Ceruszael

The passage of time is a curious thing, when one is left to observe it objectively. Not in and of itself, of course, but how the various realms interact with it. Azeroth turns on and on. Its denizens conquer the dangers which threaten their ways of life, build civilizations, develop cultures, are deemed a danger to another, and so on. A cycle of rising and falling kingdoms. That was not curious. Historians know as much, people are simple too arrogant or too short sighted to learn from it. The Pandaren and Zandalari, perhaps, are the best students of history. No, the curiosity arises when one lessens the scale of observation all the way down to the individual. Mortal races, in particular. The Elves and Draenei are almost too removed from the natural order, in and of itself an irony for the former. Humanity, as will all things, extolls virtue and vice through the clearest lens.

I am fascinated by the fact that men, without failure, seek to eliminate the circumstances which raise them to greatness.

All noble families are guilty of such. Recent events in Kul Tiras reinforce the observation. Empires, kingdoms, townships. Any civilized organization, traced back to its foundation, will prove this to be true. Whether it be inclimate weather, roving beasts, dangerous neighboring civilizations, or magical influence, some small number of men will be forged greater than their fellows. Hardship strengthens them. Toughens them. They become paragons among their people. With sufficient might to challenge their perceived enemies, these men will tame their surroundings. Build walls and lodging, put beasts to the blade, war against neighbors, and either embrace or abolish the occult. They will write of their victories, or others of the time will, and be praised by all. Time will pass. Years, decades. A generation. An age of heroes withers as the great men die. Kin, or honorbound friends, take up the mantle. Swear to uphold that which their founder fought for. They do so, to a lesser degree, as they had not the mettle to be a paragon in their own right. A generation passes again. People forget the strife. The slaughter. The pain. Another kin, this one having suffered not at all and merely heard stories of his family’s accomplishments, takes power for granted. Squanders it, for he is a lesser man, forged by naught but arrogance.

Here, or in two generations’ time, men falter and fade away. Hardship returns, for none remain to tame it. And the cycle begins anew.

Such is not true of the Shadowlands. Time means nothing to its denizens, but to mark new arrivals within its bounds. I have watched for several months now. I see the various forces of that realm vie for power as do mortals, and a cycle of their own form. Power shifts, but only suits to influence those beyond the land of the dead.

What good is ownership of a graveyard, when there is no more life left to fill it?

I have watched bands of ancestors retrieve the souls of their fallen. Seen Loa tend to the faithful, and torment the sacrilegious. Witnessed agents of the Light shield its children from horrors so ingrained among the Shadowlands. Souls of the living is the currency by which the dead mark power and influence, in turn used to bargain with the living and claim more souls.

Azeroth turns on and on.

Months of silence pierced only the scribbling of quill on parchment were now broken with the thunk of an opening door. Ceruszael continued on as if nothing had occurred, for nothing took place in his abode without his knowledge. His observatory was shielded and shrouded, with eyes all around when its master had need of such. Few knew of its location. None, of its purpose. The man who came to him now was a messenger dispatched from Addlewood. His tabard spoke as much, but disguises were far from the uncommon methods of infiltration. Ceruszael knew his allegiance for certain because the man’s will was no longer his own. Spirits circled the grounds around the tower, at the behest of he who bound them would learn all their was to know about visitors. Possessed, the messenger strode to the table at which Ceruszael stood and deposited a letter upon it. Pausing, the Knight reached for the envelope to scan its contents.

Kaidren Holt now leads by Adhelin’s grace.

Azeroth turns on and on.

Slowly, Ceruszael lifted his gaze to meet the messenger’s. Though no obvious act took place, all of a sudden awareness flooded the man’s features. He shuddered, panicked, stepping back from the table in a hurry as he looked all around. All that greeted him were black walls, a solitary table, and twin icy blue irises glowing in an oppressive darkness.

“C-C-Casttelan! I was disp-p-patched to you… what…. Where?”

“I know.”

I haven’t heard my own voice in two months.

“Everything w-was dark… cold… I c-c-couldn’t.”

“Silence.”

The command echoed within the room, Ceruszael’s eerie reverberating tone demanding obedience. The messenger dropped to his knees, lip quivering, though remained quiet.

“Return to Kaidren Holt. Inform him my reclusion is at an end, and that any changes he intends to implement will be discussed with me first. If he disagrees or is displeased, he is free to speak with me.”

