What am I?
Jewelcrafter / Scribe
Basic Information Edit
- Name: Kaveric d’Sylvere
- Title: None
- Age: 26
- Race: Human
- Class: Death Knight
- Status: Dead
- Relatives: Aideen d’Sylvere (mother, deceased), Kaelan d’Sylvere (father, deceased), Isa d’Sylvere
- Affiliation: Alliance
- Location: Acherus
- Height: 6'0"
- Weight: 210lbs
- Hair Color: Blonde
- Hair Style: Mid-length
- Eye Color: Blue
“Issy!” he hissed, “You have to wake up. You have to come with me.”
The girl opened her eyes to see the figure of her brother, his silver armor stained with blood. Light brown hair fell into his eyes and his helmet and mace were haphazardly tossed to the floor. “Kaveric? What’s…?”
“There’s no time!” he insisted. “Get up; we have to go, NOW!”
She stood wearily, attempting to shake off the vertigo that struck her. His terror was evident in his green eyes. As she dressed, Kaveric watched out the window vigilantly. It was only at that time that Isa heard the noises from outside. Screams of terror, moans of agony were coming from the streets. Terror gripped her and turned her blood to ice. “What’s happening?” she asked fearfully.
Frozen, was he dead? No, he felt the pain. Fingers of ice reached through his skin, dancing their waltz of agony across his exposed nerves. Pushing deeper within him to rip at his soul.
He cried out, but there was no sound. He wept, but there were no more tears left within him to shed.
A pitiful mass of flesh his memories sped through his mind in a hurricane of emotion, unable to control nor pause upon any specific event.
A cacophony of sensation murdering his body.
“ISA, FASTER!” he yelled, replacing his helm and picking up his mace.
The girl quickly put on the first robe she could find and donned a pair of shoes. She followed her brother, a young recruit to the Silver Hand, down the stairs.
The sight at her kitchen table stole her confusion and immediately replaced it with terror. Her parents sat at the table, silent. Their soulless eyes looked vacantly across the room at nothing. Slowly, Isa approached them. She touched her mother’s hair questioningly. “Mother?” she whispered. The woman said nothing. Their faces had an eerie greenish pallor.
Kaveric pulled her hand away and dragged her towards the door. “You can’t help them, Isa. It was in the grain. The damned plague was in the grain.” He dragged her up to face him; “The only reason you have been spared by this is because you’ve been so sick. Had you eaten, you would be infected.”
She stared at him in shocked disbelief. “So mother… father…. They’re?” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes,” he said. “Far better you see them like this than what happens when… never mind what happens. We need to find a place for you to hide.”
“From WHAT?” she protested as he pulled her out the back door and into the alleyway.
Blade slid into flesh with wet, soft sound, the acrid smell of blood filling their air as he slowly withdrew his blade, a soft suction resounding in the air as the blade finally popped free of the supple body ceasing the sounds of tearing sinew.
Cold, mirthless eyes stared out from his helmet to the now lifeless eyes of the woman laying at his feet, who took her final gaze upon an unforgiving sky. He held her by the hair a moment, watched as the blood flowered from the wound opened in her abdomen, he took a breath and it seemed as if he were breathing in her very essence.
The corner of his mouth twitched, the most of a smile his pallid skin could muster.
Kaveric looked at her in disbelief and pointed to the streets. “Look around, sister. Death has come to Stratholme in the guise of mercy. Arthas has gone mad. He thinks genocide is the answer. No attempts to dissuade him have worked. He and his men are progressing through the city, destroying everything that lives.”
Isa shook her head in abject horror as he continued. “But that’s the easy death,” Kaveric said bitterly. “On the other side of town is something that I can only describe as a demon. He, too, with an army of creatures from hell is slaughtering the city claiming the souls of all he destroys. Death by his hand means service in his nightmarish army. For eternity.”
Isa began to cry, her knees weakening and she fell to the ground. Her brother hoisted her up to her feet and held her gently. “There’s no time for fear. Fear will only lead do death. You have to go. Stay out of the streets; try to make it to the eastern gates of the city. Be strong.”
She held fast to his armor, sobbing. “What about you? Where will you go?”
He gently smoothed her hair, but looked around warily. “I have to fight these monsters. I have to try. I’ll meet back up with Uther and his forces. The Alliance will persevere. I just… don’t know how.”
With a light kiss to her forehead, he hefted his mace. “Now go. Live. I love you,” he whispered.
He watched as Isa turned from him and fled.
He was not special, nor was he different. He was Scourge.
Lifting his plated helm from the floor at his feet he watched as the first drops of his frozen blood melted, dripping in coagulated drops upon the facemask.
The helm, once silver, now stained with the blood of battle yet still held somewhat of its reflective sheen. Soulless eyes stared back at him, a frozen glow at their epicenter. He knew this reflection to be him but that the same time he did not.
Roused from thought, well, reminscence is more descritptive, he became suddenly aware of the spear lodged within his chest armor. He looked down to the wooden shift blooming from his breastplate with a certain curiosity, an odd metallic liquid welling up in the back of his throat.
And then the familiar darkness.
"I don't know exactly what you were thinking coming back here Kaveric," the older man growled as he lunged with his blade, taking with it a good portion of demonic flesh before he turned back to the younger man, "but damned if you're foolishness didn't aide us today."
Kaveric laughed as well, afterall, laughter was all they had left as they danced to the requiem of battle that closed in around them. The older gentleman fought with the fury of the Maelstrom itself, it bolstered the spirit of the men assembled around him as they strove to beat back the legions of undead. Kaveric too, felt the twinge of hope as they fought.
Hope. It was a strange feeling, he wondered if Isa had made it to safety. Surely she had.
"Captain Argeinon! Watch out!" A soldier cried out causing Kaveric to turn, looking to what the soldier was referring. A ballista of some sorts fired its harpoon-like projectile and it was heading straight for the older man they called Captain. Eyes widened, everything slowed to a halt, before thought came to him he found himself coming to stand between the two.
It was an odd sensation, as he looked down to the wooden shaft protruding from his breastplate. Feeling that metallic liquid well up in the back of his throat.
He stared up at the sky, a crimson haze had begun to creep over it, small drops of rain fell, stinging his eyes. It was cold.
"Damnit d'Sylvere, why?" The older man cradled his head.
And the darkness.
"Where am I?"
Was that his voice? His eyes opened in shock, vision blurred but slowly focusing. Shock?
His mind was a flood of confusion, feelings, pain, all of it swirling in a nauseating typhoon throughout his body. Voices around him chattered in various languages, none of it making sense. One word, stirred something within him, "Acherus."