#ashwrought

               “i… ” he opens his mouth to continue speaking, but shuts it with a somber expression. he frowns sternly at the young deathlord, not quite finding the proper dictation to express what his mind can only hope to convey. instead, he only places a hand on her shoulder, somewhat hesitantly.

                “i cannot go against the will of the lich king, neither can you. it seems to be your duty. but,” he pauses against, intaking air into useless lungs that served no more purpose, “i will be here to assist you in anyway you need.”

     “Liar.”

     Softly intoned words would nonetheless carry the ragged edges of some emotion Zoen could not (would not) name.   

     “We - we’re Ebon Blade, Mograine. We’re Ebon Blade. We don’t - we’re not his anymore, we haven’t starved and hurt and suffered badly just to, to throw ourselves at his feet the second he comes calling for us.”

     Deathlords do not tremble under the touch of their Horsemen, shake as a leaf in the wind, but oh, Zoen is no better a lord than she was a knight. One could mistake her a victim of her own glacial chill as shakes wrack her body.