Saint Lo'kir

'"The end will justify the means." - Saint Lo'kir' Elikea Lo’kir is a dissenter of the Church of the Holy Light but is still an ordained priestess of the Church as well as with several other orders of the Light. She has been in countless organizations acting from advisor to simple foot soldier, all of which have gained her friends and contacts throughout her journeys. Her long life has allowed her to accumulate much power, wisdom, and knowledge, gifting her the opportunities to become who she is today. She currently has left behind any past organizations in lieu of spiritual enlightenment and self empowerment, became a mentor to Leah Beaumont, and stepped out of retirement to continue fighting.

=Description=

Physical
Rail thin is the first thing to come to mind when seeing Saint Lo’kir. Her high-set cheekbones only add to the ‘gaunt’ look to her face, creating a very stern looking expression when she is not smiling. Fortunately a warm smile is usually present on her face, enhanced by her full, pillowy lips and radiating a mother’s love easily. When not smiling or otherwise not content, her lips are drawn into a thin line, pursing them like a mother who was disappointed by her children. She has retained a rather youthful appearance, not of a young adult but a gracefully aged middle aged woman.

Her frail physique is only supplemented by her short height; a touch short by Quel’dorei standards, she stands at a solid 5’3” and weighs in at 110lbs soaking wet. Silver-white hair is usually pulled up in a bun at the crown of her head and adorn with jewelled hair clips and a single black raven feather; all of which were gifts given to her and her way of showing appreciation. Rarely is her hair ever out of its bun, but when it is free to hang down, it reaches down to the back of her thighs in an impressive 4’ length of pure white hair. Usually her hair is tucked away under her cowl or hood of her robes unfortunately, but a few white strands frame her face nicely when wearing a hood.

Once vibrantly blue eyes are now a faded silver with only a dim blue glow to them, a clear indication of her extensive age, and are seen often lazily meandering around whatever area she finds herself in. Occasionally on her nose would sit a pair of tiny, rectangular reading glasses, usually only on when she needed to read tiny print or was closely inspecting something. A small button nose would easily convey distasteful emotions for her as well with an occasional wrinkle or flair of the nostrils.

Her hands would be covered mostly except for the last 1/4th of her finger’s length by a pair of brown and blue silk gloves. Without the gloves, her flesh is a pale porcelain with small white scars but more importantly, there would be the tail-end of a shimmering gold tattoo that disappeared under the sleeve of her robes. Her feet being the only other part of her visible from under her robes were always tucked into fine leather boots, the heel clicking against stone, marble, or wood wherever she walked. A slow, steady walk was her usual gait as any company she walked with are more than willing to slow or hasten their own pace to match hers.

Clothing
Ceremonial Her robes are a combination of midnight blue silks flanked by a maroon skirt with a very small train that flutters over the ground behind her footsteps. Reinforced atop the thick silks are ivory and bronze plating that served as a type of tasset, breastplate, vambraces, and pauldrons for light protection from small arms and low calibre bullets. Her headpiece and pauldrons are carved from ivory, reinforced with the same bronze plating and provided the same light protection as well as exemplifying her high standings as a particularly capable priestess. The sleeves of her silken robes are large and loose, seeming to have an endless amount of items she tends to pull from the insides of them. Sharp eyes would catch the glint of steel inside the sleeves of her robes, sighting the thin stiletto daggers that had subtle sheathings sewn inside of her sleeves, easily within reach at any time for her. Around her waist would be a thin chain, a symbol of Faol hanging from the mithril chain, matching the wooden rosary that was wrapped around her left hand. The rosary is wrapped tightly around her slender wrist and hand enough so that it is never in the way of anything she does. Atop her chest always rests a dark grey tabard with three vibrant green slits, a reward for her impressive display in arena combat and skill, it is a priceless scrap of cloth as such tabards are only given out extremely sparingly. Located at the peak of her forehead, the centers of her pauldrons, the center of her belt, as well as at the bottom of her hanging tasset would be soft blue orbs. These orbs glowed brilliantly when she channels the Light or shadow magic, aiding in her focus as well as storing magic within their depths that she can draw upon at will if need be. Under her robes, one might catch a glimpse of the schynbalds she had strapped to her legs atop her boots as she walked.

