A/N: Here's another chapter, my loyal readers (Not you, Moisty-Slub-Jorts). I hope you're all enjoying the content I've been bringing to the table. I do apologize for the hell of a wait. Just been very busy with life, depression and the hopeless inevitable.
Also, I don't know why a, one of the reviewers keeps reading despite their clear dislike of the story, and b, keeps insisting this is a self-insert story. It's not.
If it was, it wouldn't be a crossover story at all. It'd be straight Warcraft fic with my OC Velanas Dawnrose as the main character. Or you know, the actual IRL version of me going into the World of Warcraft. You see, writing in first person doesn't make it a self-insert. It's just a writing perspective. You're a fool of you can't discern the difference. Scratch that, you're a fucking idiot if you can't understand the difference between a self-insert and a perspective of writing.
Also, I gotta give props to my friend Hirondelle for helping me with finishing the chapter.
Disclaimer: I do not own either the Harry Potter nor the World of Warcraft franchise. They belong to J.K Rowling and Blizzard Entertainment respectively.
Chapter V
A small troop of thirty men had attempted to approach the Great Spire that Pierces through the Heavens. But they had barely entered the pass when they had been ambushed. All but four of those warriors had perished. And only one of those four who made it out alive would be able to keep serving in the military. The family of those who had lost their loved ones had wept and funerals had been held for those who had given their lives in vain to thwart the undead threat.
"What am I to do?" Anduin groaned, clutching at his head. In his clenched hand was the compass of the late Varian Wrynn. "Our men never even stood a chance. And they were hand picked from the royal infantry and the SI:7. How can we even right this wrong? The pass is too narrow to send the might of the Alliance and it would just be a chokepoint. I will not be the Shepherd who leads lambs to the slaughter." His voice grew confident and slightly inspirational. "My father was Lo'gosh and he held the spirit of Goldrinn inside him. He was indomitable and so must I. All of us cannot. We are lions and we will not let some necromancer get the better of us."
A few of the nobles and many of the guards gave a small applause. It wasn't the same, like the former king of Stormwind. The speech did not hold the same hope or impact the young king's father did.
Baron Aldius Lescovar pointed this out subversively. "It may be all good that you haven't fallen into depression and psyched yourself up into facing this terror head on, but we have yet to actually uncover who the mastermind is behind it. For all we know, the Defias Brotherhood could have reformed after all these years. Edwin's daughter is still out there and I have no doubt she holds plenty of animosity for her father's unfortunate demise."
"Preposterous!" argued another noble. "Those red scarves never used necromancers in any of their operations and I don't think even they would stoop to such monstrous methods. They're thieves and cutthroats. If they were back, they'd have sent assassins and mercenary forces after us by now."
Scowling, another member of the Council of Nobles said, "Gentlemen, you are not contributing anything worthwhile to this discussion. It doesn't matter who this necromancer is affiliated with and who they do and do not work for. What does matter is that we swiftly put an end to the threat he poses to us."
"As loath as I am to even suggest this, but perhaps the Alliance cannot undertake such a task on its own. With Jaina missing, maybe, just maybe we would strike a bargain," Mathias said slowly, gaining the attention of the room. "While it would be easier to attempt to hire mercenaries, it would be weeks before a tentative accord can be cemented we just don't have the time to spare. Not unless you want our farmers and townsfolk to fall prey to the armies of the damned. No, what we need is an already organized army to help us that can see reason. So that leaves us with the Horde. We may not be on the best terms with them, but if we want to deal with this problem as soon as possible, we may just have to concede our pride until after this menace has been taken care of, lest it spreads ever closer."
Growling out an rupture in the debate, Genn Greymane rumbled hatefully, "Blasphemy! There is no reasoning with the Horde! Sylvanas is just another Arthas waiting to happen. An abomination to be purged!" During this interruption, the worgen had haired up, his jowls bared and hands shaking in anger.