And just like that, Ceruszael looked back down to the parchment and continued writing. He did not exactly know how long it was before the messenger mustered the mental faculties to flee. Nor, in truth, did he care. Some small part of him questioned the interaction. Queried whether it was course, unfitting a man of his station, or had crossed moral boundaries. Asked how he was different from monsters condemned by the kingdom he supposedly served. Yet another part of him recognized that this used to be a dominant influence on his actions, not six months past. Solitude had peeled away a facade of humanity the more it was unused.

Curious.

Fighting men and women stood arrayed in their thousands. Soldiers of Stormwind, Ironforge, Gnomeregan, nomads of the Exodar, and the fallen kingdoms of Gilneas and Darnassus. Then, even more subsects. Ceruszael beheld them all around him. Addlewood, Braemar, Embris, Dirae, Neverbloom. Allies draw from Kul Tiras among the Baradin Free Company. These were not people prepared to give their lives. Oh, he was certain they were willing and some might even have considered it a possibility. But it was not at the forefront of their minds. The Alliance had come to Tirisfal for one reason alone.

Vengeance.

The Gilneans and Kaldorei wore it on their sleeves. Some among the assembled bannermen of House Holt did as well. The forces who had marched north beneath Francimar Reavers bellowed their approval at the Slayer’s cries. Others kept a cold rage. Brimming just below the surface. Those of Neverbloom with Baron Miljardas at their head, as well as those who had circled around from the north with Vladimir Darkmoor. Ceruszael wondered which spectrum he would have fallen on in life. The former, he thought. Now he stood before the mustered might of House Holt and all its subsidiaries before the capital city’s walls of his former home, on the eve of its reclamation, and felt….

Nothing.

Not that they could know. Nearest the Castellan were the veterans of Addlewood and Dirae, those who knew him best and some who had fought beside him or seen his personal command. These looked to him, while others were more uncertain. Such was now his duty to assuage the doubts and stir hearts for war. Arrayed in his crimson battleplate trimmed in bone, serrated runeblade in one hand and a banner held high in the other, Ceruszael strode forward. He turned after several paces, planting the banner before him. On the right fluttered the colors of House Holt. On the left, the Alliance. A mustering point for the soldiery during the battle as well a motivator.

And an identifier, so overzealous men do try to kill me.

“Sons and Daughters of the Alliance! Sworn bannermen to the noble family of House Holt, which serves at the behest of the House of Wrynn. Hear me!”

Ceruszael’s words carried easily across the arrayed forces, though he had raised his tone only slightly.

“Today your High King calls for war. He calls for vengeance. For recompense against crimes committed by the Banshee Queen and her ilk against the Alliance. In this, WE ARE HIS VOICE!”

He paused. A lifetime ago, oratory had been core to the teaching he had received. Despite his aversion to leading men in death, such was his destined path in life. The weight of his words grew heavier when allowed to settle.

“Forsaken guard the walls of Lordaeron. Orcs, Trolls, Tauren, Goblins, and Blood Elves stand beside them yet we are in the land of the dead. You have marched to bring an end to them all. Yet here I tell you - though you come to inflict it upon your foes, do not fear Death. Do not fear Death for I am its herald and I march beside you. I do not come for thee this day. I COME FOR THE HORDE!”

A roar of approval met his words.

So I haven’t lost that touch.

He turned away from the masses, waiting now the horns and drums. It did not take long. Cannons boomed, shouts issued, and the surge of bodies pressing forward was nigh-instantaneous. Ceruszael ran with them, banner held high with his runeblade at his side. The clash of forces occurred shortly thereafter. It was, by all accounts, a clash of epic proportions. The full might of the Alliance arrayed against that of the Horde. So soon after their war against the Legion, there were countless battle-hardened veterans on each side. Units, companies, and regiments bound in the crucible of war fighting with a cohesion unmatched. The ferocity and thirst for revenge shown by the Alliance matched against a resolve for survival with deep roots among the Horde. In the midst of it all Ceruszael fought. A throat cut, a rib cage punctured, limbs hewn and bones shattered. A tauren bore down on the banner-bearing Ebon Knight. A pulse of dark magics distended and ruptured the chests of several fallen soldiers, bone shards leaping into the brute’s back. Now bleeding profusely with his internal organs shredded, he fell flat before ever reaching Ceruszael. A moment was taken to survey the surroundings.