Battlerobes/expeditional

Her battle/expeditional robes are made of a much darker cloth that resembled canvas, a stark difference to



her usual silk robes. Hard brown colored cloth is reinforced with solid metal plates that are pockmarked by glowing sickly green apertures. Occasionally from these openings the green glow forms ragged wings from her pauldrons with a glowing halo of verdant green light around her hooded head. Her hood has two plates of metal imbedded into the sides, protecting her temples. Where the hood comes to a peak just below her forehead, it looks to closely resemble a raven’s beak. Overall there is a resemblance to a raven with the wings, hood, and malevolent look. Thick, twine-like material is sewn into the material in the form of an ‘X’ down the front and back of her robes over her center, further assisting in reduced chance that her robes will be ripped or damaged. Her belt also glows the sickly green with glowing apertures, adorn with glowing green feathers. These robes are just as valuable as her ceremonial robes and tabard as there are few to none others quite like hers. She almost never wears a tabard in her battle robes.

=Personality=

Saint Lo’kir is a kind, generous woman at first glance to strangers, however the depth of which her ire reaches towards those who have wronged her runs as deep as the oceans. The warm, motherly smile is just as natural on her face as a cruel, hateful grin. Thankfully, there are very few people she looks at with contempt or dislike. Her great age has left her apathetic to abiding to authority unless convenient or beneficial to her goals. She places great value on her personal freedom to do as she pleases and can easily become infuriated if it is threatened and will fight to the death to retain that measure of absolute freedom. A true chaotic neutral figure.

=History=

When asked where she was born, Saint Lo’kir usually responds with Strom as her birthplace. Rumors of her birth have whispered in the libraries of Dalaran between older scholars that she is a being made from the sands of Tanaras, but those who are close to her know that she is made of flesh and blood like everyone else. Asking her age is just as futile as she almost always responds with ‘old enough’ and carries on the conversation.

There are history books, however, that have records of Lo’kir fighting in battles and participating in research with magic dating as far back as Arathor and the Troll Wars. According to the records, she was an adult at that time, one of the elven caravan of sorcerers who taught magic to the humans. Several times throughout history there are mentions of Elikea Dawnblaze up until more recently where she is referred to as Saint Lo’kir, accompanied by illustrations of the familiar Quel’dorei. Never spotlighted in history, merely present as a constant background character alongside others at major events in the past, either assisting in battle or in research. She has several published books that expand on the use of magic, namely holy magic and shadow magic.

Few people know much of her history, but she is quite forthcoming with sharing it with the right people. Several times she has been seen standing next to her sister Elly Dawnblaze, a giant compared to the small priestess. Only a bare handful of times has she ever been seen talking to her mother, Flamina Dawnblaze, within Stormwind. The three, while almost always having their faces covered, all are easily identified as related simply because they all resemble a trio of triplets in mannerisms, voice, and distinct armor choices. Her father is only known to a couple of people solely by name. Any questions of her father are met with an icy stare and utter silence.

Shadowtalon Company
Within a year of arriving in Stormwind, Saint Lo’kir was introduced to Shadowtalon Company by Damian Blackborne. Originally only acting as a guest to the members of Shadowtalon, she finally joined officially to support Damian and be closer to him. The military aspect of the organization was a great point of conflict for Elikea as the nature of military interfered with her need for absolute freedom, however she persevered on tenuous ropes as Damian assured she retained her freedom as much as he was able to with his rank within the Company. When Damian eventual departure from Shadowtalon, Elikea followed more than happily, free from the restrictive life of the military company.

Aegis-135
Not long after the conquering of Blackrock Foundry, Marshal Finnegan Ironsong recruited Elikea under his command to serve on a warship thought to be missing in action during the Shieldwall Occupation in Krasarang Wilds of the Pandaria campaign. The offer of fighting, freedom, and glory in battle was too great for her to pass up, and so Elikea soon wore a blue insignia on her belt next to the symbol of Faol. The offer of fighting and glory in battle was fulfilled many times over as the group was dispatched to several classified locations, always returning victorious and assuring the safety of the Alliance back on Azeroth regardless of the laws against their actions.

Army of the Truthful
Elikea never was aligned with the Army of the Truthful, but she did know its leader, Ostrick the Zealous. Having met him before he had any followers at all, Saint Lo’kir would visit the ambitious man in the North, guiding him towards his goals and watching him amass his army from the outside. Ostrick has great disdain for Quel’dorei, but Saint Lo’kir’s words were full of wisdom and logic, and so his prejudice with her race disappeared and she was allowed special privileges to interact with him and his order on occasion as his personal guest.

