The village was dark and dreary; only the dead lingered there. Long, thick vines of the swamp escaped the muddy waters to embrace ancienst stone caved into ground which had known the kiss of corrosion. But the dead did not mind. Phantoms of old were wandering as if locked in a constant memory, thinking they were of the living. Yet the truth was another. They were bound to a single purpose: service.
They did not approach the elf, nor look at her as she stepped on the cobblestones, entering the village. In the distance, the blood moon was painted on the grey sky, shining its ominous light on the necropolis. A silver light almost glimmered upon the dark waters separating the woman's current location with her destination. Weeks of journey had finally brought her where she desired to be.
Celysiel showed not a single hint of fear as she crossed the small village, walking among Bwonsamdi's spectral servants. Death she feared no more, nor those eternally locked in its embrace. It was not long ago that ghosts had whispered in her ear, granting the secrets of the afterlife to one so eager to cross the barrier at that forgotten beach where an ambitious Prince had once found purpose, or even before, when shadow offered her sight, allowing her to witness the torment of the Dead Scar. She was no longer the woman who would flinch at the sight of rotting flesh, nor the one who could speak words softly. That girl was gone. The woman to have taken her place was a harbinger of a cruel destiny.
No pause was made upon reaching the bridge, broken by the hand of time. Never did her expression flinch as her ankles and robes were soaked by the waters of the swamp. They should have felt warm, yet so close to the necropolis, their temperature was rather low. With every step, more would join her journey. Earlier, their forms were not seen, lost in another layer of the world, but now the veil was lifted. Men, women and children, warriors and poets, rich and poor, each was making their appearance the closer she came to the temple. All possessed Trollish features, beckoned by the call of their Death Loa.
"Where we be goin', mada?" asked a little boy nearby. If his voice was ever sweet, it was now distorted by the echoes of death, distant and unworldly.
"Hush, child." his mother replied, holding him by the hand. Though her son's body seemed intact, a black line ran horizontally on her throat.
They did not ever look at the living presence travelling with them, as did no one else. Never did the dead complain, nor let her know that her place was not among them. They simply kept walking, ushered by a force none of them could explain. Perhaps not even their god.
The very moment Celysiel set foot past the threshold of the city of the dead, two braziers lit by her side, as if sensing her presence, as if aware of her still warm breath, the beating of her heart. Pale blue was the flame within, almost grey. It was no real fire, yet a fine source of light, even if dim and worthless under the magnitude of the crimson lunar body. The dominion of the dead deserved nothing different.
Even though she made a pause, the dead did not step their journey; it did not end there after all. To the left and right they stepped, where the necropolis was extending in greater sections littered by ruins that complimented the main temple's glory. It stood in the blood moon's shadow, reaching towards its misty light. Windowless, the only light it received was silver and faint, as if granted by the echoes of the spirits. What stood between it and the elf was a courtyard shrouded in fog. In spite of this, the entrances of the catacombs did not escape the spectator's eye. In the middle of the courtyard, which the phantoms did not haunt, stood a creation of stone, not too different to an altar. And kneeling before it, a man.
He was not of the dead, yet equally ignored by them, as was the pariah in Bwonsamdi's territory. Tattered were his robes and dark his skin. Even as the woman behind him began to move, descending on the steps which led to the courtyard, he did not flinch, as if unaware of her presence, thus continuing his prayer. If he whispered, it was not audible. In spite of the necropolis' cold, there was a haunting silence, an awful stillness, a sinister peace.
It was when Celysiel abandoned the last step that he spoke. "Dis place not be for da living." His voice was husky, yet low, as if his vocal chords were rarely exercised.
He need not have told her for the woman to be aware. She nodded, her voice not so different to his when she finally spoke. "I am looking for Raal'jin."
Slowly, the Zandalari Troll rose on his large feet and turned around to look at her. His shoulders were broad and his arms not quite slender, but his torso seemed slightly caved, as if he had known hunger. And still, his life was not always in worn robes and worship. He possessed the form of an old warrior.
