Yva Darrows scared the hell out of a number of Wildfire Riders for years. Before Battlegrounds, she was the Ice Witch of Tarren Mill: Killing a number of Alliance folks (Only nearly killing PCs) in the PVP matches that occurred regularly in Hillsbrad. She has killed friends (an accident), kidnapped children (only to bake for them. Really) and after a falling out with some of the Horde, hid herself in Old Town and preyed on the same scum and villainy that that Wildfire Riders had an issue with. Being a master of Shadow and Ice, Northrend was, and still is, perfect for her. She got a job with the Riders and scouted the lands. At Wrathgate, she had another idea.
Death in large numbers. My specialty.
She drew another line in the circle, connecting the glyphs with red chalk and music. No, not music, humming. A song. The song, her song.
“Great magic is needed. Greater still if I can . . . “
She thrust the chalk away and stretched. It was growing hot in here, it always grew hot in her ritual rooms, and the office which had once been fine carpets, a finer desk, and shelves of books had been stripped for her work. The rugs were rolled, the desk was now in the master bedroom, placed in front of the cathedral windows to overlook Dalaran. The books were on other shelves in other rooms. She’d made this place a sanctum. The walls were covered in runes and wards, each meticulously placed to optimize the flow of her magics and to keep her safe. Relics and oddities occupied the rest of the space. She peered at a Faceless One’s tentacle, a bone from a frost wyrm, the tusk of a troll shaman, the pendant of a Winterfall High Chief.
“No, no, no, and no.” It needed to be something else, something greater than small trinkets and old, tired foci. She reached instead for her ritual dagger, one she’d taken from a vrykul witch. Its ruby hilt gleamed in the gaslight. She peered at her reflection in the steel – all of her reflections actually. The way the blade was cut, she could see three of her own self in its gleam.
She lodged the dagger into the wall at eye height and walked into the living room, sweeping her heavy hair to the side. “Would you help me undo this?”
“Hmmm?” He looked up at her from the chair by the fireplace. His feet were propped on an ottoman. His chest was bare, his legs were covered in comfortable pajama bottoms almost the same blue hue as his eyes. A snoring felhound was wedged in the space between chair and footrest, beneath his knees, though he didn’t seem to pay it much mind.
“This bloody dress. Would you free me, please?”
“I suppose.” He put his book aside and padded across the room, taking his time with the intricate laces. His fingers brushed over every patch of exposed skin. “Whenever you wear this I have to help you out of it. Such a chore, really.”
“Laborious, I know. But there’s work to do, so you’ll just have to suffer.”
“Oh? What have you wrought his time?” He let go of the robe, pressing his lips to her bare shoulder. It fell to the floor and she kicked it aside, now wearing nothing save for a black slip that flitted around her knees.
She led him into the room to show him the new circle on the floor, with its red and purple and white lines. There were tiny glyphs in each segment, drawn and colored with painstaking care. She stepped across the outer band and into the center of it. Her fingers flitted and a soulstone appeared, the cold glass a solid weight in her palm. She placed it in the middle.
“Hand me the dagger, would you love?”
He nodded, jerking it from the wall and handing it to her hilt first. As she turned it over in her hands, the blade aimed towards her palm, he frowned.
“Have a care, would you?”
“Of course. It’s just a little blood, Jak. Honestly.”
“Mmm.” He eyed the runework, his mouth forming the old, arcane names of the shapes he recognized. Some he’d helped her craft during Jolstraer’s ritual, and he smiled at the artful weaving of his ways and hers. “All frost work this time?”
“Yes. Looking for a maelstrom, a storm. A witch storm for the Wrathgate.” She pulled the blade over her palm, watching it flay her skin open, all pink and red and white on the inside. Blood filled the wound and then trickled down, slithering over her fingers to drip onto the steel.
One drop became three in the reflection.
Witch storm of ice, three fold the power of a blizzard. Imagine what you could do with fire and arcane. A storm of that proportion would be beautiful, nigh unstoppable.
“Possible,” she rasped, watching the blood on the blade. “So very possible.”
She dropped to her knees, an enormous grin splitting her face. One bloody palm touched the trigger sigil, and the circle began to glow as she fed power into it. She amassed her magic, and with a few carefully uttered words of an incantation, it flared to life, so bright it was hard to look upon.
“Imagine,” she licked her lips, beginning to laugh. Magic flowed up her arms and over her chest, casting dancing lights against the pale porcelain of her flesh. Her back arched as it sizzled along her spine. “This circle integrated with one of fire and one of arcane. Imagine it, the storm and what it could do. Imagine that magic.” The feedback from the circle surged into her, and she collapsed forward, now on her hands and knees, her breathing ragged.
“I imagine that would be impressive, but how?” She swung her eyes up at him, and they were glazed and unfocused. The purple haze swathing her body became blue and white swirls as the shadows gave way to frost and winter.
“Stonemantle and Crownsilver,” she managed, crawling across the circle to him, her bloody palm leaving smears on the wooden floor. “We could do it, we could . . . it’d be . . . “ He helped her stand, and when her knees began to quake from the magic drowning her, he swung an arm around her waist and held her upright against him.
“It’d be what,” he said, sweeping a lock of hair from her forehead.
She pressed her hands to his cheeks, forgetting her bloody palm, forgetting everything but the magic and the possibilities and the man standing in front of her. “Amazing,” she said against his mouth a moment later. “Bloody amazing.”