After Ostrick moved his army to Northrend to New Hearthglen, Saint Lo’kir, accompanied by Alexander Marogos in disguise, travelled to New Hearthglen. Upon entering the grounds, all members of the Army of the Truthful glared at the two with hatred and only by Ostrick’s order were they not attacked on sight. After a private conversation with Ostrick and a near-death of Alexander at the hands of a fanatic, the two departed from the citadel. On their way out, a bloody, beaten woman by the name Leah Beaumont stumbled out of the cathedral up to the two on their horses. She attempted to gain guidance from Saint Lo’kir, who quickly tried to send her away, knowing that her even attempting to speak with her would be an act of heresy to her peers. The moment she left Leah behind in the hands of the Army of the Truthful is a heavy regret on her mind even to this day.

Only Saint Lo’kir and Ostrick know what was spoken between each other to this day, but Saint Lo’kir has not spoken to the man after that.

Hillsbrad Confederacy
After her final meeting with Ostrick, Saint Lo’kir soon found herself in Hillsbrad to answer the call of Lord Galmone Smith. Pledging her services and counsel to Lord Smith, she stayed almost exclusively in Hillsbrad for a time. Even with the death of Lord Smith and his son, Tyler Steele taking up the mantle of his father, she pledged herself to Tyler Steele just as she did for his father. Whether it was honor or self-serving reasons she pledged herself to him is unknown, but she remained in Hillsbrad for a time until the shaky Confederacy was solidified. After the nine Lords were named and stability was had, Saint Lo’kir left. All traces of her disappearing for many months. Rumors spoke of her travelling to Northrend, the last seen of her before the disappearance was her kissing her husband, Damian, from her horse and riding north.

"'Most beloved brothers and sisters, urged by necessity, I, Saint Lo’kir, by the permission of Tyler Steele, have come into this Confederacy as an ambassador with a divine admonition to you, the servants of the Light and the denizens of the Confederacy. I hoped to find the devout as faithful and as zealous in the service of the Light as I have assumed... but if there is any deformity or crookedness contrary to the Light or the Confederacy’s laws, with divine help I will do my best to remove it. For the Light has put you as stewards over its children to minister to it. Happy indeed will you be if the Light finds you faithful in your stewardship. You are called shepherds; see that you do not act as hirelings but be true shepherds, with your staves and swords always in hand. Do not go to sleep, but guard all sides of the flock committed to you. For if through your carelessness or negligence a wolf carries away one of your sheep, you will surely lose the reward laid up for you with the Light. And after you have been bitterly wracked with remorse for your faults, you will be fiercely overwhelmed in the Nether, the abode of death."

"However, according to the Light you are the hope of this world but if you fall short in your duty, how, it may be asked, can you be a beacon? How desperately our world needs beacons of righteousness and hope. It is indeed necessary for you to correct, with the heavy hand of wisdom, the foolish people whom are so devoted to the pleasures of this world, lest the Light, when it may wish to bless them, find them rotting of their sins, untreated and putrefying. For if the Light shall find sins in them because you have been negligent in your duty, the Light will judge them as worthless; to be thrown into the abyss of unclean things."

"And because you cannot restore to the Light its great loss, it will surely condemn you and drive you from its blessed presence. But the one who applies this rectification should be prudent, provident, modest, learned, watchful, pious, just, equitable, and pure. Do tell how can the ignorant teach others? How can the licentious make others modest? And how can the impure make others pure? Or if anyone has soiled his person with baseness, how can he cleanse the impurities of another? We cannot have the blind leading the blind. But first purify yourself so that, free from blame, you may be able to correct those who are subject to you. If you wish to be blessed by the graces of the Light, gladly do the things which you know are to be right. You must especially let all matters that pertain to the Light be controlled by the law of the Light and our lands. And assure that corruption does not take root among you, lest those who succumb shall be beaten with the whips of the Light through narrow streets and thrown into a place of destruction and death. If anyone seizes a pious faithful, let him be treated as an outlaw. If anyone seizes or robs monks, clergymen, or their servants, let him be anathema. Let the craven, the weak willed, and all their accomplices be expelled from the land and let forth a revelation of the Light. The depraved will have no shadows to hide inside within our lands...let us hunt them down with divine guidance and cleanse ourselves of their poison. In doing such we protect our lands, families, and will fall into blessed graces with the Light. What more could one ask for, surely?'"

