“Life. Dreams. Hope. Where do they come from… and where do they go?” Anetho inquired, waving his half empty wine glass towards his wife, who sat patiently through his drunken ramblings. “…Just the same as monsters go when they die… they shan’t soar the heavens where angels fly…” He laughed, almost falling out of the sofa, hanging idle by the arm rest. “Where will you go, Anetho?” She asked sympathetically. His laughter turned to an eloquent sonata of tears.

Another dream. Nightmares of incidents long past. I cannot escape them, it seems. Even in the abscence of the Sha that perplexed me, it seems it left a final bitter curse. It’s namesake of despair clutching at me of all hours in the night. Forcing me to relive with all due regard to perspective, hours of life I could scarcely recall. I suspect my memory twists what are grey areas into situations worse than they actually were. This rationalization offers me no comfort.

I am lonely. It affects me deeply. For all the whores, the passing fancies and concubi I surround myself in, I fear it only opens the void further. “T’is all I know.” I say to myself, waking to the emptiness of my bed, my companion having chosen to slip silently into the quiet of the night. “Perhaps I do not deserve such comforts.” I whisper accusingly, as I prepare Kaja and Whiskey to chase the morning afflictions of last night’s indulgance. Orgrimmar is a cage. One that only encourages monsterous behavior. Public executions, brutality, a justice system far more extreme and corrupt than Silvermoon’s could hope to be… and savagely efficient.

I long to see her. I crave her voice in my ear. I ache for her touch. I need her heart beating against my own. I know such to be impossible. Even were I not bound by these constrictions of duty and obligation, I imagine she would not have me now. Why should she? I traumatize everything she knows, in efforts to better protect them. Forcing them to exile, frightening them into resignation, manipulating the threads that bind their lives. I suppose it is true. I damn everything I touch. I burn what I strive to save. I alienate what I would love.

I should take solace in the fact she has her many arms to fall into. Ceriene and whomever else within that black pit of a cartel she has enamored herself within. She knows of love, I suspect. But I ponder of it is of the passionate sort. Such thoughts detract from my work. Such fancies cloud my focus, and hinder my judgement. I think I hear her calling out to me in a rage at times. I turn to glance about in shock only to discover there is nothing but Orcs and Goblins. Perhaps I have finally fallen to insanity?

I cannot operate as I have for much longer. SI:7 grows impatient with me, constantly contacting me for meetings whilst I am knee deep in drink and vice. Enraged when I arrive tardy and intoxicated. They distrust me, despite all I’ve provided in the past. Orpheus is the only face that remains omnipresent and competent for the fact he has no face and is of many souls. Lorinth serves the Alliance as their spellblade in the Barrens and Asleon De’Forte acts in the interests of the Kirin Tor. Anetho Dawnpride on the other hand, beheads traitors and wallows in a lake of sin.

“Descending from heaven’s above, infinite fate my sword; I am Orpheus. Harbinger of Despair.” The masked man called alloud to the crowd waiting below, unsheathing the intricate runeblade at his hip, bringing it to bear upon the collection of undesirables threatening to unhinge the fragile cease-fire enacted upon the Isle of Thunder. Flames licked through their armor. Elementium slashed at their flesh. Blood stained the moonlit grass. Justice carried in silence.

These men are all bound in the same body, carried of the same will. But so different as to be altogether unrelated souls. I wonder now whom is my true face? I am not a righteous man. I am not a holy man. “But you are no less than a man.” She reminds me in silence. I am almost brought to tears in these recollections, but quickly compose myself in realization of my surroundings. I have only one recourse within sight and it only further rends what I have left of a heart.

I must see her. I need to see her. I feel as if Romulo, just as certain of my death of I should fail to catch the gaze of the one I would deign to court. What madness is this that afflicts me so? What horrid fates damn me to suffer this horrendous twist of fate that we should be splintered so!?

“How many innocents have you killed? How many more have to die!? What if she could see you right now?”

Liaskar’s words haunt me yet. The truth of his foresight overshadowing my own predictions. The piercing vibrations of my blade disrupting his life still shaking my arm as if it were happening all over again. I close my eyes and yet see his eyes, glossed over and helpless. His expression frozen forever in resolute peace. A soldier finally laid to rest where he wished to pass. On the field of battle, but of a war not rightly his own. A war I cannot stop fighting. A battle that does not leave me. I still chase shadows and rumors. Cultists that no longer practice. Magicks better left forgotten. Lives left in pieces.