Corpses already littered the field. Soldiers pressed against each other all around him. Men and women fought with a tenacity unbound. And through it all, he felt merely constricted. A gelid wind could have surrounded the Death Knight, robbing all of their constitution and haste. The fallen could rise again to take up arms against those he presently fought against. Wrathful spectres torn from the Shadowlands could rip among their ranks, unraveling morale and plunging them into despair. Yet any such measures would have seen him branded as much an enemy as the Banshee Queen and her ilk. Dark forces wielded here would see him mistaken for and targeted.

Or they would see me for that which I truly am, and so brand me an enemy.

“BLIGHT!”

Ceruszael’s eyes turned skyward. True enough, canisters trailed through the air with green contrails behind them. The first collisions scattered bodies with sheer concussive force. Those were the good deaths. Any who remained were destined slow, suffering ends. Horns sounded. Undercity’s gates opened if only to unveil ranks of apothecary-troopers from its bowels.

“RETREAT!”

Just the call he had expected. An admirable tactic employed. Sylvanas truly knew just how much power she wielded. How quickly and easily she could end this incursion. Ceruszael held his ground. As ranks thinned all around him, frigid winds rose. A howling gale the envy of Northwind’s peaks circled around the Ebon Knight, pressing back against the deadly gas. Before long he stood alone.

Almost.

One figure who had not yet met true death was with him in this silent eye of the storm. A Forsaken soldier, lying in the blood and dirt. Ceruszael’s efforts had damned him. The Blight had already taken hold. He merely delayed the inevitable. Slowly, he moved to kneel beside the soldier. A man, or once was at least. He scrambled for a weapon. The Ebon kicked a nearby axe aside before kneeling low. A gurgle from the prone form issued forth the ichor substituted for vital fluids. Ceruszael jammed the banner’s haft into the dirt, cradling his head with a now free hand.

“Rest now. It is long past due. We are but echoes, persisting long after silenced voices. You have earned an end.”

Bringing the tip of his blade up, he thrust it up and through the bottom of the Forsaken’s jaw and through his skull. No dark magics here. That soul, or whatever was left of it, would be preserved for its passage. The Castellan stayed kneeling. Blight pressed in all around him. Its concentration would soon be enough to press past his protective veil. That, however, was far from his mind. At this moment, cradling the physical memory of his countrymen, he contemplated long suppressed emotions running rampant through him. Despair. Anger. The former at taking up arms against kin and country for a second time, though now without even the ability to lay blame on others’ control. The latter drove a desire to take up arms against all who would sully Lordaeron’s soil. Let the Orcs, Trolls, Tauren, Goblins, and Blood Elves meet their ends. Let the any human not born of this kingdom, the cursed Gilneans, Draenei, Kaldorei, Dwarves, and Gnomes join them. Lordaeron was not theirs to war over.

Unleash.

No.

In one smooth motion Ceruszael rose, again taking up the banner. He hurried toward the Alliance lines, a spectre moving through a rolling green fog. It was the colors he carried that spared him friendly fire upon emerging. Those scattered withdrawn forces held firm as the Castellan rejoined them. It was just as well, for moments thereafter they all beheld a sight to stir even the dimmest of hearts. A massive ship sailing on currents of raw mana. Kul Tiran in origin, as the Baradin Free Company’s cries quickly confirmed. Jaina Proudmoore captained it, her incomparable mastery freeing the battlefield from the grip of the Banshee Queen and shattering her battlements in one fell swoop. The Alliance rallied beneath the Archmage and their High King. Forward again they surged, sensing imminent victory. They should have known there would be no victory here. If Sylvanas Windrunner did not win, she would assure that none ever could. Such was her away.

The rest of the battle past as a blur to Ceruszael. He marched as long as Holt forces partook of the battle. Fewer and fewer, every minute. Either by death, injury, or in aiding the escape of others. He channeled his despair and anger, directing it solely at the Horde by sheer force of will alone. All the training and experience born of a lifetime beneath a militant family and wars wages, all the unholy power amassed and refined in undeath. His blade weaved faster than any should have been able to wield it, flickering between the realms of the living and the dead. It cut the souls and spirits of those before him as easily as flesh and bone. It was only hours after the killing had ended that conscious pierced the veil of the Ebon Knight’s mind. Hours after that he thought to see which of those men and women he had led to Lordaeron merely added to its sepulchral soil. And yet, as he walked the docks of Stormwind, he still did not know whether or not he would truly care if even all had perished.