"-Saint Lo'kir's speech to the Hillsbrad Confederacy"

Return and the Legion's Invasion


Six months later, Saint Lo’kir returned to Stormwind engulfed in dark, black shadows. Shadowy raven effigies formed from the black shadows, circling her form before returning to the inky depths of her silent flames of shadow. A single living raven perched on her shoulder at all times now, around the bird’s neck would be a silver chain that held a large green ring as well as a withered jonquil flower woven around the ring. Her power seemed to have increased greatly but it seems there is something terribly wrong with her as she occasionally is seen talking to things not there or looking as if her own soul has left her body.

She had taken up fighting once again as well as taking Leah Beaumont as her apprentice after her return. The two were of similar mind and ironically enough, spirit, and became fast friends.

Journey into Ulduar (Short Story)
The cold is foreboding, penetrating, invasive like needles through flesh, stabbing down to her very bones. Her ears set to laying flat against her head as she wraps herself all the tighter with her cloak, the thick material lined with the heaviest wolf pelts so surprisingly inadequate for warmth in the hostile environment. Glove lined hands grip the fabric tightly as her gaze lingers on the snow covered stone beneath her feet. Her breath billowing out in clouds of steam, instantly freezing into semi-solid puffs before her, leaving a fine, frozen mist lingering in her white hair with her breath’s newfound density.

“Trust is your weakness…” The voice is soft and reached her ears only in the desolate, now abandoned, wasteland that was Ulduar. Unwilling to leave the protection of her cloak, she raises her face to marvel at the raised, looming halls of the Old One’s prison before lifting a numb foot clad in the thickest Tuskarr leather to step over the threshold. Slowly, but surely, the icy chill lifts from the outer layers and her long ears perk

up slightly until only the fine muscles in her face and ears twitch and flex from more than the half day spent in the frozen temperatures. Her joints and extremities fare no better, her muscles so tight she feels as tightly strung as a Farstrider’s best bow.

“Do you dream while you sleep or is it an escape from the horrors of reality?” The whispers coo to her softly, seeping to her like fog, rising only to coalesce about her, probing at her ears in an attempt to infiltrate her mind. Her head rises slowly, self-aware of her soft breaths and flared nostrils, as she surveys the empty hallway with paranoia. A gloved hand reaches up to rub at her temple, hoping to soothe whatever anxiety that has taken hold of her in the silent room. Her blue eyes slowly drink in their surroundings, taking note of the gorgeous stonemasonry, gold filigree inlaid throughout the carvings on every wall. What appears to be holographic constellations of different sorts of humanoids, some posed in battle stances, some studying, glow ethereally from their stone bases. These statuesque items grasp her attention for a long moment as she notices a Kaldorei druid, a Tauren warrior, a human of possible magical talent, and a glowing arcane wrym before she feels compelled to stall in her tracks.

Her legs lock tight, the knees refusing to hinge, hips unable to move, thigh muscles quivering with a ferocity that triggers fight or flight when she sees it. A tall, taller than any male Tauren or Kaldorei, fleet-footed shadowy being darts across her path no more than arm’s length away. It’s fast, zigzagging among the decorations like a wicked child running rampant in a museum. As it passes her again, its gaze, if such a thing could be said of a visage bearing nothing but a gaping maw with daggers for teeth, turns to greet her. Its arm reaches out to her, a forefinger pressing the pad to the space above and between her eyes, and hisses.

A chain of creeping dark smoke, or perhaps just a shadow, pours forth from that hideous maw, down the length of its arm, to its finger where it remains in contact with her. The darkness spreads across her skull like a coronet, seeping through her skin and journeying down her ear canals to knock on her eardrums. “You are a pawn of forces unseen…” The whispers fill her mind, reverberating within; a ferocity which makes her dizzy. The wickedness of the tone, the inviting, demanding, uncompromising rhythms of the words slowly take root within her mind. Like a mother cuckoo to a stranger’s nest, it plants the thoughts of some venomous consciousness set loose, looking to sow its own in the minds of others, to force out the sanity of its host.

She starts, almost escaping the clutches of her dream state only to be made aware of the pounding silence coaxing her back while the tingling sensation of a mind vision spell continues to ripple across the scalp of her head.

''“The void sucks at your soul. It is content to feast slowly….”''

