#stellar snout is a name made up by my partner

[taski-guru]

All adopts are unique - no bases used. The names of adoptables are given for their designation, feel free to change this

Open for offers $50 and above

[incomingtrouble]

Mourning is not for Cold Hearts

A story about Asher considering his past, and the darkness that haunts it...

Even despite the chill of Undeath, Asher sat by his lonesome, shivering on his bunk. His blankets and pillow were scattered, draping over the side of the bed, much like his paws, as he considered his position. Or, perhaps, he should think the lack thereof. No longer the esteemed Forgemaster of the Dread, in charge of maintaining the weapons and armor of the terrible saronite-plated Death Knights, he was now just Asher Domitri, simple undead warrior, tucked into the far corner of the barracks. Not that it mattered much to him. He was never the type to squabble over petty titles in life, and in death, was even less obliged. So what if Fredreich thought little of him enough to demote him? It was all the same to him. No matter what he did, he was still just a simple Undead worgen. He inhaled through his nose, taking in the cold air of the fortress. He could understand why the Commander did little to make it hospitable - They did not need the frivolities of living, like warm beds, comfy chairs, stoked fires, or fresh food. In fact, most undead didn't even bother with such things. The dark energies that animated them were enough to sustain most. Yet, Asher was one of the few that enjoyed the warmth of the bed, dull as it could be. He sighed, flopping back onto it. The springs made a distinct squeak, and the whole frame shook under his weight, but beyond that, the room was quiet. So few others bothered using the barracks, and he himself had scarcely visited when he still toiled away in the forge. He closed his eyes, the blue fading within them, as he considered the events of last night. A meeting, called upon by Ser Roderick Gallowood for the Dread. As a member of it, and fairly well recognized at that, he was expected to attend - not that he would have preferred it. He was far too busy making adjustments to his ghoul's shoddy armor to tend to the dismal politics of the Dread. In fact, he would have rather climbed back into his grave than go and be treated as a fool. Perhaps he should have -- "Sorry mate," He could imagine himself saying to the Commander. "Too big of a work order to take a break now. Jus' give me my orders when you figure 'em out." Instinctively, his haw tightened as his thoughts flitted elsewhere. A golden coat in the sunlight, donned in fine attire, with glasses hanging crookedly off his snout. Asher could imagine the perfect face, the stunning blond fur of Victor Brickenhill. His baby blue eyes glimmered lightly as he looked across the table, but with a sinking feeling, the worgen recalled that it was not towards him. Yet, instead, they had softened on the glowing eyes of a handsome Night Elf, his ears pricked towards Victor. Asher had brought him a bouquet of flowers - specifically not roses, but various herbs and blooms for alchemical mixtures. The flowers had been dropped as he, crestfallen, retreated before the pair could notice him. Although he wished for the thoughts to stop, they continued. Asher thought of the first time he had met the man, looking hunched and uncomfortable in the bustling tavern Asher worked at previously. Addie had plucked at the strings of fate, encouraging Asher to be the one to wait on him. It was a simple interaction, at first - Victor hastily ordered an order of potato crisps, well done, and did his best to return to his book. Asher was enthralled, and when he returned with his greasy side dish, he had worked up the courage to ask Victor about his book. A long discussion on dragons and their culture ensued, and though eventually the evening rush called Asher back to his duties, he couldn't wait to see Victor again. The following months had been a blur. Each day, Asher would wake up and manage his way to work. Each day, Victor would visit, and they would talk about their interests -- At first, it was all about dragons, and he had been more than curious to sate the barkeep's curiosity with his studies. But it drifted to all sorts of topics. Asher became enamored, and though he struggled to find the words for it, Victor managed, one day, to squeak out the most important words Asher ever heard him say. "Can I walk you home tonight?" If he had known what it would lead to, would he have still said yes? Asher's eyes flitted open, and landed harsh on the wooden ceiling. It was Victor who made the connection of his last name - Domitri, the same as a family of dragonslayers when Arathor was still in power. They tended to the threat of black dragons, though ashamedly, even fought against the other flights they had come across. History had forgotten them as their ancient enemies succeeded in wiping nearly all of them out, and though Deathwing had been killed and the Black Dragonflight was shattered, a few of the corrupted dragons lingered, hiding in societies with false identities. The investigation the pair had made into his past brought those dragon's attention to him, and Asher was unveiled to be the Last Dragonslayer of the Domitri line. Once more, he considered what a useless title it had been. He was unable to kill the dragon pulling the strings, only her followers, never finding out her true identity. Well, other than the fact that she was a black drake, and an endlessly cruel one at that. Perhaps someday she would