DISCLAIMER:
I don't own either World of Warcraft and subsequent IP or any of G.R.R. Martin's works.
A biting wind howled through the barren trees of the far North, carrying with it flecks of glittering snow and the distant echo of a wolf's howl. Joan stood beneath the skeletal branches, her saronite-plated boots half-buried in a thick crust of ice. With every gust of wind, the dangling tufts of frost-laden needles trembled and released a whisper of crystalline dust. The swirling flurries caught silver-white strands of her hair, teasing them away from her pale, angular features.
She might have shivered if she had still been fully human. But she was something more, and something less. The new reality of her undead body was a constant presence in her mind—alien, yet strangely natural, as if she had been born to it. When she inhaled, the cold air prickled against her lungs without bringing any numbness or pain. When she flexed her gauntleted hands, the metal responded seamlessly, an extension of her will. The weight was there, but it felt as though the metal and bone were one.
For a long time, she simply stood, letting her mind wander to the swirling snow. Memories teased the edges of her consciousness—the life of John, an ordinary man from a world of cars, skyscrapers and screens, and the life of Joan, the Death Knight. Sometimes they felt distinct, like water and oil refusing to blend. Other times, they flowed together, leaving her uncertain where one self ended and the other began.
"I am Joan," she whispered into the icy wind, testing the words on her tongue. They felt right, resonating with the glowing blue aura of her eyes and the runic armor enshrouding her form.
A hint of movement caught her eye. She glanced down to see a tiny figure perched on the bent trunk of a frozen sapling—a doll, no taller than her hand. Its porcelain face was adorned with black hair, and its amethyst eyes glistened with mocking intelligence. It was an unsettling sight, like a miniature effigy imbued with life. Yet Joan knew full well what it was—Xal'atath.
"Enjoying the cold, my dear?" the doll said in a soft, lilting tone, the movement of its lips unnaturally precise for something inanimate.
Joan's gauntleted hand tightened around the hilt of her runeblade. "I suppose I should say the same to you. Though I don't imagine you feel anything at all."
The doll's painted mouth curved into a knowing smile. "Feel? I feel plenty, Joan. And soon, you will feel far more than you ever have before."
Joan sighed, turning her gaze away. The doll's presence was both a constant irritation and an odd comfort—a reminder that she was not entirely alone in this unknown land. Even so, she had no illusions about trusting Xal'atath. It was a sliver of the void, cunning and manipulative, looking at her with a mixture of amusement and contempt.
She brushed aside a cluster of snow, forging a path through the dense underbrush. The frost crunched beneath her boots, each step a muted reminder that she was far north of anywhere civilized. The world she found herself in was raw, untouched, and harsh, but so was she. It suited her in a strange way.
Within moments, the white wilderness gave way to a small clearing—a patch of land where a few black boulders jutted from the ice, forming a sort of natural windbreak. Joan stepped into the clearing, raising her gaze to the iron-gray sky. A fierce gust whipped her hair around her face, but she merely blinked, unbothered by the flurry stinging her cheeks.
This was her new reality. She was no longer the tired man, John Taruk, slouched in a chair playing games into the wee hours. She was Joan, a champion of death and ice, exuding a strength beyond anything the people of this land had ever witnessed. Yet within her, faint as a whisper, lurked a memory of hunger—the darkness that once consumed her every thought.
She lifted her runeblade and examined its runes. A faint glow pulsed along its edges, a cold, blue heartbeat. The blade felt eager, as if it could sense her conflict. Blood, Frost, Unholy—it was all in her repertoire, embedded in her very soul as a Death Knight. But the relentless hunger for violence, the savage thirst for pain, was little more than a distant echo now, sealed away by a power older and kinder than the necromantic arts.
"I should be thankful," she whispered, turning her eyes from the blade to the heavens. Thankful that the horror of that insatiable appetite had been curbed. Thankful that the Winter Queen of Ardenweald had taken pity on her twisted soul.
Joan resumed walking, each step a test of her new yet intimately familiar body. She felt strong—too strong, perhaps—like she could snap a grown man's bones without a second thought. Sometimes the smallest movement made her acutely aware of how deadly she had become. That power thrilled her in a way that startled her lingering human sensibilities. A vestige of John might have found it terrifying, but as Joan, she felt an odd sense of rightness.
Even so, a flicker of aggression stirred within her every now and then—a faint reminder of the hunger that once gnawed at the core of every Death Knight. She would catch herself gripping her runeblade a tad too tightly, her heart giving a burst of savage elation at the thought of a fight. Then the feeling would fade, subdued by the gentle hush of a memory.