Groaning softly as her hand returns to rub at her temple, shutting her eyes tight against the voice wracking her mind. She rests her head against her palm and with a heavy sigh, begins taking the ancient stone steps down towards the empty prison. Shattered stained glass crunches beneath her feet, the sound urging her eyes open to take in the surroundings. A large room strewn with bodies belonging to what appear to be her dearest and closest friends, bare and bloodied next to the walls splashed with crimson blood and all counts nightmarish greet her. Carvings on the wall bear the images of all sorts of tentacled creatures flanked on either side by beautiful, otherworldly stained glass portraying the Titans themselves. “There is no escape, not in this life, not in the next….” the voice begins in the back of her mind, almost natural in its inflection, its airy musical chords sound so similar to her own thoughts that she simply nods at the idea. “No, of course not.” she mumbles before she shuts her eyes tightly, reopening them to find herself with no bodies strewn about, only shattered stained glass in their place in the still empty halls.

Continuing on, she sees it again. A satyr, or so the depths of her memory offers up freely, lingers at the other side of the large room. Garbed in the darkest of shadows he stands. Watching, waiting, inching forward each time she blinks. ''“Have you had the dream again? A black goat with seven eyes that watches from the outside…”''

She clasps her hands together tightly before bowing her head in an attempt to pray. With the bow of her head, she hears a voice in her mind - a hybrid accent between hers and an echoing masculine madness. “Hope is an illusion.” swirls in her head, creeping forward to nibble at her sanity, clawing at her motivation. The satyr watches intently, or so she feels, its face lacking all features aside from that same gaping maw. It mockingly assumes a resting stance, hands clasped in front of its shadow-clad body.



'''“Unto the darkness I bring myself, guided by the very heart of the Light. Knowing not weakness or failure, only perseverance in the face of peril,”' “In the sunken city, he lays dreaming…”'' She furrows her brow at the voice whispering to her from within. “Fortitude in the face of pain, righteousness in the presence of sinners,” “All that you know will fade.” “Humbled by the golden Light I step forward, assured of my victory against the darkness,” her voice trembles as the satyr blinks in and out of existence. Closer and closer he approaches, her voice seizing in her throat, sweat dampening her brow, her mind warping between her voice and His. '''“...Knowing that all whom hold steadfast in their convictions shall be delivered. Sword arms shan’t falter, the mind clear and sharp,”' “There is no sharp distinction between what is real, and unreal…”'' the voice reminds her. Or is it her voice? His voice? She can feel the sweat dripping down the back of her neck, the precise sensation of sharply filed nails raking her back. '''“...Masters of the arts which balance Light and Darkness knowing not the lust of sin and a forsaken path. Arrows ring true, war hammers strike hard, for I am a warrior of the Light, upon a duty most sacred and high.”' “It is standing right behind you….Do not move….Do not breathe…”'' her mind succumbs to the intruder.

Two pale blue spheres roll backwards into the depths of pink lids, sweat pours from every pore and her robes cling to her lithe frame. Her chest heaves as hyperventilation sets in and acute pain courses through her throat. Her knees tremble and buckle as she falls forward onto the cold, hard ground before seizing fully. Her frame kicking and twisting, arms flailing, jaw clenching and unclenching as the taste of iron floods her mouth. Her blood spills forth from her lips as her eyes flutter open, in time to see the satyr bending down before her, bringing his hideous slavering mouth to lick and kiss up her blood.

She falls, faster and faster, through time and space, gravity giving way only to shove back. A throaty scream erupts from her vocal chords as the satyr’s dagger-teeth clench down on her face.

Awakening on the ground, face down against the stone, breathing heavily and damp with sweat. She thinks to her friends and beloved, “Tell yourself again that these are not truly your friends,” the voice articulates, effortlessly switching from her own feminine flute to a masculine bass, the rumbling and purring of the vowels and consonants playing tricks on her sanity.

She rises slowly, sucking in gulps of air to ease her progress through the white hot flashes of dizziness as the world spins before her. Screams pierce her thoughts; shadows blink from one corner of an eye to the other and back again, as she feels herself moving forward. Like trudging through the deep bog, her limbs lift heavily as though something sucks them through the ground. Her hand grasps something hard, it seems to help her walk, her opposite hand clenches and unfurls as warmth permeates and erupts. Balls of gold Light float away from her into the darkness, visions of her beloved ones emerging from the darkness before becoming encompassed wholly as they take lick after lick in a sea of writhing tentacles. She stumbles and pants; her vision grows hazy and then clear again. “They are coming for you,” she insists. He insists. We insist. The screams begin within and slowly echo until they flood the room. The ground quakes to liquefaction as her eyes realize she’s leaning on her staff, calling upon the Light with an adept second nature as she spins in circles. Body parts become dismembered and rocket through the air, blood splashes across her face, staining her white hair and turning it crimson.