Shaw gripped the Gilnean noble on the shoulder and none too gently. "I think it may be time you get some rest. You've been hardly eating as much as you've been tracking the Warchief's every movement. Commendable, but I think your lack of sleep is making it harder for you to focus on the big picture here. I will find you later for further input when you've gotten more than a few winks of sleep."
Holding his head as he shifted back to his human form, Genn shook his head to clear the daze. "I think you may be right, Shaw. I haven't been sleeping much with my dedication to the Alliance. I may be a worgen but even we aren't as tireless as the wretched undead." Standing up from his seat, the old war dog bowed respectfully and said, "I'll see you in a few hours, your majesty."
Once the aged man had left the war council, Anduin supplied drly, "Charismatic as ever I see. Good work calming him down before would have to suffer through another of his 'anti-Sylvanas' tirades. He means well, but...you know. I may hold no love for the Warchief myself, but I won't dedicate my entire existence to hunting and killing one woman. Gilnean blood runs hot, but I fear it will be his end one of these days. Now I believe you said you think it would be prudent to have Horde forces assist us?"
"Quite," replied the master rogue. "As effective as a pincer maneuver is, it cannot work for us in this situation. The terrain is too uneven to try to scale up the side with a ladder. Even using the grappling devices we acquired in Stormheim will do us no good. Though I am proud of the elites under my command, I personally do not think they're enough for this. While I am usually against frontal assaults, I fear it may be our only option."
Several of the nobles stood up in indignative protest, only to be silenced by the king and his guard. Stroking his immaculate mustache, one of Elwynn's oldest councilmen, John Harlocke spoke, "Some of you may think asking the Horde for aid is an act of betrayal. In most circumstances, that would be an undisputed answer. Like several times before, the Alliance has temporarily set aside our differences to achieve something for the greater good of Azeroth. Usually in the face of great calamity. I believe this is one of those times."
Another noble, one of lanky features asked, "What makes you think this is a situation so dire to think we need the Horde's soldiers?"
John answered, "Well to be blunt, a single necromancer on their own is quite a problem. No one man can simply waltz up and cut the head off. It usually takes a skilled team to take care of one and his minions. An average necromancer at that, mind you. Most of you have seen what a truly competent master of the black arts can accomplish. Take the fallen prince of Lordaeron for example. He was just one man, a paladin even and fell prey to the evil magics of the cursed blade. He slew a good man in cold blood just to get revenge on a crafty demon. And from there, he eventually became the lich king in which the following war had more casualties than I'd like to admit. Are you willing to risk our kingdom, our honor and the entirety of the Alliance simply to hold onto your pride?"
Not one council member, guard or the king retorted to what the noble spoke of. Everyone here had lost someone while defending from the Scourge. Nearly all of Lordaeron fell in such a short period of time. And what left of it became the Plaguelands and the distorted lands of Tirisfal Glades.
"As reluctant as I am to agree to this," Anduin said, severing the tension, "I shall dispatch a courier at once. There will be no vote for any of you, for this is far larger than simple skirmishes. This council has been adjourned for today," sighed Anduin as he rubbed his temple. As a priest, he usually stayed away from alcohol. But today was just one of those days.
"What makes this dagger so 'special'?" I muttered to myself, drumming a finger against the desk. A piece of parchment sat on my desk, a quill and an inkwell nearby. So far, I have composed a small list of what I knew about this 'enchanted' dagger. And of course using scanning spells didn't help much. Those riders said it was an ordinary knife. But I knew better. An ordinary knife doesn't glow or give off a shadowy aura. It's history is obviously shrouded in magic and bloodshed. So why did they give the macabre knife to me? What angle are the Dark Riders pushing here?
At first, I had done my research without touching it. As far as I knew, it could be cursed. Obviously after the whole Horcrux debacle in my 7th year, I learned my lesson, probably. I could feel an unnerving aura of magic surrounding the blade, not dissimilar to the soul magic used to make the horrible phylacteries in my world.
More experiments were necessary because I obviously wasn't getting any intended results from my diagnostics. It was almost mocking, just sitting there inertly like a common pebble. Taunting me to pick it up. I frowned. There was no way I was going to touch a magical object without knowing what it does. Well other than stabbing.