Parry. Overheard strike, twist of the wrist, thrust! Anetho pressed the attack, wielding the runeblade as if a rapier, the tip directed at his opponent. “I’ve already killed your wife Fernand. My associate is stringing your children from a noose as we speak, in Silvermoon. T’is you and I now. I’m not going to kill you slowly either.” He sneered. “Fool! Your madness consumes everything! Do you have no limits!? Look around! I’ve finished with the Twilight’s Hammer! I’ve taken to an honest life! I earn my coin by the sweat of my brow!” He cried out, drawing his longsword to a defensive posture, horizontal just below his eyes. “There is no respite for your kind. Not while I exist. I know your ilk, stalking the shadows. I know how you and your betrothed gain from this conflict, stoking embers better left untended.” The Red Magister snarled, lunging forth again. Thrust, thrust, thrust. He pressed an inexorable onslaught of stabbing motions towards his midsection, each just barely pushed aside. Fatigue was wearing upon the Human, and Anetho could see it. “Gods Dawnpride! Your obsession echoes leagues beyond our petty conflicts! We could have ended this farce with the supplies we were smuggling!” The Magister only laughed, a sickening, malicious sound as he drew his blade across in an arcing fashion, again just barely parried. Fernand’s blade knocked aside. In keeping with his momentum The Magister pressed the palm of his right hand into the man’s face, releasing a sharp pulse of mana so as to send him crashing through the nearby wooden fence violently.

He struggled to stand, barely upon his feet in time to block the next strike. “God dammit Dawnpride! We were allies in this affair!” He screamed, trying to blast Anetho in a cone of frozen arcana, only to find he’d teleported elsewhere. He gripped his blade tightly in both hands, looking about in a panic. “You’ve serviced my desires, Fernand Zetala. Unfortunate…” He reappeared directly in front of the male, driving his blade downward fiercely, Fernand locking his own against it in a desperate bid for his own life. They pushed against each other with all they had. “YOUR DESIRES, NO LONGER SATISFY MY NEEDS!” Anetho shoutted, delivering a sharp kick between the man’s legs, causing him to faulter in pain lurching to the side to avoid the otherwise fatal slash. Right into the arms of a Succubus that had just broken her veil. “…Hello there, handsome.” She purred into his ear, locking him into a full nelson hold. “Gods no! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!” He struggled in vain. “You’ve no place in this world. No right to this war. Not even the slightest hope of retribution. Where you walk in the afterlife, flames will lick you to the bone. Do not long fear; I shall be there to join in time… and we’ll waltz in this same fashion for all eternity…” That malignant, infectuous laugh carried through the air, followed by an anguished scream belonging to one whom had just fallen pray to the bite of a Succubus.

Life. Dreams. Hope. Where do they come from? Where do they go? I’ve asked that question a thousand times since I walked this Earth. The very day that same question was once posed to me in the days of reconstruction, when I too, once earned of my sweat, blood and tears. When my hands were better applies to mortar and pestle, the laying of bricks that would one day amount to our fair city.  I’ve asked it of many, to include my tempestuous ally, Selanda. A Succubus with whom I hold no pact or dealings beyond verbal arrangements when I broke her contract with a dominant Warlock that had found a means to preserve his soul and keep her leashed. The time will come when I no longer meet her desires and I’ll either be short a set of hands, or short a soul. Of my children. They couldn’t even comprehend what their father was mouthing to them beyond his smile, despite the hardened words. “Into reality and age.” One would reply. “Into death and discord.” Another says. “…They exist to sustain me.” The demons would chuckle. Not one of these answers satiates me. A constant plague to know the truth, to discover what it is that determines existance. To finally find the answer to justify my own beyond revenge. A revenge long since extracted and granted it’s due. A revenge that craves more. A revenge that has grown to a stigma that demands more.

I chase fancies that end the same, the world weeps, children die, and I just keep going about in circles! Repeating every question, every action, every act of violence! Nothing changes, it all falls within a cycle that I cannot break alone… Gods, it feels as if there isn’t a way out. For all my words and actions, I’m caught within the cage that is despair. I can’t shake it alone. I can’t stand to be in my lonesome any longer, I consume myself in this madness in solitude. But what else am I to do!?

“Do I dream? Yes… Yes I suppose I do. I dream of a day, one that allows me the respite of a night’s rest without one regret or recollection of ill-tempered times. I dream of a world spared this bloodshed, free of my rage and of the petty conflict that splits everyone and their mother along a divided river of red and blue. I dream of a family…” He sighed. “But that is all they are. Dreams… I dream of a Redemption Day.”


~ by anethodawnpride on June 6, 2013.

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Nobody's Blade

Destiny has two ways of crushing us -- by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them. ~ Henri Frédéric Amiel

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