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veryroundbird) wrote2011-12-28 04:52 pm
veryroundbird) wrote2011-12-28 04:52 pm
Entry tags:
[Fic][Warcraft] They All Begged For Their Lives
Character(s): Original Character (Alexia Swiftdawn)
Author:veryroundbird
Fandom: Warcraft
Wordcount: 1270
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Violence, death, more death, more violence
Notes: Originally written as an app sample for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
multiversal. It's a perfectly serviceable bit of fic, so I figured why not post it.
She will have to wash her boots after this.
Part of her is slightly appalled that it’s gotten to the point where this sort of scene is so commonplace that those are all the feelings she can summon up about it. She’s not particularly inclined to feel sorry for the Scarlet Onslaught, though, with her month-long captivity in New Avalon still uncomfortably fresh.
So stupid, she thinks, her lips curling in distaste. So unnecessary. So many lives could have been spared, and yet they threw their lives away in a pointless battle against people they didn’t even have to be fighting. The freed undead should have been their allies, fighting a common enemy. But instead… this. She crosses the square, only making a token effort not to step on any of the fallen, and takes out her knife to cut down the bodies swaying from the gallows in the chill breeze.
“Cortland?” she calls, softly, to one of her escorts. “D’you have a pen and paper, please? I’m going to need you to write down some names for me.” This one was Lacey Turner, who worked as a smith and had a husband fighting in Howling Fjord. John Weston, who had trained countless warriors to fight the Scourge and had given her some pointers in swordfighting himself. Apothecary Carris—eh, no great loss, and Alexia had disliked him, but still. Cortland dutifully jots down the names; they will be needed later, when Alexia writes their next of kin with the unfortunate news.
The rest here were still dressed in Scarlet livery, likely executed out of Abbendis’s paranoia about spies in their ranks. Of course, if Alexia was right about what she smelled on some of their priests, the High General was actually close to correct for once—if looking entirely in the wrong direction. Her gaze lingers briefly on the human victims. To live one’s life in the service of something that would eventually betray your trust… She can’t help but feel a bit of pity for them as well, despite the fact that they’d been enemies. Not a good way to go.
There’s a sudden outburst of shouting from the direction of the barracks, and a handful of troops come running. “Ambassador,” rasps one—a Lieutenant, by her decorations. “You need to see this.”
Alexia nods, and decides not the sheathe her knife before following. She doesn’t like the sound, but that’s probably why it’s important.
The barracks are fairly standard, for humans; it’s what lies below the barracks that they want her to see. The Lieutenant takes point, and then after conferring with someone below, waves her forward, her face twisting into a scowl. “Here.”
Alexia steps into the cellar and freezes.
This room is familiar. Too familiar, and so is the man that the soldiers have shackled with what can only be his own restraints, because she knows this man and suddenly the room is far, far too small and everything in her is screaming that she needs to get out, get out get out get out, and yet she can’t move—
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
Cortland, who looks concerned even though he lacks eyes and most of the skin on his jaw. She looks up at him—oh. It seems that her knees have given way. The rest of the soldiers are looking on, their dead faces difficult to read. She places a hand gingerly on the wall to steady herself, and carefully raises herself to her feet.
“Thanks, Cortland,” she says, carefully schooling her voice into calm tones. “I am… I’m totally fine. I’m good. Well, this is kind of a horrible place, so not good in the sense that—you know what I mean. Don’t worry about it.” She shrugs, and smiles, in a way that she hopes is nonchalant. Her heart is still racing, but this time they are not in New Avalon, and now LeCraft is the prisoner.
Although not soon enough to spare the three Forsaken they’ve found down here his tender mercies, it seems. The Forsaken are hardy people, though, and two of them are, for better or worse, still among the unliving; she calls for the squad of what passes for medics in a society of the undead, and makes sure what help can be provided is given. The basement slowly empties, and soon it is only her, Cortland, the Lieutenant, and LeCraft.
“Ambassador,” says Cortland, “we should head back to Venomspite—”
“Just a sec,” Alexia cuts in. “There’s a little unfinished business here that I’d like to take care of.” She jerks her head in LeCraft’s direction.
She sees LeCraft's eyes widen; certainly his imagination is working overtime. (The Lieutenant seems to have caught that wavelength; she grins, wickedly, and nudges Cortland.) Captive, in his own dungeon, surrounded by his own torture instruments. And his eyes widen even more in surprise as Alexia plunges his knife deep into his heart.