A memory of a place where the cycle of life and death was harmonized, rather than consumed by despair.
With that memory came a single name: Ardenweald.
Joan paused, shutting her eyes, and let the recollection sweep over her.
Flashback:
She remembered how the sky had glimmered in shades of twilight violet and sapphire blue—an eternal dusk that nurtured bioluminescent flora. Ardenweald was a realm of graceful, silvery trees and winding paths lit by wisps and faeries. Even in the afterlife, it was a place of renewal for souls tied to nature, where the essence of life and dreams wove together into something magical.
And into that mystical land had strode a human Death Knight: Joan. Far from belonging, yet seeking acceptance all the same.
The first time Joan set foot in Ardenweald, her armored boots felt clumsy and heavy compared to the light, almost playful footsteps of the native fae. Tiny winged creatures peered at her from behind leaves that glowed with captured starlight. Some cowered, sensing the chill of death that clung to her. Others approached out of curiosity, enthralled by the clash of energies swirling within her.
"You are a strange one, mortal," one of the fae had remarked, circling her head with a flicker of iridescent wings. "Your spirit is as black as midnight… yet there's a spark of something else. Something… softer."
Joan said nothing, lips pressed thin in discomfort. The hunger was there, slithering beneath her ribcage like a caged beast. She feared that if she opened her mouth, only a growl would come out.
It was Ara'lon, a stalwart faun-like guardian, who guided her deeper into the groves. Flowers glowed under their feet, pulsing with gentle luminescence. Branches overhead seemed to move of their own accord, creating a canopy that breathed in rhythm with the land itself.
"Why have you come here, Death Knight?" Ara'lon asked, though not unkindly. "Surely you realize Ardenweald is meant for rejuvenation, not unending conflict."
Joan exhaled, forcing her hands away from the hilt of her sword. "I… have lost something important. My mind is consumed by hunger, a darkness I can't fully control. I want to find a way to live without…" She hesitated. "Without becoming a monster."
They brought her before the Winter Queen, a regal being with branching antlers and a visage of austere beauty. Vines and shimmering blossoms adorned Her form, and She examined Joan with eyes that seemed to hold the entire cosmos.
"The hunger of a Death Knight is no trivial thing," the Winter Queen said at last, Her voice resonating through the hush of the grove. "It stems from a bond to the powers of death and decay. Yet you stand here, seeking peace. Why?"
Joan knelt, though the old Death Knight pride bristled at the submission. "Because I was once more than this hunger," she said. "I fought for Azeroth. I was a mage of Dalaran—a mortal who chose to protect others. Now, I find myself a champion of death, trapped between my new nature and my old convictions."
For a long moment, the Winter Queen was silent. Around Her, the glow of the forest seemed to pulse in tune with Her contemplation. Then She extended a hand, and from Her palm blossomed a swirl of anima, bright and pure.
"If you truly seek balance," She said, "then I shall grant you a fragment of Ardenweald's essence. But know this: it will not erase your darkness, only temper it."
Joan felt the infusion as a gentle warmth flooding her veins—so different from the icy embrace of undeath that had once claimed her. The anima pulsed, knitting itself to her soul, comforting yet alien. She gasped, half-expecting the hunger to surge in rebellion. Instead, it retreated, subdued, like a feral beast momentarily calmed.
And so began Joan's service in Ardenweald. It was no mere pilgrimage; the Winter Queen demanded that she prove worthy of the gift. She performed tasks that once would have been anathema to her Death Knight existence: nurturing newly arrived souls, planting dream seeds, and safeguarding vulnerable spirit creatures from the predations of gorm and other threats.
Yet all the while, the hunger lurked. She found herself snapping at a mischievous faerie who tried to pluck a piece of her runeblade. She felt surges of aggression whenever she encountered the faintest whiff of conflict. Her fists would clench; her eyes would glow with a sharper hue of blue. But the anima infusion gave her enough clarity to wrestle the impulse under control.
Every day, she learned more about the cycle of life and death that powered Ardenweald. She listened to the lullabies of the fae, watched souls drifting on currents of shimmering starlight, and began to see the bigger tapestry that united all realms of existence.
The War of the Thorns had unleashed unspeakable tragedies across Azeroth, and the Burning of Teldrassil had sent a flood of night elf souls reeling into the afterlife. Many made their way to Ardenweald, where their bond with nature might have granted them the chance to regenerate. But something was wrong—the machinery of death had broken, funneling far too many of those souls into the Maw instead.