I think not.

(( Previous: Here ))

(( Disclaimer: This post coincides with the beginning of the War of Thorns. ))

Silence reigned. Not the lie which passed as such among the living. When every day bore a monotonous din of which the composing parts are indistinguishable from each other, any abatement was mistaken for a reprieve. It was not so. This was true, utter, complete, silence. Standing in the darkness of the tower he had seen built, Ceruszael took a moment to appreciate it. Eyes closed, body as still as the tower all around him, he basked in it. In the back of his mind the Ebon Knight new this served only to further his descent apart from the humanity he once had. And yet, for the time being, it brought him a measure of comfort. After a measure his eyelids peeled open. Twin pinpricks of lichfire in the gloom of his solitude. They regarded his completed work.

The chamber he stood in was devoid of any adornments or accomodations beyond a large circular table in the center. Semi-glossy blackness reflected the cold gleam of his gaze from every angle as Ceruszael regarded the walls about him. Eventually he settled on the one feature which could perhaps be construed as an imperfection. In the center of the table, a thin slot marred the surface. The Knight reached back to slide his runeblade free from its sheathe. It shared the eerie glow from his eyes and sections of his armor, yet its reflection was far more complex. Myriad forms writhed and circled the edge, which in the umbral walls shifted from the serrated steelesque weapon he wielded, to a bone-adorned wickedly hooked weapon, to an ethereal cleaver, to a cold ironclad scythe into which the spirits were absorbed and regurgitated endlessly. All truths as to the nature of the Death Knight’s and his weapon. Ceruszael held it forward, the tip pointing across the table as if judging the macabre depiction in the tower’s walls. The blade then left his grip, lazily gliding forward and rotating until it hovered vertically just above the slit. When his fist closed, it descended, and the room lit with an empty approximation of life.

Eerie green luminescence danced across the chamber as a torrent of spirits were freed from the confines of the runeblade, finding new lodging within the intricate spellwork of the tower. They swirled around and around, at first swiftly and violently in revelry of liberation, then slowing as the limitations of their new prison became understood. But move they did. No respite for the restless dead. As they drifted below his feet, Ceruszael shifted his attention to the tower walls, beholding that which he had wrought. In contrast to the ground, a monochrome wasteland stretched all around him. No grass or other undergrowth clung to the dirt or shifted in the breeze. Just as well, for no wind blew to bend the branches of long-dead trees.

The Shadowlands stood before Ceruszael, viewable all around him without him needing to bodily cross. Painstakingly applied runework and necromantic spellcraft all across the tower and its foundation served equally as protection from Azeroth’s intruders, as well as those who would assail this unwanted observer from the realm of the dead. Glancing toward the bottom edge of the walls, he could glimpse the ghostlight of the torches at the tower’s base, serving as physical manifestations of his protective weave. And yet, amidst this success, Ceruszael frowned. The dead were legion, outnumbering the living as they ever would. Yet he saw none here. Nor the wardens which jailed and tormented them. Nor even the periodic intrusions of Val’kyr, in any of the forms known to him. He did not long have to wonder as to why. In contrast to the immediate vicinity, in the horizon he beheld a great disturbance. Eyes narrowed, the Acheran gestured in its direction. The decayed landscape fled beneath him, shifting as his perspective flew forward as if on the wings of a frostwyrm. Realization dawned swiftly. An offender to the cycle for millennia, the outline of a massive tree, grew larger as the damned observatory closed in. Now, the Ebon saw the dead. A teeming mass of them which grew larger by the moment.

War.

Ceruszael turned away, an arm snapping out to his side. A keening wail, audible only to those who had an ear for the manner in which dead things spoke, was silenced nearly as soon as it began as the soul engine below him receded into the runeblade before it lifted free from the table and returned to its master’s grasp. The tower fell dormant again, only a shrinking reflection of its architect seeing to his departure.

(( Previous: Here ))

The structure arose slowly, for its foundations needed to be made solid. Not only architecturally, though such concerns were likely equally important. A window to the Shadowlands would partially exist within that realm. Perhaps, as much as it did in Azeroth. Warding was thus required. A strong foundation from which his observations could be made unhindered. As black, glossy bricks emerged from mouth of a runeforge they were hauled off and stacked by myriad shambling forms. Ceruszael watched the work. His focus, however, was on the torches which began to dot the surrounding landscape. Cold iron, inscribed from their base in the earth to the top from which flickering flames wavered in a breeze that did not blow. He was attended by a pair of wraiths, hoods and cloaks fluttering in the same manner as the eerie turquoise fire. Stranger yet, no light was cast along the earth or the majority of Ceruszael’s crimson plate. The wraiths, as well as subtly gleaming runes in his armor, appeared somewhat brighter in their presence.

