Sunshine streamed merrily into the cell Yanna shared with Sister Catherine. She watched the breeze ruffle the leaves of the maple trees outside, turning the white undersides of the leaves to the sky, it would rain soon. Though the sky looked blue, those trees never lied.
Perhaps the sky is dark where I cannot see, she licked her lips uncomfortably.
Five years ago she had gone to the Abbey seeking lessons to begin to enter service with the The Church of Light. Three years ago, she became a lay priestess working with the church in Andorhal - how happy she had been to see her mother again! Unfortunately, her mother had not been pleased with her occupation. She remembered the pleading look her mother had given her well, "Forsake your vows..."
Maybe she should have, it might have been nice to have had a family, but she couldn't have seen herself ever choosing a different path - not for the most handsome farmhand nor the richest of noblemen. No, Yanna was quite married to her calling but now she had doubts. She felt shamed by it.
Don't feel guilty, she reasoned, all men question themselves when they-
A faint scratching sound was at her door, Yanna would not have answered it even if she had not been too feeble to rise from her bed. She rubbed the wooden beads on her rosary uneasily. The scratching at the door grew louder. Tears leaked from her eyes, though she dare not sob aloud.
This is it, this time the door will break and I will die, she thought miserably. Respect. Tenacity. Compassion. Tenacity. Tenacity. Tenacity. She rubbed the beads harder. Light, give me the strength to see my final hour without despairing.
The scratching stopped, she hard a grunt before whatever it was tore off through the hallway, an agonizing scream pierced the walls minutes later. That was... Yanna closed her eyes. It doesn't matter, they will be at peace soon. The screams had turned to shrieks that made her hair stand on end.
A fever-dream is what this is. I will wake well-rested and will realize that this is just the effect of whatever draught I was given for sleep. Yanna wished she could believe that. No one had been by their cell in two days to deliver food nor medicine. Her eyes flicked over to where Catherine lay in her bed, the skin on her face tightening made it look as if she were smiling. The wooden beads were pressed painfully between her fingertips.
Compassion. Were they shown compassion when they were locked in their cells to die? "We're not sick!" Catherine had shouted, banging on the heavy wooden door until she was hoarse and her knuckles bloody. Later, Catherine had begun to run a fever - "The flu, you idiots, let us out!" -and started wasting away at an alarming rate. She had died, and when she first began to stir, Yanna had used a dull, ornamental dagger Catherine favored to cut her head off. Had she done the Sister a kindness? She hoped so, but it was unlikely that she would receive the same.
Yanna reached clumsily for the skin of water at her bedside. She paused, dropping the bag to the floor. She had taken small bites from the food on her plate, but she had not eaten since her fever started. There were maggots wriggling on the roasted bear meat and on the potatoes but the chunk of bread was ringed with dead maggots. We fed the faithful the sacrament to gain strength from the Light to defeat the Shadow. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Even now, she could remember the bishop explaining how the grain was the Light's gift to mankind. I fed it to children. she ground her teeth. They thanked me for it! She laughed hysterically between screams. There was loud, banging sounds on the door. It's coming back, a small part of her warned but Yanna laughed harder and drummed her heels on the bed.
The door splintered open and a small corpse regarded her almost warily. Its clothes now hung from its body in rags, the bishop's gold shawl was tied underneath its chin as if he had been hung by it - a mockery of the tenants it stood for. Yanna screeched and vaulted from the bed. This is wrong! I was dying! I should be dead! Now she had the thing by the neck, its feet kicking in the air while it scratched at the thin, bony arms she could only assume were her own. This was a boy! Mercy! I should be dead, she thought in horror. I should- she ripped the boy's throat out, stuffing the hard cartilage with shreds of cloth in her mouth, chewing noisily.
Yanna's thoughts were eerily silent.
Is a disclaimer necessary? I'm not making, nor do I intend to make money with any story I write using Activision/Blizzard's WorldofWarcraft. Unless they'd like to pay me. Then I would thoroughly intend to make money.
This is a little of my undead priest's backstory. I had a lot of fun writing it so I thought I'd share and, hopefully, people will enjoy reading it. If I ever add on to this, it will most likely be a grouping of one-shots. Not likely to happen, though.