“Know that your end comes soon.” she hisses aloud, choking on her own spit and blood. Her head is throbbing and exploratory fingers discover a gash at the brow, which freely expels blood like a toxin. Perhaps it is a toxin. It oozes thick and black, obscuring her vision, which perceives her world to be blurry, then buzzing. Like the air was charged with static electricity, the images before her speed up frantically, freeze in time, and then return to movement as at sluggish pace. Someone stands in a beam of golden light, several yards ahead of her, yet when she blinks there is the satyr.

“Look around...They will all betray you….Flee screaming into the black forest….” The ground beneath her feet gives way as an orb shaped being with a thousand gaping maws rises up from the sludge beneath. A cold fog spreads through the room, seeping out from every crack and crevice. The lights seem to flicker, like the drying magical lamps of Dalaran when dawn approaches but it’s not yet sunrise. A booming voice shatters the walls of the prison and ghostly chains fall into the abyss opening up at her feet. An acrid stench floods her nostrils, swarms her taste buds and catches with a gag in her throat. The skin on her spine prickles, bumps peppering her flesh like a rapid onset of the pox, and her flesh begins to burn.

A sinister laugh greets her with a gravity of its own. Each inward draw of the beast’ breath furthers the chilling sound that rattles what one would presume to be its lungs. Phlegm the consistency of green abomination fluid flies into her face, blinding her eyes, clogging her ears, cementing her mouth and nostrils shut. “BOW DOWN BEFORE THE GOD OF DEATH!”  He drums with a deafening, damning, soul-crushing roar. She stands with knees half-buckled, pigeon toed with kneecaps bucking against one another in an attempt to prevent her from falling to the ground. A white knuckled grip squeezes the circulating blood out of her hands as both appendages clutch her staff. The screams in her mind grow louder, louder, louder still until they erupt like a popped balloon to wake her from sleep.

“All places, all things have souls….All souls can be devoured…” the whispers withdrawn from her mind to reverberate in the prison so loud they threaten to rupture her ear drums. Her breathing slows and her vision clears, her pupils constricting to a proper state and the images that float around her come into focus. Dismembered and beheaded bodies litter the area with gore. A belly’s worth of intestines and stomach lie nearby, a pair of eyes bounce and roll down towards a hungry grin. A severed hand twitches its fingers with one last electrical pulse. A soul flies screaming from a body as its host falls at her feet, blood spurting from a puncture wound to the neck.

Her vision darts back and forth; her left hand combing blood stained hair back from her face. It does not take long before the satyr returns. Beckoning to her, flitting from one corner of the room to the next. At times it peers out from behind a swaying tentacle, in other moments it is right behind her, whispering in her ear. Finally it appears before her, hot rotting breath bathing her face with sheer terror. The rumbling laugh begins like an aftershock, the ground trembling as her mind grows dark and addled as the satyr touches her forehead, and the gnawing beast in the center of the room turns its wicked gaze upon her. “They are coming for you.” he bellows.

She stands reeling, her head pounding, and her brain swelling inside her skull. Her nose oozes blood and spinal fluid as she opens her eyes, prompted by one final whisper, only to see an image of Archbishop Alonsus Faol, whose sermons brought her to the loving embrace of the Light so many years ago, Uther the Lightbringer, discussing the Light and guiding would be priests and young paladins, and a man, smirking warmly. She smiles as her eyes become heavy with sleep and her final glimpse is rewarded with the death of her two greatest heroes and her beloved. She lays in a pool of her own blood against the cold, hard stone.

“It was….your fault….”

Her eyes open suddenly to see the ceiling of the empty prison with deafening silence surrounding her still form. The halls are still empty and she is alone laid on her back against the floor of the prison. “There is a little lamb lost in dark woods….” a final whisper before she rises slowly and the shadows wrap lovingly around her lithe frame silently as she turns and exits the depths of the prison with a limping, stumbling gait.

