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silver-rider:

She rides across the silver expanses of snow, her voice harshly calling out against the howling wind as she readies her blade, one hand holding onto the reins of the Argent horse under her. She raises it, ready to strike a blow at the Scourge commander headed towards her, their undead steed kicking up a fine dust of snow and ice. They meet in a terrible clash, the Scourge rider falling from their mount, tumbling into the snow. The horse pauses suddenly, a machine lacking orders, unknowing and unwilling of what to do until directed.

Feiyn grins triumphantly until she notices she is warm. Her eyes flicker down and there is that sword, plunged between two of her ribs and she /laughs/— it’s a strangled gurgle as blood rushes up, dribbles out of her mouth. As Feiyn pulls the sword out, she flings it across the snow and topples to the ground. She coughs, she whimpers— she is an animal, wounded. Very distantly, she swears she can hear Tev saying her name. She murmurs his name in a wet gurgle, starts to ramble to him. “Does it hurt to die, Tev? Can Feiyn see you again?” It’s so hard not to slur her words through the blood. So hard not to cough and choke, so hard to repress the whimpers and tears of pain.

As she lays on her back in the snow, the clouded sky over Icecrown clears.

It is beautiful.

Beautiful until that strange black energy erupts from Tevruden’s hands seeking Feiyn’s limp body.

Beautiful until the circles and runes form under her, bathing the area in a sickly green and purple light.

Beautiful until the two of them walk off, as cold and as silent as the snow falling around them.

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