Look at me, I'm alive!

I'm sorry for my absence. First off, I promise Opening Act (and its eventual sequel) aren't dead. I've been going through a hell of a past few years and I've needed to step back from a lot of things, including writing, to cope. I'll spare you all the details. Short version is, OA is still being worked on, but I'm recovering from some things, bare with me.

I also got married, with a wedding and paperwork and everything, to another bubbline writer (hi Plesiosaur!)

In unrelated news: No one asked for this cross-over, but no one could stop me (and Plesiosaur dared me), so here we are.

The Plaguelands smelled like shit.

That was a learned opinion, thank you very much, straight from the mind of an expert. Because the thing about the Plaguelands was that it was filled with corpses and to make a corpse - resurrected or decorative - you first had to kill something, and things that died had a nasty habit of crapping themselves upon the moment of expiration. Thus, while adventurers often thought of disturbed necromancers, abominations forsaken by the Light itself, and a landscape covered in comically overgrown mushrooms when they considered the Plaguelands, what the true avant-garde world-traveler thought of, first, last, and only, was the overwhelming smell and piles of shit that littered the landscape that everyone was too polite to talk about. Because mushrooms had to come from somewhere, and they came from dank, smelly shit.

This was a long way to say that Marceline Abadeer was having a fantastic start to her day; the sun was shining (behind urine-colored clouds of toxic fumes), the air was fresh (as a shit-covered daisy), and no one could follow simple directions such as 'stop that', 'lay down your arms', or 'put that thing back where it came from or so help me this ax is going straight up your ass'.

Marceline did not want to be in the Eastern Plaguelands - or the Western, mind you, all Plaguelands were equally bad - but the problem was that the things in the Plaguelands simply had to die, so her hands were tied on the matter. Death knights were not known to be forgiving, and she was no exception. Granted, she was one of the lucky ones, but free will granted her free thought, not a merciful nature. Maybe in the before times. But, well, dying changes a few things. Perspective being one of them.

The blood elf munched on her apple from atop her particular malodorous perch, a vomit-colored mushroom cap that stood tall upon a vermillion stalk. She leaned against her ax as she watched her prey, as she had for the morning and the better part of the afternoon. A contingency of undead and monstrous creations, clad in chiseled black armor swarmed in a campsite below, but atop her cushy vantage point, they would have no hope of spotting her. It gave her a nice view of the spectacle below. Steel pitches held aloft violet tents, protecting crates branded with the Lich King's sigil from the sporadic acid rain endemic to the Plaguelands. The occasional necromancer milled about, delighting when an orc in leathers was dragged in.

It was clear what had happened because it wasn't the first time the death knight had seen it: stupid or perhaps just unlucky, the hunter had tried their hand at unrooting the campsite but failed, and now their corpse would feed the grinder they had hoped to stop. They would become the same puppet she once was. Marceline pitied them and promised their soon-to-be walking corpse a swift end, then tossed the apple core at a shambling sentry below her, watching as it collapsed into bones and dust on impact. Idiot.

Being this close to her own kind was a special type of hell. Dark energy animated her, slithering through her veins where blood once flowed, and it knew that its kin lurked nearby. Like herself, though, the force that sustained Marceline despised its kin; it, too, remembered what it was like to have no autonomy, to once be free and then be trapped. Now the two were stuck with one another, one whole being working towards a singular goal. Neither half of what made Marceline what she was now - the corpse that made up her form or the dark energy that animated her - could tolerate such insults as the false king trying to spread this curse. She would fall on her runeblade before allowing it, and this vow she intended to keep.

This particular camp had been steadily growing in size, which was unusual for locations of this type; while the blood elf would rather go in and put down the sycophants to the false king, it bothered her that she could not tell what the purpose of the location was for. Weapons were not being manufactured, raw resources were not being gathered, and while newly brainwashed recruits were arriving in droves, most appeared to be performing menial errands for their undead masters. The thought made her grip her ax. Whatever this is, it's dumb, she concluded. And I'd really, really like to not be here anymore. Her thoughts turned to that orc once more, leather-torn and blood-stained. Alright. He's the last one you creeps are gonna get here.

