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Into the bleak, she looked down, her heartstrings tugging, pounding in her chest, filling her ears with horrible thudding. This is it. Her death. Prolonged, so cruelly. To be tossed to the nether, embraced in cold. Starving, or shivering to death. She didn’t know what to expect. It was the worst thing of all, she acknowledged.
Held on either side by ogres, who had more or less dragged her limpness here. Armour stripped. Dressed in meagre rags, that stank of ogre. Behind the pair, a robed figure stood. Sin’dorei. A blonde elven male, his robes as black as night, his eyes a dull, shadowy, fel-green. She couldn’t make much else out. It hurt to move her neck this far. The beatings had been many, and vicious, the lack of sustenance didn’t help either. She prided herself that she did not break.
Her friends would stand a chance, now. She would die now, so that they might live, a worthy trade, though her mind spun. She didn’t want to die. Not now, her whole life was ahead of her, before being captured. Only the warmth of the Nagrand sun comforted her. The rough grasps of the ogres, and the cool, rushing air of the nether below caused her much grief.

She didn’t compose herself. This was her death. Hers. Damned if she was going to hold back for the sake of her captors. Even now, as she was held out, legs flailing weakly beneath her over the dark expanse, her tears fell, accompanied by the mocking laughter of the bastard behind her.

“Anything to say? It’s not too late, you know. You just tell us what we want to know… and you’ll live. Maybe we’ll even let you serve us. One with skills such as yours would be welcome amongst us. All you need to do… is tell us.”

Her mind spun again. Regret. Remorse. Something inside of her wanted to tell him. Something inside of her wanted this to be over. She wanted to see her friends just one last time… She wanted to tell them how she felt about them. To be open, now that she knew this was the last time. She closed her eyes, and pictured one of them. The Dearest of them all, Soraya. She had granted her this life. She had set her free. Dying so that she might continue hers, though… it felt right. Her heart knew it.

“…Your silence says much. You were very silent when I laid my hands on you, for the first time, too. When I beat you. When I lashed you with the flail. When I violated your body. When I violated your mind. For weeks. Weeks and weeks! You offer us nothing, and in return, you expect what? Death by the blade? A quick release? No. You will suffer all that you deserve. So silent. Admirable, really. You barely even flinched. No one like’s a noisy whore, I suppose.”

With that, he spat. This was useless. She truly was a stubborn one.

“Drop her”.

---

Cold… empty. Silent. Not even the wind rushing past her ears made a noise here, as she plummeted into the weightless beyond. Time had stopped, and she knew not how long she was here. Her heart grew weaker, it’s beat fading slowly. Alone with her thoughts for so long. She felt loney. Sad. Worried. When she died, would the afterlife, if it exists, reach her here?

Was she still falling? Was she merely floating? She knew not. She looked around her, but knew not which way was up, down, left, right, north, south, east, nor west. There was truly nothing here. No sky. No Outland. No ground.

She tried to yell. Calling for help, but only the dry, horrid rasp of a woman long abused and starved squeezed past her weak, discoloured lips. She yearned for company. How she wished she weren’t alone. How she wished for the warm embrace of her lover as she let loose her dying breath.
She would not get it.


---


He stumbled backward from the orb, tripping over his robes as he fell onto scrawny rump. Witnessing the death of another is never pleasant, especially when it is so distressing. Magister Ara'noth frowned, as he pushed himself to his feet. The Blood Knights asked the Magisterium what had become of their missing Knight. It was his responsibility to scry it, to find out why, where, and when. It would rest on his shoulders to tell them the truth.


He moved toward a desk, placed aside, in a well lit corner of the scrying room, and began to pen a letter. He couldn't tell them face to face. He was, after all, only Sin'dorei.


He sat, brushing a lock of his ruffled, crimson hair over his shoulder, and licked his digits before reaching for his dark quill. He pawed for a sheet of parchment, before laying it down carefully.


He began to scrawl. The death of a champion of the Sin'dorei is never to be taken lightly. He realized this. He would respect her. She looked death in the face, and spat at him, her will unbroken. He made sure to note all of this down - that she never broke. That she was true to her blood as a Sin'dorei. That, even when it was all too much to handle for her emotions, as she cried, as the ogres manhandled her, dangling over the edge, she never gave them anything, but took from them their time and patience.


Her death was his to chronicle. He would do so respectfully. He never met this woman. But he knew her all too well.

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