The Weight of Shadows Blightmaul trudged through the twisting corridors of the Undercity, the weight of Shadowrend strapped to his back. It felt heavier than any blade he had carried before, though its metal was unnaturally light. The shadows it cast danced on the walls as if alive, twisting and writhing with malevolent purpose. The whispers were constant now, no longer content to haunt his dreams. They seeped into his waking thoughts, a cacophony of voices speaking in fragmented languages. Some were soft and seductive, promising power beyond imagination. Others were cruel and mocking, their words clawing at his resolve. By the time he reached the ruined streets above the Undercity, his mind felt frayed, like an old tapestry unraveling at the edges. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and heavy. The stench of rot lingered, a reminder of Tirisfal Glades’ decay. He sat on the edge of a crumbling fountain, staring into the dark waters pooled within. His reflection looked back at him-gaunt, hollow-eyed, and faintly wrong. The blade’s influence had begun to change him, its energy seeping into his very being. “You cannot resist,” one of the whispers cooed. Blightmaul clenched his fists, his skeletal fingers digging into the stone. “I’ve resisted worse,” he growled, though he wasn’t sure if it was true. The first time he drew the blade, it was in defense. A pack of worgen had ambushed him on the road to Brill, their howls echoing through the mist. He had fought them before-quick, brutal encounters where steel and skill determined survival. But this time was different. When he unsheathed Shadowrend, the air around him seemed to grow colder. The blade pulsed in his hand, eager, hungry. As he struck the first worgen, the weapon’s true nature revealed itself. The creature didn’t bleed. It screamed, its voice a horrible blend of pain and terror, as its body began to dissolve. The shadows clinging to the blade surged forward, wrapping around the worgen like vines. Within moments, nothing remained but ash. The other worgen hesitated, their feral instincts overcome by fear. Blightmaul took no pleasure in what happened next. The blade moved almost on its own, guiding his strikes with unnatural precision. Each swing brought more destruction, the shadows consuming his foes until the road was littered with smoldering remains. When the last worgen fell, Blightmaul stood in the silence, the whispers deafening in his ears. The blade trembled in his grasp, as though alive, and for a moment he thought it might turn against him. He dropped it, his hands shaking. The whispers subsided, but the blade’s presence lingered like a sickness in his mind. In the days that followed, the weapon’s influence grew stronger. It demanded to be used, its whispers turning into commands. Draw me. Strike. Kill. Blightmaul found himself drawn to the blade despite his fear. Each time he resisted, it lashed out in subtle ways. His thoughts grew clouded, memories of his life before undeath slipping away like sand through his fingers. His companions noticed the change. “You’ve been quiet, mon,” Zillik said one evening as they camped near the edge of Silverpine Forest. The Troll’s tone was casual, but his eyes were wary. “Too quiet.” Blightmaul didn’t respond. “Dat blade,” Zillik continued, gesturing toward the weapon. “It’s doin’ somethin’ to ya. I can feel it. Like a bad spirit hangin’ in da air.” Dhrazka nodded from across the fire. “He’s right. The shadows around you aren’t natural. You need to let it go before it consumes you.” Blightmaul looked at them both, his voice cold. “It’s not that simple.” The truth was, he had tried. He had left the blade buried in the mud outside Brill, but by morning it had reappeared at his side. He had thrown it into a lake, only to wake and find it resting against his bedroll. The whispers laughed at his attempts, mocking his desperation. One night, the blade showed him what it truly wanted. In his dreams, he stood once more in the shadowy field, the sky above him fractured and bleeding light. The blade was there, embedded in the ground, its surface rippling with dark energy. Around him, figures began to emerge from the shadows. They were distorted, their forms ever-shifting, but their eyes burned with unmistakable hatred. “You are the key,” the voices said in unison. Blightmaul stepped back, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The shadows surged forward, enveloping him. He awoke with a start, his breath ragged despite the absence of lungs. The blade lay beside him, its surface shimmering faintly in the moonlight. He picked it up, his hands trembling. The whispers were louder now, more insistent. “You belong to me,” they hissed. By the time he reached the Forsaken stronghold at the Bulwark, Blightmaul knew he could not carry Shadowrend much longer. Its hunger was insatiable, and every time he wielded it, he felt himself slipping further into the void. He sought out the apothecaries, desperate for answers, but they offered only grim smiles and cryptic words. “The Dark Lady chose you for a reason,” one said, his voice dripping with malice. “You cannot unmake what you have become.” Even Nathanos was of little help. “You’re not the first to break under the weight of duty,” he said. “And you won’t be the last.” Blightmaul left the Bulwark that night, the whispers driving him toward some unknown destination. He no longer knew if he was running from the blade-or toward it. All he knew was that the shadows would not let him go.