The tip of my quill twitched at the corner of my mouth, resisting the urge to bite it. That bad habit had been a memento of my time with Hermione at Hogwarts. Often, we'd both get ink on our faces while doing homework and not realizing it. What would Hermione Granger do?
I tried to imagine a little pocket version of my former best friend, but all I could think of was a picture of her lecturing and badgering me about how I could just up and abandon everyone, jump into a mysterious portal and get whisked off to a bloody new world without informing anyone. Well, that's a new headache.
Okay, so that didn't do much of anything other than a new throbbing irritation in my brain. This was getting annoying. Maybe focus less on what enchantments are on it and more on what it does. Perhaps it's been hexed to drain someone of their life? Or make their blood boil? Maybe set whatever touches it on fire?
Well, I can hypothesize for days, but that won't mean jackshit unless I actually do something to test any one of my theories. Rising from my seat, I went to my old Hogwarts trunk and set about rummaging about. It held the bare minimum of what I'd used in the last few years of schooling, well minus clothing and books. After some odd minutes, I returned to my desk with a few tools; a silver knife, a muggle pen, a bezoar and a ratty old quill.
Taking the tattered writing implement, I poked and prodded the artifact. That didn't amount to much other than fraying the quill further. With the pen, I did the same although I noticed that none of the ink remained on the blade where I tried to write my name. Trying something a little different, I dropped the stone on the dagger a few times. Each attempt, I discovered the tool was unblemished of scratches. With the silver knife, I tried to stab the flat of the blade to see if it would snap. On the fourth motion, the knife shattered, pelting me with shrapnel.
Huh...nothing was working.
Maybe the Dark Riders were allied with Attumen trying to get back at me for punishing him. But clearly, I must be going about this the wrong way as I'm not making any further progress. With a sigh, I finally picked up the dagger and held it up to the light.
Suddenly, the eye at the end of the hilt opened up, exposing a very inhumane pupil and an unnatural iris color.
'So, another wanderer finally grasps my hilt,' purrs a soft, yet seductive voice. If I was not familiar with mind magicks as well as telepathy via curse scar and other similar things, I would have whipped my head around the room looking for an intruder, but I'm not going to make myself look like a fool in front of the unknown. 'Oh my, it looks like my newest 'owner' has a stronger force of will than the pathetic worms who previously wielded me. Perhaps the Winds of Change blow once more...'
"A sentient dagger? This is a new one. I've dealt with living phylacteries. So this is why they didn't ask so much for a payment..."
'Indeed.,' whispered the smug voice of the dagger. "I realize it may be... disconcerting to converse with a weapon. Be at ease; I merely wish to see you reach your full potential. Why, just recently I helped another mortal hero defeat the Burning Legion. My selfless sacrifice left me weakened. Sadly, that priest proved... shortsighted." The sultry voice paused for a moment before addressing me further, "You though... I sense you are truly destined for greatness. We shall accomplish remarkable things together, you and I. Magnificent things."
"That still doesn't explain how you came to be in possession of those hooded men. A 'hero as you put it, wouldn't fall so easily for an ambush or an obvious trap," I snipped at the being hosted inside the blade.
'I influenced my last wielder to...wander somewhere unsafe. As they are wanton to do, the Darkriders kept me from falling into the hands of unsavory cultists. And a simple nudge here and there, I had them bring me to the one who is from beyond the void. You may call me Xal'atath though many oft refer to me as the Blade of the Black Empire. A bit rude on their behalf. But it is fortunate I fell into your hands."
"Meaning?"
Xal'atath crooned, 'Oh don't play such trifling games with someone who has been doing the same thing for eons. I am aware you are not from any world in this reality or this dimension. Altogether, you are a true visitor from afar. A being neither truly alive nor entirely undead all granted by the Inevitable One. An exciting anomaly that makes you far more than a pawn in the grand scheme. The question is, how can I use your potential to grant me a vessel beyond my current sentient existence?"