Hoisting her ax, Marceline leaped from mushroom to mushroom, inching closer to the ground. She never took her eyes off of the sentries that patrolled the outer rim, those lesser undead who could not be tasked to do much more than wander and screech if they saw anything unfamiliar. Comfortable on the ground and sure-footed, she waited for an opportunity to present itself, for there was comfort in the shadows, in what she had been before her old life had been robbed of her. Once one particular sentry strolled just a bit too close for her like she lashed out with the darkness within, gripping the shuffling corpse and pulling it apart at the limbs in a single motion.

With a path of ingress cleared she stood, but stopped before taking a step. The side of her mouth curled and she exerted that influence over those rotting pieces, a thought in her mind hissing, take it! Take what was theirs! Mine now! Reassembled and none worse for the wear, the corpse rose from its supine position on the ground and Marceline tilted her head. Small, misshapen skull, missing a lower jaw. Arms too long for its body, claws instead of fingers, white… skin or fur, it was hard to tell under the caked spores. "I think I'll call you Schwabl. Alright, let's go kill these bastards."

For all of her stealth when surveilling the camp, Marceline strode in without any attempt to hide her presence. Her armor, a custom-fitted forest green and royal purple plate mail that hugged her lithe form, clunked with every step, crushing grass and discarded corpses alike under her heel. It was due for a repair soon anyway; her left greave was broken and could no longer be secured around her wrist, and she didn't trust her helm to be anything except a liability, so in her rucksack, it stayed.

That was a problem for Future Marceline. Present Marceline had a different issue, and that was that she was waiting to be acknowledged. She had done everything but whistle, but that was the problem with the mindless undead - no offense meant to the Forsaken, they were alright in her book - and the abominations, they didn't appreciate a grand entrance. So, when the only one to notice her ingress was a recruit, a gnome too early in the mind-wiping process to register that something (you could always tell, their eyes hadn't turned that sickening shade of blue yet), she placed her thumb and pointer finger between her lips and let out a shrill whistle. "Attention, victims!" she shouted. That did the trick; the necromancer responsible for the poor bastard was already rushing towards her. "You may have heard of me! I'm-"

"Marceline Abadeer." It was not the necromancer to speak. No, this voice was too full of itself. The blood elf rolled her eyes and turned on her heel. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Ashwyn Gravesbane was a unique sort of bastard, in that he willingly joined the Lich King when Arthas took power and quickly rose the ranks, relishing in the atrocities he got to commit under his banner. He took a perverse glee in converting a single memory of a family to the Lich King, then turning the poor soul against their former loved ones, and was quite loud about it.

"If it isn't Arthas's favorite tool," Marceline replied through clenched teeth. "Lucky me, I love breaking his stuff."

He laughed, the sound echoing from within his helm. Black, like his armor, shiny and pointy. His glove was raised, not in her direction but in a halting gesture. The necromancer that had been so eagerly barreling towards her grumbled none-so-quietly, the muttering softening the further he got. "Don't tell me you're still doing this, Marceline."

"Can't stop, won't stop."

He arched an eyebrow. "You know, I'm surprised to see you in the Eastern Kingdoms. I had thought you sufficiently freed from the ties that bound you to these lands." When Marceline reflexively clenched her left hand, thumb rubbing thoughtlessly over the chunk of gold that wrapped around her ring finger, he smirked. "Sore spot, Marcy?"

"Don't call me that," she growled, tightening her grip on the ax.

Ashwyn tsked and shook his head. "Stop this, Marceline," he implored. His voice lost its mocking tone, lowering with gentleness. "The Lich King will take you back. We're your family now, and we understand what it means to not be able to go back ho-"

"Blow it out your ass, Ash."

The man sighed again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Oh, Marceline, you make this so difficult. But, don't worry, I'll-" Her ax came down and Ash yelped, rolling away just before it could embed itself into his shoulder. "Stop that!"

She grinned. "This is what I do, Ash! Fun, right?" When she swung her ax again he ducked, drawing his runeblade. When its runes started to glow blue the ones imbued on her ax matched it, encasing her weapon in red.