He could see it in his mind. A bleak tower amidst grey dead earth. Around it, ghostlit torches stood. Each reflected as a spot along the tower’s face yet did nothing to illuminate the area. When viewed from the ground, they appeared scattered without meaning. From above, equally so, though their true purpose might be guessed by one versed in the dark magics of death. Their pattern outlined powerful warding runes tracing back to the tower’s base. They drew fuel from it just as they served to protect it, casting a harsh gleam in the underworld despite being all but inept at piercing Deadwind’s gloom. A necessary measure to keep not only the living from trespassing, but also the dead. So did the Blood Dragon envision it.

And so too did it become a reality.

Ceaselessly did the dead work. Night and day, without pause. Such was their boon, though only Ceruszael among them was cognisant enough to recognize it. The rest were but animated puppets to carry out his will. The irony of the situation, given how vocal his opposition to the Lich King was, did not evade the Ebon Knight. The difference, he told himself, was that he did not slay these beings and slave their souls to their bodies. Dead men walked, yes, but they had been dead many years. Spirits who had wandered the Shadowlands’ wastes for some time and knew its torments. He was not yet delusional enough to imagine himself a liberator. But at least, he justified, he was not… as wicked. Not as evil.

Not yet.

Such musings would become commonplace in the silent halls of the tower he built. It neared completion. The magic was almost fully in place. The engine which would fuel it and allow for so much more, would be lit. Its structure reached just shy of the allotted height, imposing in its implacable darkness. Much like the blade he carried, it remained unnamed for the time being. Such was a tendency among his brethren in undeath. For all their grim demeanors, they were a poetic lot. Ceruszael was not entirely removed from them. Perdition and Strife, the steeds he rode, spoke to that. Perhaps it was time to submit fully to that inexplicable tendency.

Perhaps.

► Name ➔   “Ceruszael.” ► Are you single ➔ “Yes.” ► Are you happy ➔   “I am content.” ► Are you angry? ➔  “Rarely.” ► Are your parents still married ➔   “Deceased.”

NINE FACTS

► Birth Place ➔ “Present day southern Silverpine Forest, Lordaeron.” ► Hair Color ➔ “White.” ► Eye Color ➔ “Lichfire.” ► Birthday ➔ “No longer relevant.” ► Mood ➔ “Calculating. Inquisitive. Disillusioned.” ► Gender ➔ “Male.” ► Summer or winter ➔ “Winter.” ► Morning or afternoon ➔ “Morning.”

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

► Are you in love ➔ “No.” ► Do you believe in love at first sight ➔ “Yes.” ► Who ended your last relationship ➔ “Death.” ► Have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔  “Yes.” ► Are you afraid of commitments ➔ “No.” ► Have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔ “No.” ► Have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ “Yes.” ► Have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ “What’s left of it.”

SIX CHOICES

► Love or lust ➔ “Love.” ► Cats or Dogs ➔ “Dogs.” ► A few best friends or many regular friends ➔ “A few.” ► Wild night out or romantic night in ➔ “Neither.” ► Day or night ➔ “Night.”

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

► Been caught sneaking out ➔ “No.” ► Fallen down/up the stairs ➔ “No.” ► Wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ “Yes.” ► Wanted to disappear ➔ “Often.”

FOUR PREFERENCES

► Smile or eyes ➔ “Eyes.” ► Shorter or Taller ➔ “Shorter.” ► Intelligence or Attraction ➔  “Intelligence.” ► Hook-up or Relationship ➔ “Neither.”

FAMILY

► Do you and your family get along ➔ “None remain to get along with. Once, yes.” ► Would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ “A vexing existance.” ► Have you ever ran away from home ➔ “No.” ► Have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ “No.”

FRIENDS

► Do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ “No.”

► Do you consider all of your friends good friends ➔ “No.”

► Who is your best friend ➔ “What passes for it, Adhelin.”

► Who knows everything about you ➔ “None living.”

Tagged by: @adhelin

“You’re always busy.”

“So, you’ve been traveling then?”

“I miss our time standing outside the Embassy.”

