There was only one thing for it, really. There could be no holding back here.

At least I don’t feel the least bit guilty about killing demons.

Ambrosine drew her runeblades, Rue and Woe. They were truly named, those swords: she did, in fact, bitterly regret and mourn every time she had to wield them.

Shut up, she told them conversationally as the inevitable whispers started up. Ambrosine was never quite sure if the blades actually spoke or if she imagined it.

She was also not sure if it mattered.

Humming a tuneless dirge, Ambrosine intentionally stepped away from everyone she knew and loved and dove into the fray. Followed strangers into the blood bath, heeded banners that were not hers, lest anyone who mattered see the glee with which she unleashed herself on the Legion.


There were dangers to this, of course. It was rather unfortunate that Ambrosine ended up separated from even strangers, toe to toe with a demon who had managed to disarm her.

“Aww, what are you going to do now, punch me to death?”

Light but demons were assholes, weren’t they.

Ambrosine snorted blood out of her nose (whose? irrelevant) and leaned down to pluck a weapon, any weapon, from the corpse at her feet. The comfortably familiar weight of a hammer settled in her hand–

–she picked up the shield too, it didn’t feel right otherwise–

“But you can’t do your nasty ice tricks with those.”

“No,” Ambrosine said, slowly. “But I can do something I think you’d like even less.”

No you can’t you surrendered all right to–

But she wanted to hurt the demon and Rue and Woe were feet away and things were stirring that she had locked away from herself and did not deserve but she wanted to hurt the demon and it would hurt the demon and she swung the hammer, stepping into it and flexing mental muscles that had not forgotten.

And no, the demon did not in fact enjoy the Light that still leaped to answer her when she could bring herself to call it.


She dropped the hammer and shield on the demon’s corpse and calmly retrieved her runeblades.

The call to retreat enraged her. She wasn’t done killing them yet. Nor were they done killing her.

A pale draenei shaman that some part of her vaguely recognized grabbed her by the shoulder. “Another day.” When Ambrosine tried to twist away, the shaman grunted and spun her forcibly around, and simply stared down Rue and Woe. “You would not.”

And why not?

But Ambrosine fond some shreds of control and followed, grudgingly.

“She’s just standing there. I’m not sure what to do with her.”

And indeed, Ambrosine was motionless: breathing shallowly, weapons still in hand, staring off into the middle distance at nothing in particular. Physically carried to safety, mentally somewhere the shaman couldn’t reach.

“I haven’t seen her quite this bad before.” The druid that the shaman had sought out stepped close to the death knight, frowning. “Ambrosine? Hellooooo, it is Mina. Kitten. Pie thief?” When that didn’t rouse a response, Mina tried to pry Rue from Ambrosine’s fingers, only to find the cold edge of Woe suddenly at her throat.

“Meep!” And Mina flung herself at Unaara, clinging.

“She did that to me too,” Unaara said reluctantly. “But I don’t think she really means it. At least, I’m still standing here, so.”

“I love her to death but not literally? I will not roll those dice. There is one person who she will not hurt no matter how far gone she is, though. I think.”

“You think?”

“If I am wrong there is no helping her.” Mina was, at least, able to drop a hand to Ambrosine’s shoulder and start guiding her away. “Let us find Jander, and we will get her home. Being in her house and seeing Jaffar will fix this!”

No one else was home. But something about the house loosened the vice on Ambrosine’s mind, at least enough that she finally sheathed the swords, and then tossed them irritably into a corner: their usual spot. A few scuffs on the wall showed that they usually arrived there the same way, too.

At this point, Mina loosed a sigh and made her exit.

Ambrosine slowly took off her armor and put it away, in a more orderly fashion. Pulled on some comfortable pants and a plaid shirt. Poured herself a drink–something far stronger than beer–and sat down. Drank and waited until a familiar tread approached the door.

Ambrosine took a deep breath and ran a hand through her hair.

Author Ambrosine
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