From what I could garner from its twisting words, it wanted to use me as a tool to accomplish something. Most likely by possession. So I voiced aloud, "You intend to use me as a puppet until you can have a body of your own?"
'An amusing jest, but not quite what I have in store for you, my friend. Those methods are too crude and hold no challenge. For now, let's just say we have a like minded goal and it would be remiss for us not to work together. And when the time comes, you help me obtain a body of my own. A win-win situation, is it not?'
A dubious offer to be sure. "I will consider the offer for now. When I am ready to provide an answer, I will contact you again."
'Consideration is the least I ask of you. Farewell, Riftwalker...'
"It's been such a long time since I've been in Stormwind..."
The Warchief strode towards the throne, her heeled boots clacking on the polished stone floor. Her gait spoke volumes to onlookers; not hostile, but not friendly. The bone bow was sheathed on her back as was her quiver.
Lilian Voss strode on the queen's left, Eitrigg on the right with Lasan following behind closely. Baine Bloodhoof and Lor'themar Theron as well as First Arcanist Thalyssra too were in attendance as respective arrival was received in near silence, the human guards clearly on edge. Beyond that, the Horde delegation was swiftly shown to the council room.
Besides Anduin and Greymane, the other Alliance leaders too were seated on one side of the ornate table. Tyrande Whisperwind was seated beside Velen and Thalyssra on her other side. Hightinker Mekkatorque sat on a pile of books unashamed beside the elderly draenei. There was an empty space between Queen-Regent Moira Thaurissan and Aysa Cloudsinger, showing the obvious absence of Alleria Windrunner. Another seat with the Dalaran crest meant for Jaina Proudmoore was empty. From there, the remaining seats were filled with Baine, Lasan, Eitrigg and the undead rogue. Gazlowe and Rokhan too were absent.
Palpable was the nonverbal enmity circulating the chambers. It could be broken, most likely in a violent fashion. Lives hinged on the matter at hand and Anduin knew it. Many races between the two factions held intense grudges that could not be solved easily. A compromise could be met, but one or another leader could be angered or terribly shoved under the nearest war machine so to speak. Vendettas could sink deeper than blood and could rest for years before coming to a bloody conflict. It would take careful consideration of each race's demands for them to secure aid.
"So," began Sylvanas, rupturing the tension with her razor intonation. Her voice was otherworldly when she spoke, "I'm rather surprised that I received an invitation from none other than the High King of the Alliance to meet him in his own keep. And you do not disarm me or my fellow emissaries of the Horde. Quite a lot of trust you're placing in me, Anduin Wrynn. Almost foolishly so..."
The person standing to the left of the seated young man balled his hands into fists, trying to reign in his temper. Genn Greymane, a stubborn man with a powerfully built body. He appears to be an aging human, but a ferocious beast lies beneath the skin.
"I am glad you answered my summons in a prompt manner as well as informing your compatriots here. I wish I would not have to ask for your assistance. It is no small matter to attend as one would an errand. To business I suppose."
A small smirk splayed on Sylvanas' lips. Her voice brimmed with smugness as she said, "The boy king finally realises who his betters are. This calls for celebration. Bravo. It really is adorable to see how you match up to the adults now you are out of your father's immense shadow."
Ignoring the woman's jibe, Anduin continued, "A few days after we drove the main force of the Burning Legion from Azeroth, a new structure was discovered between the Duskwood province, south of the Redridge Mountains and west of the Swamp of Sorrows. Well, the Deadwind Pass to be more precise. Shaw tells me one of his scouts investigated something odd going on down there. It seems that someone or something has moved in. Karazhan has been showing quite a lot of activity for a supposedly unoccupied ruin. My guess is a rogue necromancer we somehow missed in the purges several years back. That, or a very powerful and wealthy lich setting up shop. The Tower appears to have been restored although we aren't sure whether it is a powerful illusion or the real deal. Our troops alone haven't been able to safely approach it."
