High above the snowcaps of Icecrown, a windrider outwitted blustery winds, soaring over vyrkyl villages, giant mechanical constructs, and legions of undead. Lich dragons soared low below beast and rider, how it always amazed Annise how the windrider seemed unafraid. Gryphons always seemed to seek the safest route around an area, avoiding sweeping too low through a warzone, while windriders had no qualms over flying right over the spear ready vyrkul, or glancing the bony wing of a dragon. It gave the ghost-like rider a free vantage point, searching for any sign for the one that entombed her. Then something caught her attention down below amongst the boney soldiers littering the field.
Power.
Commanding the windrider to dive down to the source, she felt dark magic tease her as the manticore tucked in its wings and seemingly fell from the sky, the frigid whip of winds making neither her nor the creature flinch. A wind tunnel of dark magic rose straight up into the air, perhaps thirty feet, and a familiar presence snagged her attentions. The lone figure weaved the darkness from within the vortex as he pleased, lost in his magic. She could see the swirling tendrils of darkness, and within those, silvery lines, lost souls of the chasm. Swirling around in a chorus, the silent orchestra waltzed around the figure at its center, and he guided them with arms outstretched.
The manticore screeched as it's rider commanded it to land, pulling taughtly on the reigns. She had hardly given the creature space to land, and its leathery wing connected hard with the sharp rock rounding the base of the chasm. Obediently, the windrider let Annise free from its back, though its disgruntled growl followed her. Lumbering dead turned their attentions to the movement, crawling toward the source in hopes of fresh meat.
"...zam..." she whispered, her softly glowing eyes staring across the deathfield at the dark orchestrater in the middle.
It was him, no doubt. He seemed taller, darker, the aura pulsing around him nearly making her swoon. He seemed thinner than she could remember, his robes no longer lined with silver but a straight black that flapped wildly in the rushing magic. His eyes were closed as he channelled, reeling in the rush of power that pounded at his senses. He was completely unaware of anything or anyone around him, but the writhing souls.
Rasped moans grew louder as she began to cross the chasm, but Annise could not recognize the danger as the dead figures closed around her. Neither did she notice that it was not only the figure that drew her instinctually across the deathfield, but the scent, the sound, the energy of the magic tethered about him. She tried to pull upon that same magic inherant within her and focused it upon the boney obstacles in her way, but nothing happened. Her attention snapped to the scavenger's sword as its tip tore through the garments strewn over her shoulder, slicing into cold flesh.
She felt nothing, and continued onward.
Closer she went, and closer still, until she could almost touch the edge of the vortex of darkness that surrounded him. Tendril's swept upward, the wisps of shadow occasionally slowing before her, as if teasing. The figure in the center of the swirling mass channelled still, oblivious, utterly lost as the power alone cleaned his mind . Just behind her, she could smell the stench of long dead bodies reaching for her, clawing. Breaking the lull the energy had on her senses, Annise whipped about, and let loose a wave of hellfire, knocking back her assailants. Undettered, they rose again, armless, legless, still burning, crawling to get to her. Casually, she slipped the fabric of her torn robe over her shouder again, ignoring the angry wound buried into her arm, and strode into the vortex.
The figure's eyes widened as the smooth flow of magic was interrupted. The delicately orchestrated vortex shuddered as the sudden presence of another clashed against the flow of the tide. He stood, no longer directing, no longer channel, as the tendrils of shadow swirled calmly around him. Turning his gaze to the source of the disturbance, he spoke hollowly, face apathetic.
"Who dares?"
Right foot, and left, she moved to the unmoving figure, moving as if she were more drifting than walking. Her steps were not careful, her gait sure even as she stepped confidently, feet bare. Undead stood, rimming the vortex, unsure of touching it, decomposed minds sensing danger as Annise confronted the dark priest. She stood quiet, before him, soft eyes traveling over him, noticing the changes that had overtaken the man she once knew. He was cold, emotionless, his eyes unmoving. Slowly the vortex died, wisps of shadow fading into the cold wind of the glacier. Yet the undead stood at range - perhaps they knew the one in the middle was not to be trifled with. He watched and waited with a tempered patience, knowing he could snap the vortex upon her at any moment, locking her soul into it's silvery streams as well.
"You shut me away. To forget, he said," she spoke, dark hair whipped by an icy wind. An anger rustled beneath her calm form, and he could hear it in the resonance of her voice. He was not the only one who had changed.
