, as he was holding her down, the elf could barely see the anguish in the pyromancer's features, the tears showering his cheeks. There was nothing to forgive. These actions were not his own. Another punch, another white flash, another surge of pain. Sherazel's doing. Not Noraiel's. He was merely a pawn.
I will not scream. She will not have the satisfaction. She will not break me.
A flash of orange shined into the blur of green and black above her head. For once more, her instincts pushed her to run, to try to crawl away, squirming, but Noraiel's grip on her as he kept her against the cold floor was too strong. The tangerine light kept coming closer and closer, becoming warmer and warmer...
The sound that escaped the elf's lips was so loud, so dreadful, that of a wounded animal suffering in the cruel hunter's hands. Cloth and skin alike began to break, blood oozing from the woud. What the flaming fist brought was worse than anything she had ever tasted before. She wanted to quit and admit how vain it was to hope. How beautiful and desirable it had become, the sweet embrace of death.
Fingers felt the blood as they embraced the egg-shaped locket hanging from her neck, the silver now painted red. It was as if the Heart was beating in the metal, full of power, the desire for blood, for vengeance, yet she could not reach it.
"Help me!" she screamed to the locket, holding it tightly. "Come to my aid! Help me and I will surrender to you! I will be yours!" But the power never reached the elf, they never became one. She was weak, pathetic, begging. The Void did not favour weakness.
Blackwood, she thought vividly. Help me understand. Help me understand it. And I will choose the Void.
Theradrim. I will never him again.
The beating stopped. But not her torment.
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Power.
And it was nothing like she had ever seen before. It was nothing like the Overseer paced among the Oathsworn and the Amry of the Light in the wastes of Krokuun with a glint in his eye and the euphoria of might, the knowledge that no demon could oppose him, for he had taken their lifeblood and made it a weapon they would fear. It was nothing like when he spoke and described the potential one could have, the sway of taking hold of a demon's powers, even if it sounded like a charm and art, like one who could achieve and learn such would be invincible.
The torrents of fel and shadow were united at the ends of the Doommaiden's fingers, targetted at the runic circle in the middle of the chamber. But theirs was not a dance. Theirs was not a call. It was something raw and dominant, giving out an overwhelming sensation to all near it. She could see the Blood Lord caged in the distance, though his eyes were not looking at it the same way hers was. He felt no desire.
But if the apprentice could have it...
... Our torment...
... Will end.
To try to reach out for it, to call it to her grasp, how futile. It was as if her mana had been sucked, her magical ability numbened. At that moment, the girl was merely a husk. So empty. So pathetic.
And the torrents shook around their target, the vortex raged, embracing Noraiel and setting him at the centre. He belonged to it. The power would wield him, not him the power.
Celysiel wanted to look away. To find Silvos, to recall the night that he spun the tale of Xorvaros, as she and Noraiel were wounded from their encounter with the fearsome Ur'zul. The heads of the Lightforged were on the monstrosity, surely, they remembered. Now, how tragic, she wanted to tell the Knight Master. How ironic that the storyteller and his audience were in the presence of the one whose story he had not found the time to offer. How it mattered no longer.
It could have held an eon, or perhaps a few seconds, yet the clash of shadow and fel eventually subsided and faded, giving the two elves sight of the one they desired to see. Noraiel stood into the runic circle, in front of Sherazel and her sardonic smile. Waiting. They all knew what for.
He will not bend the knee, Celysiel thought vividly, trying to ignore the pain tormenting her deformed, bloodied face. He will not bend the knee. He will not bend the knee.
He fell down one knee. His first words were drowned, lost as Silvos turned his back to the sight, as the apprentice kept screaming and kicking against her cage. Only a final note was left audible, somewhere under Sherazel's laugher.
"... my mistress."
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What would have otherwise been the wind's gentle caress struck her cheek like a cold needle, making the young elf whine in pain and reach for her face. Her gloved fingers met skin before she anticipated. The swelling had worsened. She could barely feel the muscles anymore. Very gently, her eyelids shivered, though upon the attempts to lift them, a light crunching sound was heard, like they had been sealed with wax.
Tears. I cried. I can cry, Celysiel realised as her digits came over her lashes in order to rub them. Frozen by the altitude, the salty water had crystalized on the edge of her eyes, easily removed upon friction. Pieces of the essence found their way into the white of her eyes as she opened them, causing her to blink several times.