Raising an eyebrow, the undead elf queried, "This fortress, you've been unable to breach it? I would laugh at your ineptitude at being unable to kill one necromancer if I wasn't so intimately familiar with how much evil one man can do given the opportunity."
Shaw answered in his lord's stead, "Admittedly, we have been unable to get near any possible entrance. It is an absolute fortress, nearly as well protected as Icecrown Citadel if on a slightly smaller scale. Plus... The survivors say they have a..." He looked down at the notes on the desk, "a living frost wyrm."
Sylvanas' eyebrows shot into the clouds, split between satirical mirth at such a notion and worry of having to take down a creature that the Scourge had used to instill fear into their enemies. Finally after a few moments of silence, she regained her composure, "So I see you aren't joking. This witness claims to have been bested by a frost wyrm, but one that wasn't just a skeleton?"
"I wish it was all in good humor about days past, but unfortunately this is not a joke. The survivors claim they lost limbs, fingers and toes to frostbite even though it is in the middle of the warm season." Anduin rubbed his temples. "I cannot do this alone. What will it take to convince you to lend aid in this endeavor?"
She smirked. The Warchief had been waiting to be asked this question. "In the name of the Horde, I wish to claim an outpost of my choosing." She paused for a moment and added, "And yours?"
"A two year ceasefire from our conflicts. Both sides have need to recuperate from the devastating losses accrued during our defense against the Legion and further casualties in the counter attack. No exceptions. All current battles will be postponed for approximately 812 days. And all Azerite mining operations to be put on hold for six months."
"One year," Sylvanas tried to haggle. "Two months hold on mining. Gallywix will not be easy to convince to put his business on hold. As he sees it, loss of profit is worse than death."
Anduin was not having it. "Two years. For both."
Trying to tilt the deal in her favor, the undead elf suggested, "Five years ceasefire and halt on Azerite mining in exchange for control of the entirety of Lordaeron be handed over to the Horde."
"You mean the Forsaken. Absolutely not," parried the young king. "Your greed is showing."
"I'm far from being avaricious, Wrynn," Sylvanas said coolly. "Lordaeron belonged to the people who lived there in life and it remains the same in death. When will you Alliance mongrels realize this is the truth?"
Scowling, the young lion of the Alliance retorted, "Greymane will never cede any territory near Gilneas to the Horde and I agree. I won't give you a foothold that endangers my men and citizens. Choose another."
"If I must," came her carte blanche reply, tone unwavering and determined.
With pursed lips, the king of Stormwind queried, "Which Alliance occupied location would you wrest from us?"
The Forsaken Queen peered at the framed map of Azeroth painted on the ceiling of the throne room, her crimson eyes scanning with practiced sweeps. Those fiery orbs marked out various strategic positions she could possibly make use of in the future when the war was to begin. However she didn't voice anything of her own yet. Instead, she queried, "Indulge me, Baine, others; is there somewhere the Alliance controls you would like to add to your territories?"
Surprisingly, Baine was the one to add his input before the others. Tauren are usually known for their spirituality and patience. But he requested, "On behalf of the seers and shaman of Thunderbluff, we would desire a clear path through Kalimdor without coming under fire to reach the Moonglade."
With a shrug, the Night Elven sovereign replied, "Not a condition that needs to be part of the negotiations, but it can be put under consideration as it benefits both factions as well as neutral parties like the Cenarion Circle and the Earthen Ring."
"That is all I ask," replied the tauren, reseating himself. The chair creaked under the enormous tauren's weight but did not break.
Lor'themar spoke up quickly, "In accordance with Lady Windrunner's previous request for control of Lordaeron. I would agree on it although to a lesser degree. We of Silvermoon would like to shore up a few properties outside of the Ghostlands. Remove Alliance influence and retake the northern areas of the Eastern Plaguelands with hopes of restoration."
"We dwarves dunnae have a problem wit' tha. As long as ye leave th' Hinterlands alone, and don't bother the Argent Crusade working against the feral undead. What say ye, Gelbin?" inquired Moira, chin hoisted up by her palm, looking disinterested.