"It won't change anything, Marceline!," he barked. "This doesn't change anything! You know what you've done!" When she brought her ax back he lashed his sword forward, the blade frozen in a protective sheath of ice. She narrowed her eyes and concentrated, gripping the bones of the very corpses she stepped over to make it to the camp. They snapped to her, encircling her, deflecting the blade. Ash's curse of frustration was music to her ears.

"Schwabl, go!" The corpse needed no further instruction, for what the little shambler lacked in size he made up for in ferocity and a surprising amount of cunning. Marceline wasn't sure why Ash was screeching at first, but the sweet smell of blood coming from his ankle soon solved that; one of the shield's bone shards had embedded itself into the man's plate armor, and Schwabl was gnawing on the opening with everything he had. It gave her an idea. "Tear him open, Schwabl!"

Ashwyn snarled, glancing first at Marceline, then at Schwabl. "Your pet, first!" With a crunch the sword ran through the shambler, collapsing the bone and sinew in its path. Schwabl stilled and Ashwyn tore the corpse free of his leg, tossing it aside. "Now-" Marceline's ax slammed into his side and he wheezed, but his armor held. He rubbed at the dent and winced. "Oh, you will pay for that you-" She repeated the motion, but this time he could the staff. "Ah ah ah, not this time you-"

Her fist collided with his nose, and blood gushed forth. "You know, I always thought it kind of a shame I didn't bleed like the rest of you, but I gotta say, man, you're looking awful."

"You half-breed piece-" The axe slammed into his side again and he roared, pulling his helm free and tossing it to the side with a gasp. He rubbed at his nose with his arm, but it didn't stop the flow.

"Oh, that looks like it hurts," Marceline cooed. He snarled. "Getting tired, Ash? Already? Man, that's disappointing."

"I'll show you disappointing!"

She snorted. "Phrasing!"

His eyes darkened. That was his only warning before Marceline's world was an explosion of ice. She hadn't even noticed it creeping below her, sneaking up behind her. That was the problem with being dead, you were always cold, and by his sneer, Ashwyn knew it. A cacophony of shards of ice thicker than the blood elf's arms cascaded around her, sinking into the mail of her armor, into any bare flesh that had the misfortune of exposure. The coldness they radiated was unnatural, for while it was the nature of cold to steal warmth it was not meant to relish in the gesture. This cold, though, was malicious, taking what little warmth Marceline had to spare and devouring it whole. And when it could not find warmth in the physical it sank into her mind and spirit.

But therein was the cruel irony. The cold saw itself reflected within the void and realized its mistake all too late. The trap was sprung, and Marceline took this cold and made it her own, just as she had fed from the blood Ashwyn had shed and used it to heal herself and shield herself with the bones of the fallen. The void within the blood elf hijacked the cold, rewriting its purpose and destructive impulse; the frozen attack was instead pushed outward, fortifying the death knight against the physical onslaught of Ashwyn's attack.

Ashwyn did not notice the change in his enemy's demeanor, that much was obvious. Had he noticed he would not have rushed in so eagerly or held his sword so aloft. Perhaps he would have thought something amiss in the way Marceline stood there, not spellbound with pain and misery, but in wait. Only when he was two or three paces away did the man perhaps realize his error, and that was only because of this: Marceline Abadeer tossed aside her weapon, grabbed Ashwyn Gravebane by the head with one hand, the shoulder with the other, and dug her teeth into his throat. And Ashwyn Gravesbane died, the last things he felt were his blood pouring down Marceline's teeth and the stench of shit welcoming him back to the grave.

