Jodiah Ayreg was not one to mourn.
The murder of Am'thyst may have affected him deeply, but the death knight's core was made of solid steel. He was a hard man -- which is not to say he was a strong man -- because Rhy'Din was a hard land. He had known that since his birth, and had experienced many things in his life.
A life of good, and charity, and virtue, and value. A mortal death, and a rebirth into darkness. A life of evil, and heinous crimes. Another death. An unlife of strife and chaos in the Shadowlands, and then? A strange new ressurection for which he did not know the cause. He had almost stopped trying to find out, too.
Jodiah Ayreg had duties.
Jodiah Ayreg had responsibilities.
None of that mattered without the nymph there, in the darkness. Waiting in the shadows for him to leave the eye of those around him, wanting to find sanctuary and comfort in her arms. She was so full of energy; so full of life, and love. It made him want to vomit when he first met her.
Recently, he could think of nothing else.
In the Dragon's Breath, he had taken a hammer to a stock of iron. It was supposed to, eventually, be the framework for a flanged gate at some lordling's palace elsewhere in the city. Yet the longer he stoked the flames ever-hotter in the forge with the billows, the more she seeped into his mind. Iron was hard, and yet iron bent when the right heat was set to it, and the proper strength applied through the hammer.
She was allergic to iron; she confided that in him, once, when he had just left the forge and was heavy with the filings and the dust, and they--
No. No time to mourn. He had duties, and responsibilities, and he had to stay focused.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The hammer continued to strike at the stock of iron atop his anvil, and before long it met the much firmer resistance of non-fired metal. Ayreg blinked, almost in surprise, to realize he was holding the smithing hammer with two hands like it was some kind of axe. The stock in front of him, on the anvil, was ruined: hammered nearly in twain from the blows.
Zorbenastrocalipermeneotullis (otherwise known as Bob) was standing to the side, near the engraving table. He had been hard at work on the pauldron of the soulsteel armor the death knight had been commissioned to make in the name of Alysia Skye, though the wizened old gnome didn't know exactly what it was made of. He just knew this particular brand of metal, whatever it be, was considerably harder to etch and engrave (and such strange symbols Ayreg had told him to make, as well) than a normal suit of armor should have been.
"Ye' need to be calming down, mate," he said, in his gruff voice. "Ye've been all out of sorts lately. Be something vexin' ye, lad?"
"I am fine," replied Ayreg, coldly.
He was not, though.
As he threw out the ruined bit of stock and found a new one, Zorbenastrocalipermeneotullis (otherwise known as Bob) returned to the engraving table with a shake of his head. Jodiah Ayreg was not one to shed tears for those he killed -- but he did not really kill Am'thyst, did he?
He could just do nothing to stop it.
Still, he had duties. He had responsibilities. He was a man of his word, and his word kept him going. His pride. Hammering away at a new brick of iron stock, the death knight began to feel an emotion that had hardly ever touched him before.
Abject self-loathing.
The murder of Am'thyst may have affected him deeply, but the death knight's core was made of solid steel. He was a hard man -- which is not to say he was a strong man -- because Rhy'Din was a hard land. He had known that since his birth, and had experienced many things in his life.
A life of good, and charity, and virtue, and value. A mortal death, and a rebirth into darkness. A life of evil, and heinous crimes. Another death. An unlife of strife and chaos in the Shadowlands, and then? A strange new ressurection for which he did not know the cause. He had almost stopped trying to find out, too.
Jodiah Ayreg had duties.
Jodiah Ayreg had responsibilities.
None of that mattered without the nymph there, in the darkness. Waiting in the shadows for him to leave the eye of those around him, wanting to find sanctuary and comfort in her arms. She was so full of energy; so full of life, and love. It made him want to vomit when he first met her.
Recently, he could think of nothing else.
In the Dragon's Breath, he had taken a hammer to a stock of iron. It was supposed to, eventually, be the framework for a flanged gate at some lordling's palace elsewhere in the city. Yet the longer he stoked the flames ever-hotter in the forge with the billows, the more she seeped into his mind. Iron was hard, and yet iron bent when the right heat was set to it, and the proper strength applied through the hammer.
She was allergic to iron; she confided that in him, once, when he had just left the forge and was heavy with the filings and the dust, and they--
No. No time to mourn. He had duties, and responsibilities, and he had to stay focused.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The hammer continued to strike at the stock of iron atop his anvil, and before long it met the much firmer resistance of non-fired metal. Ayreg blinked, almost in surprise, to realize he was holding the smithing hammer with two hands like it was some kind of axe. The stock in front of him, on the anvil, was ruined: hammered nearly in twain from the blows.
Zorbenastrocalipermeneotullis (otherwise known as Bob) was standing to the side, near the engraving table. He had been hard at work on the pauldron of the soulsteel armor the death knight had been commissioned to make in the name of Alysia Skye, though the wizened old gnome didn't know exactly what it was made of. He just knew this particular brand of metal, whatever it be, was considerably harder to etch and engrave (and such strange symbols Ayreg had told him to make, as well) than a normal suit of armor should have been.
"Ye' need to be calming down, mate," he said, in his gruff voice. "Ye've been all out of sorts lately. Be something vexin' ye, lad?"
"I am fine," replied Ayreg, coldly.
He was not, though.
As he threw out the ruined bit of stock and found a new one, Zorbenastrocalipermeneotullis (otherwise known as Bob) returned to the engraving table with a shake of his head. Jodiah Ayreg was not one to shed tears for those he killed -- but he did not really kill Am'thyst, did he?
He could just do nothing to stop it.
Still, he had duties. He had responsibilities. He was a man of his word, and his word kept him going. His pride. Hammering away at a new brick of iron stock, the death knight began to feel an emotion that had hardly ever touched him before.
Abject self-loathing.