Lady Lowe

Acherus would be moving soon, and for the death knights of the Ebon Blade, there was much preparation to be done. The necropolis would join Dalaran in the skies over the Broken Isles during their offensive against the Legion, an opportunity to slay countless foes that had most of their order buzzing with excitement. As much as they could be, anyway.

The Highlord bellowed his orders, his sharp voice reverberating through the dark halls and stirring each knight into motion. Blades were whetted, runes were emblazoned into steel in the deathforges, and groups of knights studied maps of the isles while talking strategies.

Wirneth Lowe stood on Acherus’ balcony, studying the parched, diseased ground of the Eastern Plaguelands below. On the horizon she could faintly pick out a silhouetted Stratholme and felt a pang of something painful in her chest. It was a difficult emotion to identify. Heartbreak, perhaps? Did she miss her home, was that it? With the pain came an odd sensation of calm and quiet, and any irritation or rage she might be feeling today fell away into background noise. Was this acceptance? Some part of her hoped it was.

She thought on the happy memories with her family she had made there, and of the dreadful night when it was all lost. She remembered rotting away there, starving, hunting spiders to eat when there was nothing else. She remembered how friendly Kel’thuzad had been when he visited their family home to talk with her equally-traitorous mother, Lady Cordelia. Dining with nobles and people of import had always been something she enjoyed. She recalled the wonderfully-cooked pork dish served at the Rivendare homestead, and how impressed she had been by the grandeur of the place. The Baron had been pleasant enough, but really only spoke with Cordelia. It made sense why now, Wirneth thought. His son had got along well with her brother Valentin, and the two had far too much to drink that night. She and her parents had teased Valentin about it for months afterwards, much to his displeasure.

Wirneth sighed-- memories were pointless to dwell on for long. She supposed she would miss seeing her old home from her new one. Perhaps once the Legion were dealt with Acherus would return to the Easten Plaguelands. She made a note to discuss it with the Highlord at a later date. For now, there was work to be done. She tucked her hair behind her ears and pulled on her helmet, deliberately chosen for its ghastly appearance. The front was warped into a twisted grimace, with iron teeth bared in a snarl. A long horn jutted from the front, a feature she had used to gore enemies in the past. At its back was a wild mane of long white fur. Wirneth did not know what beast it came from, but did not care. It was *her*mane now. She took her weapon in hand and rested it over her shoulder, metal boots clacking against the floor as she made her way through Acherus. As she had done so many times before, she made certain to nod or salute to death knights of note as she passed. Saltyne, a former night elven warden, returned the gesture to Wirneth, momentarily pausing her hard work of polishing dried gore from her wicked spear. To Zam’mahi, a Darkspear troll who currently leaned heavily on her blade as she watched the other knights scurry about, Wirneth offered a nod. The troll grinned around her tusks. “On the prowl are ya, Lady Lowe?”

   “Always,” Wirneth replied, her voice echoing within her helm. “Have you seen Lady Silverheart? It is about time we make for Dalaran and warn Khadgar of our impending arrival. It would be a shame for him to waste magic on trying to shoot down a necropolis that arrived without warning.”

Zam’mahi smirked, scratching flakes of blood off of the hilt of her sword. “I dunno, could be fun to watch. Ya twin be down below, though, talkin’ with the Highlord.”

Wirneth thanked her and went on her way, stepping through the teleporter to reach the lower level of Acherus. And there was Kelleth Silverheart, frowning as she went over the details of her mission with Mograine.

   “You know I don’t do well with talking,” Kelleth was saying to him. “Ten gold says I’d make Khadgar cry in a few sentences.”

The blue glow behind Darion’s mask flickered as the Highlord rolled his eyes. “Then let Lowe do the talking. Remember-- in and out fast. In, explain the situation to Khadgar, report back, and get on the ground to fight. Do not bother waiting for us to arrive to begin.”

Kelleth grunted, which meant she was content to obey. Her gaze flitted to Wirneth, and her scarred lips stretched into a smile. “Ah, there you are. Ready to get going?”