One day, as Joan tended to a cluster of nascent dream seeds, Ara'lon approached with urgency etched across his face. "The Winter Queen has a new task for you," he said. "Souls from Teldrassil are being siphoned into the Maw. We need a champion who can fight within those dark depths—and come back alive."
Joan felt her stomach twist with a mix of dread and grim determination. She knew the Maw, having braved it before. It was a vortex of torment, a wasteland where hope went to die. But the Winter Queen had entrusted her with the power to resist her hunger, and these night elf souls deserved a chance at healing, not endless agony.
Crossing the threshold into the Maw, Joan felt the shift immediately. Ardenweald's gentle hum vanished, replaced by a howling emptiness that gnawed at the edges of her awareness. The stench of despair weighed on her, and the background noise of countless souls screaming in torment was enough to unsettle even a Death Knight.
That was when the hunger stirred, emboldened by the aura of hopelessness. It licked at her thoughts, whispering that she could end the suffering of every wailing spirit with a mere swing of her runeblade—harvest them, consume them. She clenched her jaw, remembering the Winter Queen's caution.
She found the first group of night elf souls huddled by a jagged rock formation. They were spectral figures, faintly glowing, their eyes clouded with horror at what they had seen. At first, they recoiled from her. A few recognized the hallmark of a Death Knight—blue eyes filled with the chill of the grave—and they shrank away, associating her with the monstrosities that had befallen them.
"I am not here to harm you," Joan managed, her voice strained as she fought to keep the hunger at bay. "I was sent by the Winter Queen to guide you to Ardenweald—where you can heal."
Night elf spirit, tears glistening along her ethereal cheeks, mustered the courage to step forward. "We… we died in flames," she said, voice quivering. "Teldrassil burned, and there was no mercy. Why have we been sent to this place of torment?"
Joan's gaze flicked to the ground. She didn't have an answer. All she could offer was her blade and her resolve. "Let me help you," she said. "Please."
Slowly, they allowed her to lead them away from the swirling eddies of malevolent energy. Step by step, the group advanced deeper into the Maw, ironically, to find the escape routes the Winter Queen's agents had discovered—unstable paths that flickered with faint fae magic. All the while, wraith-like creatures and misshapen beasts prowled at the edges of Joan's vision, waiting for a chance to strike.
And strike they did. A howling mass of twisted, canine-like monstrosities lunged from the shadows. Joan's runeblade ignited with necrotic frost, and she slashed through their ranks with calculated efficiency. She felt a surge of satisfaction at each blow—a taste of the violence that once had defined her. But she kept it under control, remembering the promise she had made.
Bit by harrowing bit, she led the souls of those night elves to the portal. Each step required her to channel necromantic energies to ward off relentless assaults. Her armor became spattered with vile, black ichor, and her teeth ground together with the exertion of suppressing the hunger. Yet she never faltered in her duty.
Finally, the largest and most injured cluster of night elf souls slipped through the flickering fae path. As they disappeared into the shimmering light, Joan allowed herself a moment of relief. She had done it—she had saved them from eternal torment. Then she felt a twinge of guilt, remembering those who had remained behind, lost in the Maw, beyond her reach.
When Joan staggered back into Ardenweald, her limbs trembled with exhaustion she didn't know a Death Knight could feel. A swirl of star-laden air enveloped her, washing away some of the gloom that clung to her spirit. She watched as the rescued night elf souls floated toward groves of gently pulsing anima, guided by faeries and spritelings. Some looked back at her with cautious gratitude.
In the glade's center stood the Winter Queen, observing Joan's arrival with a measured gaze. When their eyes met, the Queen offered the faintest inclination of Her head—acknowledgment of a job well done.
"You return," the Queen said, Her voice echoing with ancient timbre. "Did you taste your old darkness in that place?"
Joan inhaled shakily. "I did. And I resisted it. Though it… tested me, greatly."
The Winter Queen's antlered visage offered no overt display of sympathy, but Her next words held a quiet admiration. "Balance is forged in struggle, Joan. Continue to serve Ardenweald and, in doing so, serve yourself."
And Joan did. She spent weeks making forays into the Maw to rescue more Teldrassil souls. Each mission shaped her understanding of what it meant to be a Death Knight tempered by empathy. Each mission reminded her that while the hunger might never fully disappear, it could be harnessed, turned into something protective rather than destructive.
At times, she meditated among the dream-laden blossoms, letting her thoughts drift between the faint hum of her necromantic power and the gentle melody of the wilds. She would see images of Teldrassil's burning, of night elves screaming in the blazing night. And she would remember the satisfaction of plunging her blade through abominations in the Maw—violence that once would have fueled her darkest impulses. Now, she found a twisted solace in using those impulses to protect rather than to slaughter indiscriminately.
