OOC:This is partly based on in game events and partly a story to give a deeper insight into Iscarios nature and his mind.
Ic:
Lightning split the sky, thunder vibrated through his body, but this was nothing to the chill he felt at the howling gibbering masses he could see surging towards him with each flash. This was wrong this was all wrong, there had been no storm that night, or this night...he couldn’t tell anymore. The feel of his comrades around him had been the only solace to him, now as he glanced around and saw their faces, except they were not the faces of his elven company, they were the leering visages of the dead, those who had died with him or by his hand over the years.
As the realization that he was alone hit him he turned and tried to run, only to find his feet were caught, frozen solid in a block of ice. He felt his arms being grabbed and pulled out to his sides, his head was grabbed from behind by rotting hands and forced to look forward, into the eyes of the oncoming mass of decaying bodies. Each one carried a blade of ice, razor sharp and glowing in the darkness. As the first creature reached him it struck out with its blade cutting through his armour and embedding the blade in his body. Again and again this was done, and after what seemed like an eternity they finished with him. Holding him up a dark figure walked slowly from the masses surrounding him, the murmuring and chanting coming from it the same as on that...this dreadful night.
The figure approached him, stopping just within arm’s reach, this time he could see a pair of cold icy blue eyes staring back at him, as the figure stopped it reached for him, increasing the tempo and pitch of the chant, at the same instant as the hand touched him, the figure revealed its face as his own, screaming one last word into his face, “Shatterrrr!” As his own image screamed the word he felt the shards within his body ripping out of him and he screamed....
Iscario sat up, the sheet that had been covering his body cracked as the thin layer of ice on it broke. His body was covered in a thin film of frozen sweat that fell of him as a fine dust before melting in the air. Throwing the sheet to the floor the deathknight stood up and walked to the mirror in the corner of his room. Staring at his reflection he calmed himself, noting that the scars that covered his body still gave of a faint blue glow. Turning from the mirror he grabbed a robe from the back of the closet door and walked to the balcony.
The dreams had started the night he had arrived in Silvermoon, as had the random waves of pain that washed over him. They were worst outside the city walls closer to where he had first been marked. The walls of the city might be blocking whatever force was causing the scars on his body to react so. But he had no choice, she had asked for his aid and he had come. What was between them had made refusal impossible, not that he minded helping her. But why did it have to be here, of all places, why here?
Staring at the stars he went over the event that had occurred earlier that evening, the meeting with her at the inn on Murder Row, it had been uneventful with the exception of the wounded Deathknight, but that was not his concern and she had not offered to explain. Instead she had asked him to walk a little with her, had explained why she needed him. It was there he had noticed the pair hanging around, seemingly disinterested in them, the pungent odour of narcotics coming from one of them. He had agreed to her request and sworn himself to her cause without much ceremony.
With the appearance of the Orc Deathknight her attention had shifted away from him. But at his suggestion they had taken their conversation to a more isolated area just outside the gates. The waves of pain that had been bearable within the walls now came in stronger waves, and he found it difficult to hide them as readily. As she conversed with the apparently simple Orc, he noticed the odd behaviour of the idiot beneath the walkway, as if by signal the smell of bloodthistle was faintly noticeable again. Her business concluded they rentered the city, stopping at a vendor to order the making of some new tabards, these were to mark them as members of her new Sorrow Guard.
While waiting for her to finish describing the design to the vendor, Iscario could hear faint whispering and again the faint odour of smoking narcotics. As she finished her business she bade both the Orc and he farewell. As she left so to did the Orc, mentioning in his way something about finding some bones to break. Iscario suggested the Lich Kings minions would make good targets and the Orc seemingly pleased with the idea went his way. As he turned to walk back to his room at the inn he made one last comment to the apparently empty street, “If you are going to shadow somebody you might want to do it quietly, I may not be able to see you but I can certainly hear you!”
With a wry grin he had walked away, only to be hit with a wave of pain so intense as to stagger him, fighting to stay standing he continued towards the inn. Almost there he was hit again with another wave of pain, forcing himself to stay on his feet he made it to a quiet corner outside the bazaar before collapsing against a wall. The air around him freezing as he sat there waiting for the pain to fade, even a little. After a few minutes it finally began to ebb away, enough at least for him to make it back to the inn. Stripping his armour off he had simply fallen into the bed and passed out.
Judging that dawn was only an hour or so away, he pulled on some simple clothes and went down to the inns main room. The elven girl that was working there was visibly uncomfortable with is presence, as were most people, he order wine and water, and in a fit of uncharacteristic kindness mentioned to the girl that he would pay for the bottle and she need not worry about refilling his glass. As the girl visibly relaxed he walked away and sat by the fire to drink a while and banish the spectre of his past for a while once more.