He gasps, in a strangled sort of way, and his hands writhe in their bindings; he struggles to no avail. His mouth works furiously, sputtering half-formed words. "They all—begged... for their... lives..." he chokes out.
Something in her expression is almost like pity. But not quite. "And you didn't give it to them. And you didn't end their pain, but instead reveled in it. May the Holy Light have mercy upon your soul, though none you had for others."
There's a brief flicker of horror and the shock of the vanishing of seemingly infinite tomorrows into one last moment before the light in his eyes fades, and Alexia pulls the knife out, wiping it on a cloth she pulls from a belt pouch.
"We're done here," she says, to the onlooking Lieutenant and Cortland. "Give orders to burn the place. It smells something fierce." She does not look for their opinion or approval; she simply sheathes her knife, and starts up the stairs.
Cortland catches up to her, shortly, and they walk in silence back through the snow to Venomspite. After a moment he clears his throat.
"Yes?" says Alexia, mildly. Her gaze is on the sky.
There's uncertainty in his voice. "I... I don't understand, ma'am." It's not uncommon knowledge, her brief adventure after the Outland campaign, and for Forsaken, at least, knowing she was held prisoner by the Scarlet Crusade is more than enough to know what happened.
"I don't think anything I could have done to him could have matched the terrible things he did to more people than I can probably number," says Alexia, thoughtfully, not bothering to pretend she doesn't know what Cortland's talking about. She clasps her arms behind her back. "Best to just put him down like a rabid dog. Or maybe I just wanted to know that I was the better man. Woman. Elf. Whatever. Does it matter?"
Cortland shrugs his bony shoulders. "I suppose it doesn't." It's clear he doesn't really agree, but Alexia won't really begrudge him that.
They've reached Venomspite, though; it's not far. Alexia stretches. "Cor, I'm tired," she says. "I suppose it's been a bit of a day. I'm going to take a nap; I'll be back up in about an hour or so. Could you have the rosters on my desk by then?"
Cortland nods crisply. He's on firmer ground. "Will do, ma'am," he says, and strides off.
Alexia manages to stay awake just long enough to make it to her cot, and sleeps the sleep of the just.
Author:
veryroundbirdFandom: Warcraft
Wordcount: 1270
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Violence, death, more death, more violence
Notes: Originally written as an app sample for
multiversal. It's a perfectly serviceable bit of fic, so I figured why not post it.She will have to wash her boots after this.
Part of her is slightly appalled that it’s gotten to the point where this sort of scene is so commonplace that those are all the feelings she can summon up about it. She’s not particularly inclined to feel sorry for the Scarlet Onslaught, though, with her month-long captivity in New Avalon still uncomfortably fresh.
So stupid, she thinks, her lips curling in distaste. So unnecessary. So many lives could have been spared, and yet they threw their lives away in a pointless battle against people they didn’t even have to be fighting. The freed undead should have been their allies, fighting a common enemy. But instead… this. She crosses the square, only making a token effort not to step on any of the fallen, and takes out her knife to cut down the bodies swaying from the gallows in the chill breeze.
“Cortland?” she calls, softly, to one of her escorts. “D’you have a pen and paper, please? I’m going to need you to write down some names for me.” This one was Lacey Turner, who worked as a smith and had a husband fighting in Howling Fjord. John Weston, who had trained countless warriors to fight the Scourge and had given her some pointers in swordfighting himself. Apothecary Carris—eh, no great loss, and Alexia had disliked him, but still. Cortland dutifully jots down the names; they will be needed later, when Alexia writes their next of kin with the unfortunate news.
The rest here were still dressed in Scarlet livery, likely executed out of Abbendis’s paranoia about spies in their ranks. Of course, if Alexia was right about what she smelled on some of their priests, the High General was actually close to correct for once—if looking entirely in the wrong direction. Her gaze lingers briefly on the human victims. To live one’s life in the service of something that would eventually betray your trust… She can’t help but feel a bit of pity for them as well, despite the fact that they’d been enemies. Not a good way to go.
There’s a sudden outburst of shouting from the direction of the barracks, and a handful of troops come running. “Ambassador,” rasps one—a Lieutenant, by her decorations. “You need to see this.”