It was true; Ceruszael had been largely absent of late. Or rather, absent from House Holt and its myriad bannerman. The fallout after the Legion’s defeat and Argus’ banishment from Azeroth’s skies offered a momentary respite amidst endless conflict. Naturally, the void had swiftly been filled. As more and more mercenaries and loyalists to either faction either flooded south to Silithus or began stockpiling arms and armor for the next battle, Ceruszael took a different approach. He could have returned to Acherus. Mograine and the Horsemen all but reigned there, and doubtless would dictate the actions of the Ebon Blade. Whether as jailors or generals, that was yet to be determined. He could have thrown himself fully behind his duties as Castellan of House Holt. One meeting with the new Marshal had already seen him exercise authority in dispatching the living to fight.

To die.

There was necessity in the task, but it was largely a distraction. He was uncertain if any among the House, even those Acherans who fought for Holt colors or others who considered themselves close to Ceruszael, knew the depths of his mind. How truly detached he felt from most of the events and people around him. That it was difficult to relate to them remained an understatement. How could one relate to another when they were so fundamentally different? No rest. No respite. No nourishment from food or drink. No fatigue from physical exertion. All day and through the night, he was aware. It should have been mentally taxing, but even this had changed. He neither grew weary nor did his thoughts become muddled, but the price remained. Its true nature remained hidden, though he suspected madness and denial to be the eventual end to that path. Presuming he had not already made too many strides down it.

No, Ceruszael’s focus was elsewhere. He needed… reflection. Insight. Such that the living could not provide, nor however would the damned bound to flesh. Walking among the living would ever impart their flaws, even on those who had seen the end of their cycle. Doubtless the Frozen Throne still had supplicants worth conversing with, but he had made a decision upon liberation to keep distance from the Lich King’s dominion. Thus the path remaining was to seek that insight himself. Frequent forays into the Shadowlands had become a dangerous gambit. The undead, truly, belonged there about as much as they did walking Azeroth’s surface. So Ceruszael needed a way to access that realm’s knowledge without traveling there directly. A window. Controlled, maintained, and stable. Enough spellcraft involved travel to and from the Shadowlands, or channeling its energies. Its myriad passageways allowed his travel via Death Gates. Adapting all of this had been his primary concern these past months. The Legion had given him more – from necrolytes and lesser dreadlords – for they had seen undeath on a thousand worlds over. One truth became abundantly clear; Ceruszael needed a medium and location from which to operate.

Both aspects received substantial research time. The former needed to be receptive to necromantic and shadow magics, moldable and conductive. Initially he had investigated the Necropoli of the Scourge, as well as Icecrown itself. These were largely materials chosen for durability, utilized for war and animated by vast soul engines. Then, more delicate instruments were considered. Blood orbs, scrying mirrors, and other elaborate tools of dark spellcraft. A merging of reagents and architectural practices would be required. Innovation, as well. At length, and after trial and error, Ceruszael felt confident he had found a usable substance. Grave dust from the burial of magically attuned individuals mingled with powdered Scourgestones, condensed and subjected to the roiling soulflame and select magics of a runeforge, created a uniquely capable necromantic attuned building material. A black, almost featureless stone-like substance which gave an eerie spectral tint to any light it reflected. The question remained; where to put it?

As it turned out, he didn’t need to go far. Deadwind Pass has long been inert to the activities around it. Only its southern end saw any travel, and even then activity among the Violet Eye had lessened. Though Karazhan had become somewhat of a focal point during the Legion invasion of Azeroth, once they had been pressed back to Argus it was again populated merely a handful of Dalarani guardians and intrepid scholars. Among the living, in any case. When one peered through the veil they saw the truth of the matter. So much death suffused the region. Spectres wafted in and out of solid rock, flickering between the realm of the dead and the living. More corporeal creatures gathered near Karazhan, but these were monitored and disposed of by the Violet Eye. Armed with such knowledge, Ceruszael traveled to the northernmost lip of the great ravine which split the Pass lengthwise. It was here, he began his work. Here, he laid the foundation for the structure from which he would delve the depths of death as he had never before been able. There was neither a shortage of bones to raise nor spirits to bind to them, not so soon after a war nor ever here in Deadwind. With supplies scavenged from warzones against the Legion as well as requisitioned from the Ebon Hold, and mindless animated forms shambling from the earth slaved to his desire, Ceruszael began his work.