Legacy of Blood

[Marchelute Bloodbane]

Memories are a powerful thing. They can give us strength, or sap it away. They make us laugh and make us cry. Sometimes, they can even drive us mad…


“You’re nothing but a failure, and you always will be!” Cyrax Bloodbane snarled, beating his youngest son with a leather belt. There was a horrifyingly cruel gleam in his eyes.
“I’m sorry!” the bruised and bleeding child wailed, trying desperately to fend off his father’s wrath and pressing himself deeper into the corner. “I’m sorry! I’ll try harder next time! I promise!”
“That’s not good enough, Marchelute! You will do better, or so help me you’ll have more than the belt to contend with!”
“I’m sorry!!”


Marchelute woke from the nightmare with a start, and sat up, momentarily disoriented. He could still hear his father screaming at him, and, in a moment of blind rage, turned and viciously beat his own head against the cold stone wall of his chamber. “Enough!” he howled, shaking as blood trickled down the right side of his face and his vision blurred. “I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

Even after all these years, after his father had died and he left his broken home behind, after he had grown into a man, Marchelute was still haunted by memories stained in blood. Time did little to heal the scars he carried. Living in solitude in the darkness of Undercity didn’t exactly help either, but what else was he supposed to do? There was enough bad blood between his family and the Farstriders that he could never return to Silvermoon permanently. Even if he tried, Marchelute was too far gone to ever fit into normal society.

With a heavy sigh, the warlock flopped backwards onto the bed and stared at the dark ceiling with vision that came in and out of focus at random. He ignored the throbbing in his skull and the blood that oozed from his self-inflicted wound. His mind slowly drifted back into unconsciousness, and into the waiting hands of memories best left forgotten.


“Brother! Brother! Look! Look what I can do!” young Marchelute cried enthusiastically, as he cast his first successful Immolate spell on a nearby sapling.

“Amazing,” Hathnul replied flatly, feigning interest in his younger brother’s progress. “Keep working hard, Marchie. It’ll take more than a burning twig to impress dad.” The elder of the two then turned his attention to his own works, leaving Marchelute to practice in solitude without guidance. Despite their closeness in appearance and age, the two brothers couldn’t have been farther apart. Hathnul was Father’s favorite, excelling in his studies and quickly advancing along the path of a Warlock. Marchelute, on the other hand, struggled to keep up. And every failure was harshly punished.

Marchelute’s smile faded and he stared at the ground sullenly, thinking about what waited for him when their father returned.

“Cheer up, my little one, and keep practicing,” sang the soothing voice of his mother. “I’ll help you with what I can, so smile for me, okay?” Shyrendora was nothing like her husband. She was gentle, soft-spoken, and all-forgiving. She loved her sons, so much so that she refused to leave Cyrax without them, despite the bruises she herself endured. She was convinced that leaving would sentence Marchelute to death, and like any good mother, her children came before her own safety.

The platinum-haired boy couldn’t help but smile for her. He would do anything for his mother to make her happy, a feeling that would persist as he grew older. His mother was everything to him, his only friend. And even as a small child, he vowed to get stronger so he could protect her. Protect her and save her.


But even so, Marchelute still ended up alone.

[Marchelute Bloodbane]

"Mother! Mother!" the Sin'dorei child cried, racing after the robed silhouette of his mother. "Mother, wait for me! Mother!" The boy giggled happily, sprinting to catch up, arms outstretched. The figure of his mother knelt down, smiling, and he leaped into her arms...

But what should have been a warm and welcome embrace was cold and empty. The figure of his mother faded, and the boy crumpled to the floor with a torn, blood-soaked robe. "Mother?" he whimpered, glancing around with wide eyes quickly overflowing with tears. "Mother, where are you?" He was alone and afraid.

At a distance, illuminated by torchlight in the all-consuming dark, the child could he his mother waiting. He stood, discarded the empty robe, and ran toward her. But every step was heavy, and the ground beneath his feet pitched and rolled. The harder he tried to reach her, the further away she seemed. He was older now, stronger, faster, and he cried out as loud as he could "Mother!!" but no matter how hard he fought, the distance between them grew and grew.
An adult now, a man, 'I can save her!' he screamed to himself, 'I can save her!!' His body ached and burned, he could feel blood streaming from open wounds, he felt the sting of broken bone, but still he ran. Onward through the darkness that rose and fell like ocean swells, he ran.

Suddenly, the dark gave way, and he pitched forward, crying out with fear as he felt his body plunge into cold, deep water. He thrashed, heart gripped with panic. He couldn't swim. Behind him, the ship that was to set them both free... Before him, his mother and father on the dock under the lamplight. And between them, fifty yards or more of deep, dark water.

Even if he could swim, he would never reach her in time. He struggled and thrashed, until he heard the scream. The one sound - the only sound - that had ever made his heart stop and his blood run cold.
He froze, listened to his mother's dying scream echo into the darkness; watched her body crumple, silvery robes fluttering elegantly as she fell slow-motion into the waters of the Anchorage.

Marchelute howled in rage and sorrow. "Mother!"
He tried to reach her, but his strength was gone, every movement was slow and strained. And as the darkness consumed his vision, he could hear his father laughing.



Marchelute opened his eyes, and found himself thankful to be lying in a dark, quiet, and above all dry room. He was drenched in a cold sweat, though, and he could feel his racing heart gradually calm. He stared blankly into the gloom of his chamber. It had been several years since his mother's death at the hands of not-so-dear old dad, but the nightmares still tormented him. Even after his revenge, after he had wrung the very life from his father's body with his own hands, the memory of his mother's death continued to haunt him.

"Thinking of home?" cooed the voice of his succubus, Brylia. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness, and her touch was a familiar and very welcome comfort to the warlock.

"Not willingly," Marchelute replied hoarsely as the demon curled up beside him. "It's always the same."

"Aww, my poor baby," Brylia whispered, running a slender hand through his hair. "Here, let me cheer you up."
The succubus started to slide under the covers with her master, but Marchelute frankly wasn't in the mood, and gave her a violent shove off the bed. He rose, and when Brylia started to protest, a slap echoed painfully through the room. Accustomed to being beaten when her master was angry, the demon was surprised when Marchelute simply left the chamber. But she knew better than to follow him or speak to him.

In the next room, Marchelute sat on the cold stone floor next to an open chest. He clutched to his heart an old, tattered and worn silver robe, the last memento of his mother.