see reckoning. But you won't be the one to see it through, he thought grimly. His mind flitted back to the last evening. Of course Roderick had been furious with him. Talking back to the true leader of the Dread, Fredreich of the Nightfall, was completely taboo for its members. He refused a mount completely, having since only travelling by his own four paws. His weapon was seen as entirely inadequate - Though, it was hardly his fault that the saronite they gathered from Northrend was only plentiful enough for repairs on the existing member's armor. Gallowood hadn't even taught him proper runeforging. How was it his fault that he had failed him then? The worgen swallowed dryly. Ever since his discovery of Victor's new partner, he didn't care about his life, with the living, or with the dead. He had resumed wearing his old armor, wielded his old blade, and avoided using his powers as much as he could. Perhaps he was hoping he'd be lucky to be gutted again as he traveled to and from the Dread. He could imagine the look of pride on some scumbag thief as he raided through the meager belongings of a powerful Death Knight. It would be a fitting end, he thought. Just as he cared little for his life, the hands of fate would grant him a death that little would care for either. All except for Addie Thompson, his friend and confidant back when he was living. A stellar fighter, like him, who was forced to take a side job when her mercenary deal fell through. He imagined her now, in Bannhurst, as she wiped the bartop, probably flirting with some fair maiden. The thought made him smile, and the smallest flicker of happiness went through him, before being followed by an aching sadness. She would do well without him, he figured. She had lost friends before, and though she was relatively unphased by his being raised (more so shocked by the gruesome scar on his damaged hip) he knew he wasn't entirely the same in her eyes. By far the only thing she had been shocked by was the fact that a bunch of dumb highwaymen had gotten the jump on him. After all, he was once a trained soldier, and even though he did not fight every day, he was still tempered by the various fights with the dragoness's followers. Gears clicked in his head as suddenly it came upon him. Wasn't it suspicious that these highwaymen knew exactly where he was, on his way through the roads of Bannhurst? He wasn't too far from the city's center, merely going through a pass to reach the neighborhood he and Addie lived in, and although it wasn't used as often as the others, it was still frequented. Where were the guards? More importantly, why hadn't they found his body sooner? How did they know who he was? Asher startled himself upright, his tattered ears pricked. It couldn't have just been bad timing, could it have? In between guard shifts, his mind lulled by thinking of seeing Victor again, perhaps a little bit tipsy...But he hadn't drank that night, had he? A flurry of questions ran through his head, but a sickening dread built up in his gut as he realized he could find answers for them. It was convenient how the guards weren't there, even though the shift change must have been just hours earlier. How three men, armed to the tooth, could walk freely through the streets at night without being caught. How perfectly vulnerable Asher was, without his weapons and armor. How he held little of worth on him, and yet, the only thing that might catch a potential thief's eye, the tarnished silver locket of his mother's she had give him lifetimes ago, still hung from his corpse's neck. Why there hadn't been an investigation, even now, when knowledge of his life in undeath was within the system. Why he hadn't been asked about his own murder? The worgen's throat tightened as he thought back to his Dragonslayer title. Could she really...? No. He and Victor had killed all of her followers in the Blasted Lands...hadn't he? Surely such a simple, forgotten drake hadn't been able to amass more fanatics, unless they weren't working for her specifically, but...perhaps her gold. They were mercenaries...They must have been, sellswords bought by the dragoness's false identity's wealth. But even she could not have known of the agreement he had made with Roderick during the final Legion invasion. Nobody else was around when he approached him, still sore and broken from his time on Argus, begging for the second chance to continue the fight, should he ever fall. She had failed in killing him for good, and now, he was back, possibly even powerful enough to take her on himself. A fire burned in his chest. Rage built up inside of him, rage he hadn't felt since he learned of his Dragonslayer title, and the mischief his drunken, stupid father had pulled to desecrate it. The worgen slid off of the top bunk, landing harsh on the ground. There, curled up in the corner, was Hammerbite, the ghoul servant Asher had raised to aid in the forge. Well, at least, one of them. He kicked it harshly awake, and the ghoul made a cry. Asher ordered him to collect his things. The worgen rose to his full height, cold anger pulsing through him. He knew what he must do, even if nobody else must know. He did not know who he could trust, even within the Dread. Perhaps, the commander, as he would be needed for anything to succeed. Asher needed to know how to truly be a Death knight, and Sir Roderick would be capable of teaching him. He must learn to manipulate his powers. He must succeed at whatever he had to do. And then, he figured, as the obedient ghoul returned with his things, he would have a dragon to kill.