The gnome squeaked, "No problems here either. I welcome any destruction you do on the remaining Scourge!"
"Anyone else?"
There were a few resounding 'no's' and audible shrugs. Opening her mouth once more, the Banshee Queen asked, "Speaking of concessions, what is it that you desire from the Horde other than what we have already agreed upon?"
It took mere seconds for Tyrande to utter without room for defiance, "We want the entirety of the Horde to retreat from the Ashenvale. The forest is sacred to the Kaldorei and no longer will we stand for the defilement of our lands."
Eitrigg spoke on behalf of the orcs, "Hold on, elf. We cannot withdraw from Ashenvale that easily. Durotar has little to no lumber to harvest. And what we do have of our current territories would be exhausted in a matter of months if not years. It is not an ideal situation, I admit. But it is a necessity!"
"And you would continue to plunder the life from our lands? Unacceptable!" screeched Tyrande, almost rising from her seat.
Interrupting, Anduin said, "We're getting too off topic here. We'll revisit this issue after we've dealt with the threat at hand. Any other requests for the current negotiations?"
"The plague is not to be used or even brought to the battlefield. Not even the tamest strain your apothecaries have synthesized. Absolutely no biological warfare whatsoever. Are we clear? Do I have your word that this siege will not be a repeat of the Wrathgate?"
"Crystal," said the Banshee Queen as she shook the King's hand. Anduin tried not to shiver at the icy, firm grip on his own. "A bargain has been struck."
The Wolf King of Gilneas is forced back by a few of the Royal Guards. He was snarling and roared, "THAT TRAITOROUS BITCH IS THE REASON YOUR FATHER DIED! I'LL HAVE HER HEAD ON A PIKE!"
"You ought to keep your rabid dog on a shorter leash, High King," taunted the Warchief with a daring tone. "Perhaps you should put it down before it has a chance to turn on you."
Anduin reprimanded coldly, "I would rather you not antagonize my personnel and friends. In fact, I think it would be best if you leave and ready warriors for battle."
"So be it." With a tenuous accord struck, Sylvanas swept from the room, her guards and racial leaders of the Horde following in tow.
I was making my way through the stables- time for more groceries, and perhaps to see what fools were attempting to penetrate my defenses. I saw Midnight, the horse placid as usual, and had just enough time to wonder where her grumpy, misogynistic owner was before I felt a spear of agony in my chest. It wasn't my illness- the spray of blood showed that well enough, and as I collapsed to my knees, I heard Attumen's dark chuckle.
"Well, look what the useless puss dragged in," came the odiferous voice in my ear. His breath fouled the air, bringing a grimace to my face. Then he ripped his blade free of my body, forcing a gasp of pain out of my throat along with more blood. "You're even tracking blood everywhere. Quite rude of you. Now I'll have to whip the stable-hands while they scrub the floors spotless. Well, after I dispose of your pathetic corpse." My elven ears picked up the subtle sound of slicing wind as a weapon was quickly lifted into the air.
Too much talking. "I don't think so." His sword came down on me but it never connected- with a hoarse grunt and a wave of my hand, the same chains I'd used to imprison him before bound him again, starting with his sword arm and covering his whole body. The bloodied blade he wielded clattered to the floor, startling some of the tethered steeds
As he thrashed I slowly, painfully rose back to my feet. It hurt like hell- but I was immortal, and something as mundane as a stabbing to the chest certainly wasn't going to stop me. I pressed a palm to the wound and hissed- it was bleeding more than I liked. I spent a moment looking at my own blood before calling up an Azerothian flame spell, sealing the wound properly. It seared away most of my top in the process, not that it mattered all that much right now. I clenched my teeth, glaring at Attument's crucified form as I finished clotting the injuries on my front and back. He glared right back, eyes burning hatefully.
"That was a mistake," I rasped as I took a shaky step towards him. "One I guarantee you won't be repeating..."
I wasn't going to use Crucio on him this time. No, I had something a little more permanent in mind. And it wouldn't even require the use of the Killing Curse- a spell so vile, that had claimed so many of those I cared about I'd sworn never to use it myself.
