The Old Crow

Bit of an updated shot of Krahe from Emerald Dream, this came after a small snip of story I wrote to a friend's moving to another server. Mix this with Room of Angels from Silent Hill 4, and you get a shot of me working on this and crying like a kid with a scraped knee.

Edit: I gave it some thought and decided to put up the full peice of writing.


"...You see... we understand that it is in our work, this knowledge that we shall die in service to whatever cause we may serve at that time. Be it in the name of a Chieftain, or in the offering of coin, the goblins had it correct when they first cried 'Blood and profit!' before blowing themselves and their targets up.

Our business is death. Such is the fate of the rogue, mercenary, and assassin to belong to the dark.

You learn to accept it. Or you learn to do something else.

This... however was different. One always learns not to become attached to any fellow of the bomb, blade and poison, for they can die as easily as you. But to instead treat each passing, as though it were indeed their finality. The Goblins always pressed that fact upon me during my training.

But with that one passing moment, it was all forgotten. And I paid for that mistake greatly.

He was honestly one of the few... the word escapes me - for he was not of the Forsaken, not of the Scourge and yet not of the Humans. He walked 'between' I suppose would be the best to say, but I had known him for a while - foolish as it may sound, his smile captured my heart. How strange to say, that in the long years that I have walked these lands, that this mere scrap of existence would leave me fawning as though I was nothing but another lady of this former noble's courtly circle.

We would speak, of the old days, of our loyalties, of our betrayals. I would drag him from his darkest brooding, and he in return would offer to play for me. We would speak of the future plans of skulking the hallowed streets of Stormwind and Ironforge.

Jobs that now I know, will never come.

Why... why had I truly thought that he would remain safe?

I brought him drink one night, to celebrate my return from the wilderness. To speak as we always did, comparing blades, stories, and tactics... even to perhaps coax a few notes from his violin to warm the bitter chill that hung so determinedly within these dark walls of the Undercity. He did not respond when I called in my familiar fashion. He did not move when I entered the modest room he considered his quarters. This pale creature that had once been a man - that had spoken with a shaken voice of the horrors committed in life and that haunted him as penance in undeath. He lay upon his cot, looking as though asleep - though his eyes lain open, his beloved instrument cradled within his arms. An item he treasured far more than his blades and wits. I did not need to touch him to know the truth.

My brother of the blade was gone to the dark shades.

Was this my doing? To break the bonds of the unspoken word and to believe that indeed, we were beyond the calling touch of the spirits? I do not remember the dropping of the bottles that been meant for our merriment, I do not remember the sound of my voice - though the sound stings painfully in my throat when I spoke his name to the dark. Though I knew in the depths of my soul that Samedi would not protect something that was not of our spirit... I only remember my fingertips, bare of my gloves, reaching up, gently closing his eyes. Murmuring for him to sleep peacefully.

I only remember the pain of my heart quickly being forgotten at the cost of my pleading for his final undisturbed rest. Of my offering to the watchers... foolish and sentimental... but the drink and grief makes the heart and head weak. I left him undisturbed after laying him to rest within his quarters, taking only his sword that lies across my back, and the hopeless comfort of my folly. It costed me my eye that request, and though I know it will heal in time - as does the wounds in one's heart.

It will never be the same."
-Krahe Mah'kudel
-MAS