Wirneth glanced to the Highlord before replying, and received only a nod from him. That decided it. “Let’s get this over with, then,” she said. Her words were unfriendly, but her tone was not. In truth, Kelleth Silverheart was her closest friend. It was funny, really, she had never expected to have such a camaraderie with a blood elf, of all things. But Kelleth had attached herself to Wirneth’s side on the day of her resurrection and had not left since. That was one of the reasons many of the knights called the two “the twins”. The other, more obvious reason was that they really did resemble one another quite strongly. Both had bone-white skin and pitch-black hair, and were even of a similar height, though Wirneth was the taller of the two. Kelleth was, in Wirneth’s opinion, exactly how she would look had she been a blood elf. Kelleth had the same thoughts of her, and seemed fascinated with humans in general.

Mission in mind, the twins set out for Dalaran on the back of Kelleth’s skeletal gryphon. It was an irritable beast, but flew fast and true under Kelleth’s often harsh direction. It caught on a wind current as they passed over the coastline of the Eastern Kingdoms, soaring effortlessly over the endless expanse of dark water. It took some time, and how long Wirneth was not sure, but Dalaran came into view first as a speck floating over other specks breaking the surface of the water, and quickly expanding into their view as the gryphon raced to meet its destination. It set down on a much more crumbled Krasus’ Landing than Wirneth had remembered visiting during the campaign against Arthas, but familiar faces only slightly changed with age came to greet her just as they had then.

She and Kelleth slid off of the gryphon, which screeched hollowly and set off again to be called later. The two removed their helmets and made their way through the streets of Dalaran, which were changed but not unrecognisable. The biggest difference, though, were how many people were here. After Arthas was defeated the floating city had gone quiet, deserted but for the resident mages who saw no reason to follow the new threats that Azeroth encountered, but now the city was bursting with life. Champions of the Horde and Alliance sat together in the Legerdemain Lounge, using gestures and grunts to fill in where they met language barriers. It reminded Wirneth of how little faction difference meant to many death knights-- they were not the people they once were, so why hold on to old grudges? She almost smiled as she watched a troll and a dwarf laugh breathlessly together at a goblin mage performing magic tricks for their amusement. It was... nice. And very surprising, considering the animosity caused by the deaths of both the Warchief and the High King on the Broken Shore. Perhaps they had thought it best to put conflict aside to focus on the greater evil.

They soon reached the Violet Citadel, and Khadgar came to greet them with a puzzled smile on his face.

   “Lady Lowe!” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “What a surprise! I have not seen you since Draenor. How have you been?”

Wirneth shook his hand, moving her dead lips into a polite smile. Had he not noticed her on the Broken Shore? Perhaps the old man was losing his vision. “It is good to see you, Khadgar. We have been, well, as surprised as any by the defeat on the Broken Shore. We have come to inform you that Acherus will be moving close in a matter of hours, as to enable us to provide better assistance during this war.”

Khadgar raised his eyebrows. “Marvellous! I shall alert the other mages right away. Ah, we’ll be fighting Gul’dan together again, just like old times!”

The Archmage vanished for a moment, poking his head back into the Citadel to shout something about Acherus, and then reappeared, still smiling. “Well, with that sorted, why don’t we talk tactics? There are all manner of threats across the Broken Isles-- well, mostly demons, but other things as well.”

The tactics talk was as brief as it could be, and Wirneth made sure to keep her questions and input as short as possible. She could feel Kelleth getting impatient behind her and was mindful of the Highlord’s orders. When they finally freed themselves from Khadgar’s presence, Kelleth sighed with such relief she almost fell over.

   “Is it bad to say I really, *really*hate the living?” she grumbled.

Wirneth laughed. “Yeah, I would say so.”

   “Good,” said Kelleth, casting a glare at her surroundings. “I liked this place better in Northrend. And I don’t like Khadgar.”

The elf continued to complain, pausing only open a death gate. “Right, well I had best be reporting back to the Highlord. Why don’t you scope the city out? We’ll all join you on the Broken Isles shortly.”

Wirneth nodded and bid her friend farewell, supposing she might as well acquaint herself with whatever changes were made to Dalaran since her last visit. So, of course, she went to the Legerdemain Lounge and ordered the strongest alcohol they served. She figured she would need it.