(4) Scion

The piece of charcoal traveled in her hand like a lover’s gentle caress. Her eye was caught by the loose parchment upon the table, ensnared by it as she drew. Somewhere, within her broken memory, she knew that there had been an artistic side to her, and she began realizing this after studying some of the tomes on Demonic Rituals. Demissette Cloyce was none to pleased when she returned her book, “The Dark Energies of the Nether” with drawings of the anatomical studies of the imp and voidwalker sketched over the ancient text. Annaliese had thought that the woman would set her afire on the spot, so enraged she was. Lilaeth came to her aid, however, offering the instructor some type of payment for the “scarring” of the tome, as Demisette had called it. No doubt it had been something incredibly valuable that Lilaeth offered in exchange, because Annaliese had come out of the ordeal unscathed, save for a menacing glare from the teacher every time she would come down to the hidden chamber of the Lamb.

Annaliese, for the most part, had been welcomed into the Order known as the Scions of Darkness, and she was quite friendly with some of the warlocks: Lilaeth, Relente, Serenah, Anadris…a few names she remembered more than others. The Order had met within an odd place, a secretive location just last night, and it had been awe-inspiring. Perhaps an ancient tomb, the echoes of the long dead seeming to whisper along the walls. There were many of the Order there that night, and all seemed to anticipate the arrival of one whom they called the Dark Lord. Annaliese, along with a handful of other Initiates, were to be fully welcomed into the Order, and she had tried to shrink in the shadows to avoid the glances of some of the others. She was not privy to so many eyes on her.

A voice had called out of the shadows of the tomb, like the dead of midnight, and it had sent chills through her. The very shadows seemed to writhe around him, his power unmistakable, and Annaliese realized that this was the Dark Lord, Keruptis. Moments passed, and he had called the new initiates to the front so they could speak their oaths to induct them fully into the Scions of Darkness. She had tried to stay unnoticed, but Lilaeth had spoken and brought her name to the attention of the Dark Lord, and Anna found the orbs within the Dreadmist Hood boring into her. His voice had been smooth, inviting as he beckoned her closer to stand with the others. As they spoke their verbal oath, he was patient enough to wait for everyone to speak their part, but Annaliese had hesitated with each word. The Dark Lord seemed to take notice of her nervousness, which seemed to amuse him, and he had shot her a darkened smile as he offered the obsidian ring or earring to her. Most of the Initiates had chosen the ring, and she had marveled at its mirrored, smooth finish.

She took a moment now to look at it, a band of shadow clinging to her finger. Not only had the ring been enchanted to fit, but it offered communication between her brethren when distanced. It seemed Keruptis had a vision, to bring Azeroth to a new era, one of Darkness, with the Scions in the seat of power. Warlocks were given these dark gifts, and they were meant to be unlocked to their full potential, and this could be only be accomplished when one opened themselves to the Ancient Ones, the entities of the Great Dark, and devote themselves to their teachings.

For Anna, anything was preferable to the cold touch of undeath. Perhaps she could be taught to shield herself from the grief…

“What are you drawing there?” came a voice from across the table, drawing her from her reverie. She looked up into eyes the color of the ocean, and was greeted by a warm, curious smile. Pausing, trying to gather her words, she looked down at the parchment once more. Two glowing orbs peered at her from the shadows of it’s hood, the dark smile obscured. She shook her head once, criticizing the drawing before it was even finished.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” she said simply as she rolled up the parchment, placing it in her leather satchel, offering a gentle smile. The man chuckled, his tankard of ale held tightly in a plated hand.

“Well, it must have been something. You were so concentrated. Even the dancing night elves didn’t dissuade you,” he said, tipping his head at her before he lifted the tankard to his lips. “That’s some dedication.”

Looking around the Lion’s Pride Inn, she finally did notice the drunken dancers upon the railing of the center room. She let out a soft sigh, guiding a curl of scarlet hair behind her ear. It was not usual for her to come to this place, she did not know what compelled her to sit here and try to draw amongst all the noise. The warlock only gave the interested patron a small smile, but remained quiet, trying to determine whether to leave Goldshire or not to commence training.

“Not very talkative are you?” he asked then, scooting his chair closer to her. He ran a hand through his dark beard, then through his hair, then turned his eyes on her again.

“No, I suppose not,” she said simply, her voice soft, barely audible amongst the loud company within the Inn. He held out his hand to her with a wide grin, his blue eyes dancing. And the grin grew wider when she took it, shaking it slowly at first, until he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly.

“My name is Damos,” he replied, noticing that her fingertips were black with charcoal. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her fingers delicately until she pulled them away.

“It’s not everyday you meet an artist. And a beautiful one at that,” he said, chuckling. “Have you any work that a passerby might have seen?”

“No, no. I draw for myself mostly. I’m not that good,” she spoke immediately. Damos moved a bit closer, eyeing the sketchbook, the flames of the fireplace lining it in an orange color.

“Maybe you should let others decide that for themselves,” he said, reaching for the book. Anna quickly swept it from his reach, cradling it in her hands.

“I think not,” she said quietly, and Damos frowned.

“Well, can I at least have the pleasure of knowing your name?” he said inching closer. It was then that the warlock rose from her chair and regarded him with a placid smile and respectful curtsy.

“Perhaps later, Damos. I must leave for now. Farewell.”


The man atop the stairs of the Inn could have died of giddy laughter. He was already caught in her, just as Bastion knew he would be.

“Go on Paladin. Chase after her, she is already in your blood,” he murmured mockingly at the man as he left the tavern, indeed to chase after his puppet. “She will infatuate you until you can live for none other than her, she will burn you to a cinder.”

Bastion held a medallion in his hands, made of silver, with an etching of a raven perched upon a skull. He let it dangle between his hands, as if he were hypnotizing the air itself.

“And then, at your weakest…you will fall, D’Mort.”