A slice of priesting

Priest
(I love random new things, and had the notion to simply queue for a normal heroic run and just write what came after and then just post it without much more than a quick proofing. It is written in perhaps intentionally excessive verbage)

Blue... blue and gold... were the colors as the priest made count of tiles and rings, staring at the ceiling of the Shrine of Stars. Waiting never easy for any, its trouble was double in times like these. The contract was offered with the sleazy slick quickness she'd come to expect, but waiting to meet the other mercenaries that would patch together a makeshift crew just idled away the precious motes of time that make up a life.

"Offensive, really" thoughts sprang as she held the crude square of vellum up to her gaze, a dyed number ingrained into the surface. "I can't even read this" her mutters flowed freely as the endless counts and recounts of the tiles began anew.

Only instinct saved her during her hope for a quick sprint to the other side of the shrine... the priest had learned all too well that her number would be up, if she were not there. The wait continued...

The slow creep of a cowl had treacherously snuck onto her face as her number did indeed begin to glow, the time of the the always treacherous gathering beginning. Waiting further for each of the others to respond, the tile count continued... then the shrine glimmered into extinction from view.

A howl of white and pain struck at the priest. Even by her namesake, the whips of bitter cold lashing at her face seemed relentless and cruel. The endless screams of white streaming past her lent the storm a dark fury as she approached the gate, turning to see four others around her. Their course was set irrevocably with the warm air and the dull thud of the massive monastery door closing. The priest's eyes began their roaming, sharpened by countless thousands of such dangerous tasks with mercenaries before. She would read them as surely as the scriptures.

Her slender elven nostrils flared amused as each were viewed and evaluated in turn. "The soak.." the priest thought to herself as she looked over the massive musclebound paladin. Little did her head tilt as her gaze traveled past the frowning death knight, the pulsing untamed blade on his back seeming to mimic his demeanor. "How very natural they are.." the priest murmured to herself, glancing down at herself briefly and what others surely thought of her... before a pride-slicing chastisement kept her rooted in her surroundings.

The merciless gaze did not relent for the two other women. The rogue barely registered, another night elf.. easily forgotten and easily overlooked. Better that way, the priest was sure as she smiled sure the rogue sculpted such an aura. The hooved shaman's glow was in stark contrast, the priest's eyebrows raised slowly with a smile.

It was time.

The thought raced a quicksilver path through each and all at once, a chorus of glowing light and sound unifying their intent and purpose. None looked about, but the sharing was complete and quiet settled. It was, as it had been in a thousand battles before, the final silence before it all began... and begin quickly it did, the paladin racing towards the assortment of guards, their unkempt manner and matted black fur the first sign something truly was amiss in the monastery.

The death knight's stance grew, ascending to his dark and foul purpose to exist. To lament a murder is just a trifle to the endless falling slumps of humanoids in dark and corrupted fur that fell to the floor that day, the off smell and sure taint of darkness a cruel offset to their at times disarming appearance.

The priest took no pleasure in their deaths. How many had been slain by her hand or by her help? She mourned to think of the impossibility of even knowing such a number. "Legion.." she said with a guilty satisfaction, only her faith in the light keeping her from the nightmare of meeting that legion of souls should the powers of damnation rend her soul into darkness.

Time, so uncontrollable and universally in control. The priest waved her hand dismissively at the tank, casting a mild penance upon him for the time it was taking. The creeping scowl had returned to her visage, the pressure of time always on even the seemingly ageless elves. Decades of vicious hate do not temper such a thing, the routine of it only forcing its unbearable angst to fuller view. Her face as cold as her name, even the mild scowl as she had waited earlier seemed of another age. The priest repeated the mantra, her fists ever glowing brighter with light as she chanted the litany of murder. "... with my mind." she ended as the first rays of light broke from the dawn of her hands, assailing the once pandaren and now hate-filled beasts. To smite a thing, righteous judgement and fury must be laid upon it by the gods themselves... and so it was, the pride of Elune and the fury of will casting the pandaren to the floor from which they never again stood.

Death, again. All dead. Another set she hoped not to meet past the fiery gates.

The priest made a silent nod.

Death still hung upon the priest's shoulders and features as she trudged through the snow with the others, the malice of the frozen arrows raining down upon them. "Fight in the shade.." she murmured again shaking her head, the darkness of the snowstorm all but blinding in both brilliance and oblivion.

It was with that death carried along that she stood in front of the mat, a large room full of the creatures around her and the mercenaries. One by one they simply stood and waited, the priest's muscles flexing in tension as she waited as well.. and wondered.

Annoyance. It comes quickly to any person. Even quicker to the ancient veteran faced with a rolling ball of untrained and helpless opponent. Hastened still it is if there are dozens upon dozens of such. The priest snorted as desire for murder once again returned to her, denied by each retreat they made in turn long before the moment of snuffing from the mortal coil.

The two that came after. Pity... Pity she gave them. Pity for the dead who did not fight well.

Ancient and masters exist to fight. The language of body and form, the communication of combat, the symbiotic exchange as styles and lessons and moves flow freely between mind, body, and opponent. Such it was... for a time. The priest had little care of such things, the motions of physical fights crude and laughably barbarian.

The martial arts master should have brought better punches to a spellfight.

Life springs from death. The shaman's near suicidal charge into the encampment of hazy Sha seemed unwise to the priest, but she simply let her do so. To make a Leap of Faith at such a time might prevent the lesson. The lesson prevents the error. The prevention of the error prevents their death. The draenei did not die. Fear did however register upon her brow.

Death too comes from life. The rogue, whose presence had so easily gone unnoticed.. took it upon herself to dash ahead herself, a greater distance. After she had gone about the corner, deftly into inquisitive death.. there was naught that could be done.

The priest wept not. The glow came. The outcome always the same. The rogue returned.

"Death" the priest mused "my naughty little slave."

What can one say of violence? It is a fire that spread and breeds and feeds... and fuels. How can something eat itself? Such is the nature of violence! The spells rang hard and the rage and the weight of bearing extinction down upon a creature was felt in full force. The priest, briefly taken aback by having to not simply lay the light's smite down upon it but truly assist the mercenaries... simply hardened her resolve after. When the time comes, the name for a killing is of little consequence. So too did that time come for the grand and malicious sha.

Hesitating behind the others as they snuck past the roaming ghosts, her thoughts dragged heavily downwards. Was it not wrong to leave such tormented souls in their state? Should they not release them? The mercenaries, as mercenaries are want to be... cared not.. and she could not release them alone. Perhaps Elune's grace would fall upon them by some other means.

It was but a blink and the massive pandaren was flat to the stone covered ground. The leader.. yet another creature to add to the countless masses of souls awaiting their own final judgments. Gold, trinkets, badges she scarcely wanted to touch, worthless old clothes.. and a valuable but too heavy to carry mace were all that remained of the once great man.

The smells and space of the shrine seeped back into her mind as she blinked.

Home.

Perhaps not home, but Bonni Chang at least, and a brew after selling her findings.
You hit me right in the English. ♥

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