Sleeping had seemed impossible, though her aching body was grateful for the brief chance. The first sight to welcome her was light. Blinding and azure, coming from the bottom of the cage. Celysiel brought her hand over her nose, trying to first adjust to the bright beams, before inspecting the source. Soon enough, her hand fell to caress the glowing rune drawn beneath her, not very different from those on Val. Her wrist twisted and rose and she tried to call green flame to spring from her grasp, but nothing. For as long as she was caged within her cell, any attempt to cast was vain.
Just then, another wave of the wind rushed against her. The cold was painful as it collided against her bleeding lips and swollen features, into her ruined robes to creep against her burns. The Loyalist sought her cloak, only to bring it over her shoulders and feel its embrace, for whatever comfort it could provide.
They were on the ship, on an open space at the bottom. The view of Azeroth was horrific; they stood at the planet's shadow, above Mac'Aree, with the thousand colours of the distant orb blended in a ferocious manner, unkind to the eye. If Oathbinder Aurivian was there, she would assure her that it was a mere spectacle, nothing to be afraid of, for it would not fall on her. But she was not. Nor would she in time.
Looking around, Celysiel was not late to realise that the wide space between the cages was empty. She looked towards Noraiel's cage, empty, for there was no reason for him to remain shackled. He was Noraiel no longer. Not for her. Not anymore. Thus her gaze wandered towards Silvos, though the distance did not allow communication. For a moment, she simply stared, wondering what was in the Blood Knight's mind. Did he hope? Did he pray? Or had he condemned himself and the Loyalist, like she had?
Those were not thoughts to dwell on. In order not to think, she sank back to slumber. If she remained awake, she would burst into tears and crying right above the Void's manifestation was against her wishes.
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The next time Sherazel appeared, her lips were black with her blood.
Now, it was not in Celysiel's interests to look at Silvos. The taste of the liquid was sweeter than one could have expected, not so for her tongue desired it, but the essence was rejuvenating almost. It gave birth to craving, it sprand an addiction.
After a while, there was no need to be held down in order to accept the divine gift of the demon's blood. Yet when the doommaiden left, the apprentice found herself to unrest. Her hands reached for her locket to feel the Heart's temptation cloud and mind and in the whispers of power, find comfort.
But it did not provide any.
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Nothing would provide comfort anymore.
The realisation came as the neon green lights danced around her onto the runic circle, closing in. The winds of might blew away her snowy locks which were painted black from the dried liquid of life, some of which her own. Her hands rose as every sign of resistance was defeated within her, slowly. Invisible strings were passing at her arms and ankles, offered to the puppeteer, but Celysiel was blind to that truth. How foolish they had all been. How foolish to deny the power.
It danced before her and it showed her all that she could not understand. Perhaps, just for a moment, she did. Perhaps, just for a bit, she found the answer that Uleese had never provided, the answer Uleese never would. The bindings of every must and should that the mortal world spoke fell. Another world was opening before them. A reign of terror and ash.
They would know her fury. All who opposed would understand that their end was near.
Into the vortex of fel and shadow, Celysiel smiled. She laughed loudly, though it was the laughter of no one sane. It was not the laughter of Loyalist Celysiel Ashfury of the Sanguine Eye. For she was not her anymore, she did not desire to be.
She was a tool.
"You must wield the power, not the power you."
The power wielded her.
The sweet irony, that the demon controls the warlock and not the other way round.
It all came inside her, into her chest, into her mouth, into her eyes, giving her blindness, giving her sight. And the craving. It wound never end. She did not want it to end. She wanted to relish, destroy, consume, until there would be nothing more.
Only fire and blood. A world of it. Worlds of it. Thousands.
Sherazel's vicious smile was the first thing Celysiel saw, one she mimicked as her glance fell on Silvos breefly. You're next. None escape.
She had not. How foolish it had been to once believe that she could. That there were chances of salvation.
Celysiel Ashfury fell to one knee, her head lowered, her deformed from the swelling faces hidden under the white of her mane. As it rose, two orbs of fel shined brightly beneath. An unnatural glow. Potent, radiant, thirsty.
"I am yours to command, my mistress."
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