The Weight of Shadows
Blightmaul trudged through the twisting corridors of the Undercity, the weight of Shadowrend strapped to his back. It felt heavier than any blade he had carried before, though its metal was unnaturally light. The shadows it cast danced on the walls as if alive, twisting and writhing with malevolent purpose.
The whispers were constant now, no longer content to haunt his dreams. They seeped into his waking thoughts, a cacophony of voices speaking in fragmented languages. Some were soft and seductive, promising power beyond imagination. Others were cruel and mocking, their words clawing at his resolve.
By the time he reached the ruined streets above the Undercity, his mind felt frayed, like an old tapestry unraveling at the edges. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and heavy. The stench of rot lingered, a reminder of Tirisfal Glades’ decay.
He sat on the edge of a crumbling fountain, staring into the dark waters pooled within. His reflection looked back at him-gaunt, hollow-eyed, and faintly wrong. The blade’s influence had begun to change him, its energy seeping into his very being.
“You cannot resist,” one of the whispers cooed.
Blightmaul clenched his fists, his skeletal fingers digging into the stone. “I’ve resisted worse,” he growled, though he wasn’t sure if it was true.
The first time he drew the blade, it was in defense. A pack of worgen had ambushed him on the road to Brill, their howls echoing through the mist. He had fought them before-quick, brutal encounters where steel and skill determined survival.
But this time was different.
When he unsheathed Shadowrend, the air around him seemed to grow colder. The blade pulsed in his hand, eager, hungry. As he struck the first worgen, the weapon’s true nature revealed itself.
The creature didn’t bleed. It screamed, its voice a horrible blend of pain and terror, as its body began to dissolve. The shadows clinging to the blade surged forward, wrapping around the worgen like vines. Within moments, nothing remained but ash.
The other worgen hesitated, their feral instincts overcome by fear. Blightmaul took no pleasure in what happened next. The blade moved almost on its own, guiding his strikes with unnatural precision. Each swing brought more destruction, the shadows consuming his foes until the road was littered with smoldering remains.
When the last worgen fell, Blightmaul stood in the silence, the whispers deafening in his ears. The blade trembled in his grasp, as though alive, and for a moment he thought it might turn against him.
He dropped it, his hands shaking. The whispers subsided, but the blade’s presence lingered like a sickness in his mind.
In the days that followed, the weapon’s influence grew stronger. It demanded to be used, its whispers turning into commands.
Draw me.
Strike.
Kill.
Blightmaul found himself drawn to the blade despite his fear. Each time he resisted, it lashed out in subtle ways. His thoughts grew clouded, memories of his life before undeath slipping away like sand through his fingers. His companions noticed the change.
“You’ve been quiet, mon,” Zillik said one evening as they camped near the edge of Silverpine Forest. The Troll’s tone was casual, but his eyes were wary. “Too quiet.”
Blightmaul didn’t respond.
“Dat blade,” Zillik continued, gesturing toward the weapon. “It’s doin’ somethin’ to ya. I can feel it. Like a bad spirit hangin’ in da air.”
Dhrazka nodded from across the fire. “He’s right. The shadows around you aren’t natural. You need to let it go before it consumes you.”
Blightmaul looked at them both, his voice cold. “It’s not that simple.”
The truth was, he had tried. He had left the blade buried in the mud outside Brill, but by morning it had reappeared at his side. He had thrown it into a lake, only to wake and find it resting against his bedroll. The whispers laughed at his attempts, mocking his desperation.
One night, the blade showed him what it truly wanted.
In his dreams, he stood once more in the shadowy field, the sky above him fractured and bleeding light. The blade was there, embedded in the ground, its surface rippling with dark energy.
Around him, figures began to emerge from the shadows. They were distorted, their forms ever-shifting, but their eyes burned with unmistakable hatred.
“You are the key,” the voices said in unison.
Blightmaul stepped back, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The shadows surged forward, enveloping him.
He awoke with a start, his breath ragged despite the absence of lungs. The blade lay beside him, its surface shimmering faintly in the moonlight.
He picked it up, his hands trembling. The whispers were louder now, more insistent.
“You belong to me,” they hissed.
By the time he reached the Forsaken stronghold at the Bulwark, Blightmaul knew he could not carry Shadowrend much longer. Its hunger was insatiable, and every time he wielded it, he felt himself slipping further into the void.
He sought out the apothecaries, desperate for answers, but they offered only grim smiles and cryptic words.
“The Dark Lady chose you for a reason,” one said, his voice dripping with malice. “You cannot unmake what you have become.”
Even Nathanos was of little help. “You’re not the first to break under the weight of duty,” he said. “And you won’t be the last.”
Blightmaul left the Bulwark that night, the whispers driving him toward some unknown destination. He no longer knew if he was running from the blade-or toward it.
All he knew was that the shadows would not let him go.