In the end, she realized she had achieved a fragile equilibrium. The hunger was there, a part of her, but no longer her master. Ardenweald's anima infusion, and the Winter Queen's guidance, had given Joan enough clarity to walk a middle path between life and death.
End of Flashback
The flashback receded, and Joan found herself once more in the icy clearing of the North. The wind stung her cheeks, and the faint glow of her eyes reflected off the frozen ground. She took a deep breath—an unnecessary gesture for someone who was technically undead, but it calmed her nonetheless.
"Anima infusion," she murmured, her voice surprisingly gentle amid the howling wind. "Thank you, Winter Queen."
"Still indulging in reveries?" a silken voice whispered at her side, and she almost jumped. Xal'atath's doll perched on a rock, its amethyst eyes bright with curiosity—or mockery. It was always hard to tell.
Joan exhaled a cloud of frosty breath, forcing her nerves to settle. "Remembering what brought me here," she said curtly.
"So serious." The doll's lips curled. "But I suppose that's expected from one who skirts the line between life and death, forever trying to be something she's not. Tell me, Joan, do you think you're better off now?"
Joan leveled a cool gaze at the doll. "I'm as I should be," she replied. "Stronger than the hunger. Stronger than you might think."
Xal'atath's laughter was like a quiet chime of shattered glass. "We shall see. In this new world, your real tests are yet to come."
She didn't respond. Instead, Joan steadied her runeblade against her shoulder and walked on, the snow crunching beneath her boots. She could sense that Xal'atath wanted more than to simply accompany her—the doll was always watching, always scheming. But for now, that manipulative presence was a puzzle she neither had the time nor the desire to solve.
Moreover, something told her that the worst storms—both within and without—were on the horizon.
The bleak winter sky overhead began to dim, even though it was early in the day. Heavy clouds, pregnant with snow, amassed along the horizon. Joan paused near a cluster of ice-bound pines, scanning the distance with eyes that could pierce through gloom like a blade through flesh. If there was any sign of civilization out here, she couldn't detect it. Only trees, snow, and the vast silence of uncharted lands stretched before her.
"No roads, no towers, no armies…" she mused, fascinated yet uneasy. On Azeroth, even the most remote places had traces of sentient life. Here, the wilderness reigned unchecked.
A quiet snicker came from the doll perched on her shoulder.
"Is it not beautiful, Joan? Free from the petty squabbles of kingdoms and the meddling of so-called heroes? It is a blank slate—ripe for molding to your will, if you are bold enough."
She brushed off the suggestion with a shake of her head. "I'm not here to conquer. I don't even know where 'here' is, exactly."
"Then let us find out, my dear." Xal'atath's voice radiated a twisted excitement. "I sense… opportunities."
Joan frowned. Her eyes narrowed against a gust of wind. Despite the doll's prodding, she felt no immediate desire for conquest or domination. She just wanted answers. Where was she? What new realm had the portal cast her into? Would she be confronted by people who feared and hated her powers, just as so many had in Azeroth?
Inevitably, the hunger stirred again, faint but insistent. She recognized it like an old scar aching at the change of weather. No, she told it, shutting her eyes. I am more than you. The presence receded, leashed by her will and the memory of Ardenweald's gift.
The wind shifted, carrying with it the sharp tang of pine resin. Joan sniffed the air, her enhanced senses picking up distant scents—fresh snow, old bark, the musk of animals. She found a path heading west, its meager footprints half-buried by recent flurries. Perhaps travelers had once come this way, though the path seemed deserted now.
With a final glance at the winter sky, Joan set off along the path. Each footstep felt purposeful, a march toward destiny—or doom. She couldn't be sure which.
Yet inside, she carried the calm gleaned from Ardenweald's anima infusion and the unwavering knowledge that she was no longer a slave to her darker urges. That, at least, was a victory in itself.
Author's note:
Another chapter,
I'm on a roll apparently :D
Also, it's a wee bit longer, about 3,5k words. It's quite harder to write it like that, but I do enjoy the challenge :)
Should I try longer still?
Anyway, please enjoy
Soari
PS: I was always bothered that throughout the whole Shadowlands expansion there wasn't anything that would help our dear DK class with it's 'hunger for violence', so in my headcannon, every covenant had some way to help with that.
PS: Also, I know about collecting souls of NE weekly, but in my head, this seemed more poetic than just - going, collecting souls, and then releasing them inside the main tree.