"Ya be not of Zandalar." he spoke, while raising his right hand on his chest, gesturing to himself. "How ya know me?"
Had there been any expectations, he would have perhaps exceeded them, but Celysiel's mind had never dared imagine what a priest of Bwonsamdi would be like. Again, she merely dipped her head. "I asked in Dazalr'alor." came her reply. "They sent me here. They sent me to you."
It was not overly lowly that the Troll huffed, no stranger to the feeling of contempt. Yet he did not waft a hand, careful with the space he occupied, avoiding any sharp gestures. "Dis be no place for da living." he repeated for once more. "Leave."
The elf did not, keeping her intense stare on him. "You are of the living." she calmly uttered.
"I be different." he argued lowly.
"They say you are cursed."
At that, Raal'jin made a pause. Glowing azure eyes regarded Celysiel as if for the first time. Neither the phantoms, nor the blood moon had pieced her skin, but under the priest's gaze, she felt a shudder, as if it was travelling to her very core. It was serene, but not inquisitive. Not burdened by apathy, but eternal sorrow.
"Ya be cursed too." Raal'jin eventually uttered. If there was a hint of softness in his voice, it faded all too quickly. "It cannot be undone. Dis place not gonna help. Ya be tainted. And ta make a deal will be a worse curse upon ya. Leave." He gestured towards the stairs, though not with aggression, before turning his pack to her, prepared to walk away. "You be findin' no help here."
Haste was pressed in Celysiel's feet as the Zandalari chose to step away, heeled boots colliding with the barren ground. "Wait." she said, without trying to physically stop him. Instead, her form was brought in front of him, blocking his way. "All I seek is knowledge. They say you may possess it. Nothing more." she tried to assure. "Merely your word."
He looked at her for once more, now with pity, rather than the repulsion that her sick and frail features, painted by weakness and disease usually earned her. A yellow crust sat at the bottom of her eyes, just above black circles bruising her horribly pale skin. Her cheeks were sunken. That she still stood could surprise anyone.
With wordless acceptance, he let his hand be guided on the silver locket hanging from her neck. No matter how intense her stare was, Celysiel found reaction to the grim surprise that lingered within the prison of precious metal. Only more pity. "It be dying." the priest announced lowly. "It been hurt. Strugglin'. It be dying."
It was no news to the Sin'dorei, yet she found herself tensing up, not far from grief's doorstep as she heard the verdict for the first time by the lips of another. Slowly she nodded, keeping her cold, small hands around the blue ones of the Zandalari. "It is suffering." she spoke, feeling a gentle tremble on her voice. "I cannot let it perish. Please, tell me how to save it."
Raal'jin's pity never left his eyes. His stare on the Blood Elf's features was long and refretful, as if he could see a mirror of himself in someone far weaker. "Death not be grantin' gifts, mon. A soul for a soul. A price must always be paid. But dis?" The Troll gave the locket a gentle shake. "Dis be powerful voodo. Dis be needin' more."
"I tried." The edge of despair was coating her voice, so very difficult to contain. "There is nothing I did not do. I offered a feast, I did it all. It will not come back. It will not stop. The inevitable is merely delayed."
But the Zandalari shook his head, not abandoning the locket entrusted to his grasp. "Dis not be enough, not for dis. You have not gone far enough."
"Then what?" Celysiel asked. Her right hand slipped from the priest's, reaching for the chain that bound the locket. "What must I do?"
"Ya be needin' someting meaningful." Raal'jin explained. "Ya be needin' rage. Ya be needin' anguish. Ya be needin' pain. Ya be needin' deir last breath."
He looked into her eyes, green still, as a weak heartbeat echoed on his palm. And within he saw the truth, he saw the vast pits of sorrow and endless darkness. He saw the fading morality and the desire to pay the price about to be spoken. He saw yet another too fast lost in the path of the damned.
"Ya be needin' blood."
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