Alexia nods, and decides not the sheathe her knife before following. She doesn’t like the sound, but that’s probably why it’s important.
The barracks are fairly standard, for humans; it’s what lies below the barracks that they want her to see. The Lieutenant takes point, and then after conferring with someone below, waves her forward, her face twisting into a scowl. “Here.”
Alexia steps into the cellar and freezes.
This room is familiar. Too familiar, and so is the man that the soldiers have shackled with what can only be his own restraints, because she knows this man and suddenly the room is far, far too small and everything in her is screaming that she needs to get out, get out get out get out, and yet she can’t move—
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
Cortland, who looks concerned even though he lacks eyes and most of the skin on his jaw. She looks up at him—oh. It seems that her knees have given way. The rest of the soldiers are looking on, their dead faces difficult to read. She places a hand gingerly on the wall to steady herself, and carefully raises herself to her feet.
“Thanks, Cortland,” she says, carefully schooling her voice into calm tones. “I am… I’m totally fine. I’m good. Well, this is kind of a horrible place, so not good in the sense that—you know what I mean. Don’t worry about it.” She shrugs, and smiles, in a way that she hopes is nonchalant. Her heart is still racing, but this time they are not in New Avalon, and now LeCraft is the prisoner.
Although not soon enough to spare the three Forsaken they’ve found down here his tender mercies, it seems. The Forsaken are hardy people, though, and two of them are, for better or worse, still among the unliving; she calls for the squad of what passes for medics in a society of the undead, and makes sure what help can be provided is given. The basement slowly empties, and soon it is only her, Cortland, the Lieutenant, and LeCraft.
“Ambassador,” says Cortland, “we should head back to Venomspite—”
“Just a sec,” Alexia cuts in. “There’s a little unfinished business here that I’d like to take care of.” She jerks her head in LeCraft’s direction.
She sees LeCraft's eyes widen; certainly his imagination is working overtime. (The Lieutenant seems to have caught that wavelength; she grins, wickedly, and nudges Cortland.) Captive, in his own dungeon, surrounded by his own torture instruments. And his eyes widen even more in surprise as Alexia plunges his knife deep into his heart.
He gasps, in a strangled sort of way, and his hands writhe in their bindings; he struggles to no avail. His mouth works furiously, sputtering half-formed words. "They all—begged... for their... lives..." he chokes out.
Something in her expression is almost like pity. But not quite. "And you didn't give it to them. And you didn't end their pain, but instead reveled in it. May the Holy Light have mercy upon your soul, though none you had for others."
There's a brief flicker of horror and the shock of the vanishing of seemingly infinite tomorrows into one last moment before the light in his eyes fades, and Alexia pulls the knife out, wiping it on a cloth she pulls from a belt pouch.
"We're done here," she says, to the onlooking Lieutenant and Cortland. "Give orders to burn the place. It smells something fierce." She does not look for their opinion or approval; she simply sheathes her knife, and starts up the stairs.
Cortland catches up to her, shortly, and they walk in silence back through the snow to Venomspite. After a moment he clears his throat.
"Yes?" says Alexia, mildly. Her gaze is on the sky.
There's uncertainty in his voice. "I... I don't understand, ma'am." It's not uncommon knowledge, her brief adventure after the Outland campaign, and for Forsaken, at least, knowing she was held prisoner by the Scarlet Crusade is more than enough to know what happened.
"I don't think anything I could have done to him could have matched the terrible things he did to more people than I can probably number," says Alexia, thoughtfully, not bothering to pretend she doesn't know what Cortland's talking about. She clasps her arms behind her back. "Best to just put him down like a rabid dog. Or maybe I just wanted to know that I was the better man. Woman. Elf. Whatever. Does it matter?"
Cortland shrugs his bony shoulders. "I suppose it doesn't." It's clear he doesn't really agree, but Alexia won't really begrudge him that.
They've reached Venomspite, though; it's not far. Alexia stretches. "Cor, I'm tired," she says. "I suppose it's been a bit of a day. I'm going to take a nap; I'll be back up in about an hour or so. Could you have the rosters on my desk by then?"
Cortland nods crisply. He's on firmer ground. "Will do, ma'am," he says, and strides off.
Alexia manages to stay awake just long enough to make it to her cot, and sleeps the sleep of the just.