[It had been weeks since he was able to turn his blades on something, and that mission hadn't been exactly satisfying.
But this, war, this is what he knows. It's what he trained for, in life, and the purpose for which he was created, in death.
His blades in his hands, etched with runes that glowed the same icy blue as his eyes, felt less like a tool of war and more a part of himself. He never named them, though some did. Byfrost, he knew, was the name of Koltira's blade. His blades never needed names.
Right now, those blades were being turned on the helmeted and masked forces that swarm around him. If only they were undead, he could make better use of them, turn them against each other.
Thassarian is pressing through the forces as best he can, and though he can guard himself with ice against some things, he's taken a few hits. Thick, nearly black ichor mats his hair, and he raises his swords to strike again. The soldier falls, and he turns, running toward-
There's pain shooting through him, and he nearly collapses. He closes his eyes for a moment, sight nearly gone for a moment. There was a flash of light, he had recognized that much, and something still Scourge within him turns, his eyes alight with cold fire as he searches for where it came from. Thassarian's wounds stitch together, but it's all but ignored against the burning pain in his veins.
Congratulations, Ashraf. You just healbombed a Death Knight.
Ashraf. He focuses on him, and tries to compose himself as best he can, though his first instinct is to chase him down and drive his sword through his chest.
Dull feeling is coming back to his limbs, and he stands fully. He almost turns away, but sees movement-]
Behind you!
[He reaches out, sending a blast of ice and air at the soldier, forcing his legs to start moving and running toward the priest.]
no subject
But this, war, this is what he knows. It's what he trained for, in life, and the purpose for which he was created, in death.
His blades in his hands, etched with runes that glowed the same icy blue as his eyes, felt less like a tool of war and more a part of himself. He never named them, though some did. Byfrost, he knew, was the name of Koltira's blade. His blades never needed names.
Right now, those blades were being turned on the helmeted and masked forces that swarm around him. If only they were undead, he could make better use of them, turn them against each other.
Thassarian is pressing through the forces as best he can, and though he can guard himself with ice against some things, he's taken a few hits. Thick, nearly black ichor mats his hair, and he raises his swords to strike again. The soldier falls, and he turns, running toward-
There's pain shooting through him, and he nearly collapses. He closes his eyes for a moment, sight nearly gone for a moment. There was a flash of light, he had recognized that much, and something still Scourge within him turns, his eyes alight with cold fire as he searches for where it came from. Thassarian's wounds stitch together, but it's all but ignored against the burning pain in his veins.
Congratulations, Ashraf. You just healbombed a Death Knight.
Ashraf. He focuses on him, and tries to compose himself as best he can, though his first instinct is to chase him down and drive his sword through his chest.
Dull feeling is coming back to his limbs, and he stands fully. He almost turns away, but sees movement-]
Behind you!
[He reaches out, sending a blast of ice and air at the soldier, forcing his legs to start moving and running toward the priest.]