"WHORE! WRETCHED MONGREL OF INFERIORITY! I SHALL NOT LET YOU REIGN SUPREME. EVEN IF I DIE, I'LL DRAG YOU DOWN TO HELL WITH ME!" raged Attumen, struggling and thrashing in his bindings. A simple, nonverbal spell petrified him mid air as I stalked towards my assailant as I lifted the cursed dagger skywards.
"Unlikely," I murmured as I plunged Xal'atath down into his chest. He grunted, then let out an agonized shriek as I twisted the blade, pulling it back out with a shower of gore. As I made the kill, the magical chains vanished as my concentration ebbed away.
It was in slow motion that I watched the Huntsman collapse that I captured every detail of the moment. I could see wisps of shadowy magic hovering around the wound I just made. Particles of absence of light, yet glowing slightly purple amidst the crimson rain. Time sped up to normal and blood pooled beneath his dying form.
Attumen rasped, clutching at the mortal wound I had inflicted, " My long hunt... has ended...Now, I... have become... the hunted..."
'Did you feel it? The way his life ended?' crooned Xal'atath sultrily. I ignored the voice in my mind. I was breathing heavily, feeling the way bile seared my throat as I forced it back down. I was never a huge fan of killing people despite it was often a necessity in my line of work when everything revolved around secrecy.
Even now, I felt the slightest bit of guilt. A mournful screech made me whirl around to see the late Huntsman's prized steed staring dolefully at me. It wasn't one of accusation, just one of misery. I felt bad, so I loped over to her while still clutching the recently closed wound on my breast.
Resting my hand on the side of Midnight's cheek, I whispered, "I'm sorry girl. So very sorry I had to permanently separate steed from her master. But he was out of control. I won't beg for your forgiveness. Just know that you may continue to stay here."
I wouldn't expect a horse to be able to reply to me, magical and vampiric or not. The dark steed formerly owned by the Huntsman whinnied sadly and rubbed her face against mine. I gave a little giggle. Well it wasn't a verbal response, but I got her message all the same.
"Sure, sure, I'll take you on some long runs and adventures when I can. Just because I am the master of the spire doesn't mean I'll ignore you," I laughed, my hand gliding through her luxurious mane.
Stamping a hoof as if accepting my statement as a promise, Midnight licked my face. Usually I'm not a fan of such affection usually applied by annoying dogs. In this case however, I took it in stride and hugged the mare's neck. "Be good, friend," I whispered to her.
As Midnight bent down to the water trough, I left the stables and headed up the stairs . As I ambled along, I barked to the empty corridor, "Dobby. "
The telltale crack signalled the house elf's arrival. He huffed and puffed to keep up with my quick pace. "What can I help you with, Mistress?"
"I'm going out for a bite, as well as picking up groceries. I'm feeling a little cooped up in here," I tell him while magicking up a new outfit to replace my currently ruined ensemble. "Don't let anyone do anything stupid. In the event that happens, come get me. Even if I'm in the middle of feeding."
Saluting, the slightly deranged elf said, "Understood!"
A/N: There may be some speculation of why I wrote in a certain dagger of the old gods. Fufu...I plan on turning Wren into a hybrid between a mage, warlock and a shadow priest.
Wait, doesn't that sound OP and Mary-sui-esque?
The answer is: Yes, yes it does. Which means I'll have to counteract her overpowered magic with enemies who are A, strong as fuck, B, have Wren's illness prevent her from casting too much and other things that prevents her from basically one-shotting everyone. I don't know if I mentioned this before, but Wren has promised herself to NEVER use Avada Kedavra. Why, it's because it's how both her parents died, how a lot of people dear to her died. She finds the soul tearing curse revolting and won't use it unless as a LAST resort.
Any suggestions for the fic that aren't bathed in stupid, shoot me...I mean send a note/pm/dm whatever you want to call it.
PS: The politics scenes are really hard for me to write and diplomacy is not my forte, so I'm trying my best.
