Giving rites to the fallen

A piece of fan fiction about a death knight and her group dealing with the scarlet crusade.


1. Giving rites to the Fallen

    In a forest’s glen, not far from the crushing sounds of the sea against a nearby cliff, lie the remnants of a battlefield. Blood from wounds only minutes old sprinkles the snowy blanket that recently coated the surrounding area. Dozens of bodies litter the ground, their faces and dress all showing the signs of men and women who were prepared to die for their causes. Standing at the edge of the battlefield are three figures, a man and two women. Their weapons are still at the ready, and their attire sharply contrasts against those they have slain only moments before. One of the women is wrapped from head to toe in a cloak that seems a size too large. It is this woman who moves first, who kneels in front of one of the dead. The cloaked woman appears to stare at the remains of the man that lays butchered before her; his crimson tabard hiding the blood stains well, but not the wounds that caused them. He is not alone; a sprinkling of his cohorts lay nearby in similar poses of death. She speaks, not to the companions at her sides, but in actuality to no one at all.


    Her voice is raspy and her words seem to make the air colder than it already is. "So far the mighty have fallen from grace. What once was a great man serving a great order is now just carrion for the scavengers."


    The two at her flanks both seem to recoil a little as the woman bends over the corpse, her bony almost clawed hands sliding out of her cloak and gently caressing the face of the deceased man. The tall, thin Elfin man on her left brushes a few loose strands of his silver hair back behind his ear and quickly turns his head slightly towards the troll on her right.


    "She is doing it again, isn't she Ny? I hate it when she does this."


    The fiery haired troll gives the elf a small smile, her lips spreading just far enough apart to show more than a little of her razor sharp teeth. The grin quickly fades as she watches what she knows will now come to pass.


    The bone-handed woman does not seem to acknowledge the elf’s words as she speaks again. "May the light you tried to serve so hard in this life guide you in the next." Her hand slowly slides down the deceased man's face and chest until stopping over his heart, her fingers spreading out and pressing hard against his chest. "For as long as there is light in this world to protect the living, there shall also forever be a shadow cast over the dead."


    A dark green light seems to glow within the chest of the deceased, spilling out from the wounds in his body. The body rapidly begins to change, first its teeth and jaw growing many times larger than the rest of the face. Next, the flesh seems to rot weeks in a length of time only slightly longer then a moment. This newly created creature immediately stands up and stares obediently at his creator, patiently waiting to be commanded by his master.


    As she finishes her ritual she speaks one last time, "And it is that shadow that shall serve me now until the day I die again." She lets her cloak flow freely in the cold blowing air as her raven hair and long dead face are seemingly rejuvenated by the cold. She then turns her soulless icy blue eyes towards the gates of the Keep atop the cliff in the distance. "Come my friends, we have some funerals to arrange."


    The group starts to leave the glen, the undead woman leaving last. She stares over her shoulder at that which they had wrought, and she seems somewhat saddened and almost reluctant to leave. She waves her hand in an arcane gesture, and turns away, leaving the forest as little more than a memory. Slowly, with nothing but the silence of the departed to welcome it, snow begins to fall again. Within a few minutes, all signs of the battle are buried by the snow.

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