The Sword

Featuring: Meganna
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It was late, and the moon's light just barely managed to pierce the sickly brown haze that permeated the air around the ruins outside Stratholme. Clad in her full armor, sword at her side and shield on her back, Meg stood atop a small rise where she hoped she would be out of sight of the assortment of ghouls and abominations that roamed the destroyed houses that lined the road leading to the city gates. She herself wasn't far removed from the monsters that roamed below, having been one of them until being freed from that mindless state just over a year before. But she remained in essence an animated corpse, little more than pale skin and bones in a suit of battered red armor, even her black hair faded to a dull plum by death and magic. It was a condition she both detested and couldn't help but dwell on, and that dwelling had tonight brought her out to the city she had died defending. It wasn't her first trip back to the burning, Scourge-ravaged city, but it was the first she had taken alone. A barely-remembered dream had compelled her to come long after anyone she could ask to join her had gone to sleep for the night. But Meg had been training, and so long as she kept to herself and didn't attract the attention of too many of the ghouls haunting the place she knew she'd be okay. 
With only the soft clattering of shifting metal armor she lowered herself to the ground and took a seat facing the glow of the burning city. She tucked her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on top. Memories of her former home usually hurt so badly that she rarely allowed herself to dwell on them. Her glowing eyes scanned the ruins for anything familiar, letting her memory fill in the walls of houses that had been torn to foundations. Bony, clawed hands balled into fists as she recalled the people who had lived and died here, many of whom she had met in her work as a city guard. She had failed them. She hadn't been able to save them from the Scourge or their mad prince. She hadn't even been able to save herself. 
Her eyes went distant and unfocused as she turned herself over to her guilt. Her prior trips had always included someone she could talk to, someone who could bolster her spirits, but here alone she was completely at its mercy. Though her dead eyes were dry, her thin frame was wracked with sobs as she recalled her father, her brother, her friends from the guard who had either fallen to Arthas or the Scourge. On some level she realized this was what she had needed when she came here in the first place, to simply grieve, and so she let it overtake her. 
Meg sat on the hill lost in herself for nearly an hour before slowly realizing that she was looking at a strange gleam in the weeds at the bottom of the hill. She blinked as her eyes finally focused again. Even in the diffuse moonlight the object shone like finely polished metal, and her blacksmith's curiosity pulled her from the fugue of her memories. Armor creaking, she got to her feet, then slowly edged her way down. As she got closer she made out the shape of a sword concealed just well enough in the overgrown weeds to have kept it from notice until now. She knelt beside it, pulling the clinging, sickly foliage back until she found the hilt. Where the blade met the handle there was an elaborately-carved skull, and the cross-guard was sculpted in jagged edges like a bat's wings. She ran a finger across the skull. There was a strange power to it, one she couldn't quite place but which was nonetheless familiar, one that put her in mind of the Undercity. She frowned thoughtfully. Not the Undercity itself, but something she had encountered there... 
Her hand trailed down to the grip and she took hold of it, pulling it free with no resistance from the weeds that had shielded it for years. Getting to her feet, she swung it experimentally, her face blooming into a broad grin as she felt how perfectly balanced the sword was. "It's beautiful," she whispered to herself as she moved with surprising grace from one fighting stance to another. Suddenly remembering herself, she crouched back down before anything lurking in the ruins took notice of her. She examined the blade, noting a few small nicks that would need to be hammered out, then nodded to herself in satisfaction. The undead young women rose, peered around warily, and silently made her way out of the ruins, the sword gripped tightly in her hand.
Category:StoriesCategory:Horde Stories