When she'd had her fill, Marceline tossed the man's corpse aside and wiped her face clean. Her first order of business was to resurrect Schwabl; he had given her the idea, after all, and had gone above and beyond the call of duty of a little shambler. Besides, Ashwyn had been just one soul in the camp that needed slaying. Perhaps the strongest, yes, but just the one. The company would be nice. Her second order of business was to rifle through her old enemy's pockets, taking his gold (she was buying a stiff drink as soon as she was out of the Eastern Kingdoms, that was for Light sure), and what few valuables he carried, just because she could. "Alright, Schwabl. Let's clean the rest of this place-"

And then she stopped and tilted her head. It only occurred to Marceline then how quiet it was in the camp. For as long as she had been watching it, the thing had been a hive of seemingly pointless activity. Someone should have heard her fight and come to investigate, and if not she should at least be able to hear voices or mindless shuffling. Yet there was nothing, only the eerie silence of the Plaguelands. The blood elf frowned and looked at her companion. "I don't like this, Schwabl. Do you?" The shambler made a grunting noise that grated on her ears. She took it to mean he agreed with her. "I'm going to check this out. Stay close, you may get to maul someone."

Ax resting comfortably on her shoulder, Marceline worked her way through the camp. She kept a careful eye open, trusting Schwabl to alert her should anything besides the two of them move for he was, after all, a sentry. Yet nothing did, and that was precisely the problem. Everywhere they went, they were met by- "Hmm… this is a lot more corpses than I remember a few hours ago. A lot fresher, too." It seemed that sometime between her descent from the mushroom and that moment, someone or something had strolled in and done her job for her.

It should have felt nice, but instead, all she felt was an anti-climactic disappointment. At no body in particular she kneeled to inspect it. It was another orc, different from the hunter she had seen before. This one was garbed in neophyte robes, pristine except for a deep gash across his chest. "Hm… death by… slashy-slashy? Sword is my guess. But…" Marceline touched the wound. "No frost or traces of plague, and nothing jagged. Not a runeblade, then?" That ruled out the Ebon Blade. Not sure how I feel about that. "What do you think, Schwabl?" She turned her head, but the shambler had preoccupied himself with chewing on an errant hand. By the looks of it, troll. "Alright, good talk, bud."

Schwabl was allowed his snack - he had certainly earned it - before Marceline forced him to continue with her. It was exactly as she had suspected though, and the entire camp proved to be devoid of life, or unlife, save for the two of them. It was both beautiful and vexing. She stopped to ponder this matter at the edge of the territory. Behind her, the barren camp. Before her, a hill crested downward into a beautiful, sprawling green field. She would need to trace the camp to leave or ride the hill down. That would lead me north, to the Ghostlands. Her thumb traced the gold on her finger. I… no. Back through the camp, we go.

She made it halfway before Schwabl froze and released a small, high-pitched whine. "What is it?" she asked softly. The shambler looked at her with empty eye sockets, then pointed to his right. Marceline narrowed her eyes. She knew what that meant. All death knights did. "Alright. Wait for my signal." With her ax at the ready and steps as light as she could make them, the blood elf toed her way in the direction Schwabl indicated. It led her through the camp, straight to the left, and then hanging around the edge, almost down the hill. She stepped carefully, mindful of the occasional body or shambler she had to pass.

Schwabl, the poor bastard, lacked that intelligence and that was what gave her away. She spotted two figures hunched over a fallen necromancer just as her companion tripped into a large crate. "I heard something!" a male voice shouted, far too happy about it.

Crap, Marceline mentally groaned. Plans for observations be damned, she couldn't exactly fault a shambler for being a shambler; he had done his best to follow her lead, and she wouldn't let him suffer for it. When the unmistakable sounds of footsteps - two pairs - got too close for comfort she grinned and lashed out, gripping the first adventurer. Might as well make the most of it! The pandaran's yelp made her cackle. "Alright, who do you think you-" Except she knew this panadaran. And by the way his eyes widened and his jaw dropped he recognized her just as easily. Oh no. Oh no no no no.

Marceline could feel herself paling and wasn't that a trick for a death knight. Her preternatural grip released and she looked up, just in time for the human to skid to a halt in front of her. Like the pandaran he stared, too. But only for a moment. He always recovered from the absurd quickly. "Marceline?!"

Jake sat up, balking at the blood elf. Then he recovered, too, grabbing her in a hug. "You're alive?! You're alive!" he yelped.

She swallowed, hard, then whispered, "Hey, Finn. Hey, Jake."

In the back of her mind, she could think only one word.

Busted.