A sigh escaped her, only met with his silent, hollow stare. She peered about the perimeter at the groaning undead, all locked in place. The phantom-like Forsaken walked about the stoic Soulmancer, circling him slowly. "Has it really been so long?" she asked softly, then, biting back her emotion. "How long have you been here, stirring the bones of the dead?"
"...a while," was the reply, "months." He looked around him, apathetic to the groaning herd that circled them from afar. He stood still as she circled him, his staff balanced in hand.
"You are here....for?"
She stopped mid-circle at his question, insulted. Her lips quivered as she tried to find an answer, but found none in the face of her impassive husband. "You did not expect me to stay there?! Did...?"
Annise quickly gained control of herself. It had felt so good to lash out with Faranell, and she was letting that easily riled power boil to the surface. There would be other times to be investigate the surge. She backed away, arms across her chest, ready to wall up her lost husband with the memories of a life that was no longer hers.
"I thought I knew. Perhaps the Apothecary was right. Forsaken are not meant to have such...attatchments."
"Faranell..." he murmured the words softly, "attachments..." The words seemed to linger upon his lips. His eyes wavered for a second, but he shook his head, clearing his mind of fog. His eyes trailed to the wound upon her shoulder, trailed down further to the gash along her leg. Finally, he closed the distance as she began to walk from him, grasping her arm, inspecting the torn shoulder.
"You are hurt."
Blinking, she peered down as he knelt before her, his knuckles brushing against the back of her leg, which somehow, was in worse shape than her shoulder. She brought her leg back from his touch, however, her voice hardly heard over the wail of hungry dead. "It's nothing. I didn't even know..." Quieting her argument in the face of his concern, she changed subjects. Face turned upward, she stared where the vortex once circled high into the sky. "I've not seen such a force before...how...?"
He looked up into the sky, where the last wisps of power faded from existence. He shrugged slightly once more before turning his attention back to the gash.
"I practiced," was the short answer. Cool fingers brushed against the back of her, and with that, came a small surge of darkness that seem to coil around her limb.
"You are here seeking treatment...very well. I was almost done...I will treat you," and without another word, the dark figure brought his hand under her legs and scooped her up into his arms. Suddenly a patient, she began to object, but a determination had settled into her carrier's face which she could not bring herself to break. The staff stood by itself, silent as its owner looked around him. Beneath them a dark array traced itself out across the scarred rock.
"To the clinic."
"...ever the Medic..." Annise whispered into her carrier's ear, and he felt her tremble in delight as the dark array beneath them worked it's magic. He could almost smell strawberries in her hair, though something else masked the scent, a scent that caught the shadowmancer's attention--burning flowers. "Your staff..." she began, her glowing eyes catching his again.
He wasn't paying attention. He was looking at her, silently, like an observant cat. Yet it wasn't until that the magic seared up around them, and they found themselves in his quarters in the Undercity, that he finally spoke, only after he had sat her upon the small bed for patients in the corner.
"....you remind me of someone I know."
She realized then, as she watched him methodically take his instruments out--it hadn't hit him. Was this a dream to him? Was he not really seeing her? Concentrating solely on the task on hand, he unrolled his trademark bandages, as if in a trance. Glancing about the small clinic she noticed a change during her absence. The small vase of white roses no longer sat upon his desk, as did the small jewelry box that sat on the cupboard. As she looked upon -him-, with his black robes and quiet demeanor, she noticed that the chain he had always worn around his neck was no longer there. She watched as he picked up the small roll of thin bandages and started to dress her leg. Ignoring his work with his bandages, she scooted off the edge of the small cot, and kneeled down before the distracted Medic.
"....zam..."
"Your wound...stay still..." he murmured softly, reached for the loose end of the bandages again.
Cool fingertips slid against the side of his face as he tried to make sense of it all. He was only met with the sincerity in her expression, and then enclosed in her arms suddenly. Her embrace was stronger than she meant it to be. She whispered, a solemn sound, and the emotion of fear hit her like a ton of bricks as she asked herself, "Already lost to me?"
He was stunned, unable to react. The feeling of such familiar an embrace rippled down his being, and by instance, his hands left the bandages, letting the tip curl up over her back. Words lingered at the tip of his tongue, yet only a small, hushed murmur managed to come out.
"Who...how..." he mouthed out, his mind frozen, unable to think.
Bandages wrapped about her legs and over her shoulder, she pulled her arms away from his neck, and gently pulled his face into her hands, forcing him to look into her gaze. Her features trembled as her senses told her to cry, but no tears came--her vulnerability laid out before him, a glimpse of a woman it hurt him to love.
"Did you think death could ever keep me from you?"
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