Ryan Thaydor
Meeting the death knight by complete chance at Light’s Hope Chapel, a tentative and cautious conversation was had at the foot of the grand statue. After several meetings between the two, Ryan informed Lo’kir that he was to depart soon as he was only there for a mission temporarily, which Lo’kir was slightly disappointed but simply wished him well on his soon to be travels. As the day that he was due to depart from Light’s Hope and return to Stormwind, Lo’kir walked him to the gate to bid him farewell where he simply picked her up and put her on his shoulder. Ignoring the protests from Lo’kir, Ryan simply walked back to Stormwind with her on his shoulder. During the week-long trip that walking back to Stormwind took from the north, Lo’kir brought up the problem of being an outsider stepping into Stormwind with no documentation nor any records of her alliances at which Ryan simply suggested that she legally marry him. He was a Commander at the time and no one would question the particular pairing. Agreeing easily enough, the two legally married and just like that Saint Lo’kir was granted her citizenship of the capitol.

The relationship between Ryan Thaydor and Saint Lo’kir has never been one of romance, obviously because of Ryan’s status as a death knight, but it has been one of comfort and shared experiences. The two have been long time associates and frequently find each other at public events to prod fun at one another with ease. Ryan allowed the legal end of the marriage when Damian Blackborne approached him and made clear his intent to court Saint Lo’kir, the two men shaking hands and wishing each other well.

Damian Blackborne
Standing idly in the Cathedral district, Lo’kir was approached by a charming rogue who convinced her to dinner with him. Amused at the young rogue’s gumption, she agreed and upon the closure of the night, the two found they had a terrible amount in common. They fell in as instant friends and partners in mischievousness which very easily lead to blossoming affection for each other. They were found in each other’s company almost constantly, either sharing secret remarks to each other with hushed huffs of laughter or simply shooting looks at each other; the two were as thick as thieves.

Neither of them spoke of any relationship for a time, simply looking at each other and waggling their eyebrows at each other at any mention of a relationship. The fun that came with time spent with Damian was almost an addiction for Saint Lo’kir; anyone who knew her before then would have never described her as fun or even kind, but Damian’s presence brought out a warmer, happier side that had been thought to be long lost to time.

With the closeness also came opportunities for enemies of Damian to hurt him, making Lo’kir a prime target, but a fruitless one for his enemies. By herself she was quite powerful and with constantly being in Damian’s presence, the two were a dangerous duo that was not to be lightly taken by even the most seasoned of fighters and assassins. Much of their personal life was kept in the secrecy of their home as there were still distasteful remarks about the cross-race relationship, however much of the pair’s amusement came from men who approached Lo’kir with ill-intent and Damian materializing from the shadows behind them, always present and easily chasing them away with only a word or two from him.

After a decent amount of time, Lo’kir accepted a true marriage proposal from him happily. The ring she wore was a large, vibrant green stone on a silver band she wore on the outside of her gloves. Rumor has it he acquired the ring in Dalaran for an undisclosed amount of gold. When her friends asked about the ring, she simply said it was a beloved gift from Damian and that she was as happy as she could be with it and with him.

Not long after the gift of the ring, the two announced that Lo’kir was expecting a child and the two soon to be parents were proud as can be with the congratulations they received. The pregnancy was hidden due to an illusionary enchant, hoping to deter any of Damian’s enemies from harming his wife and now his soon to be child and assuring that she did not seem like an easy target for those who wished to harm her or Damian. When Lo’kir finally went into labor, her, Damian, and a dear trusted friend, Priestess Ysia retreated into their home for the birth. No official documents ever emerged from that night, but the only thing known is that the child did not survive and the child was to be a girl. Shortly after their loss, Priestess Ysia disappeared as well.

The time following the tragedy of their child was wrought with grief and sorrow. The happiness and warm fire they once shared together with each other’s company was all but extinguished and lost to time. Damian seemed to have taken it harder than Lo’kir, but both equally sharing in the loss. To cope with the loss, Lo’kir began a much more in depth study of shadow magic, isolating herself from the world and her closest friends. The only one she spoke to during that time was Damian and it was not long before she was walking freely with fiery black shadows silently engulfing her body.

Following shortly, Damian was sent to Blackrock Foundry on an extended mission and Lo’kir remained behind in Stormwind to await his return. As promised, he returned, and the two continued to work together with Aegis and the Hillsbrad Confederacy until Damian vanished for six months. Waiting for word from him and sending out her ravens, she never found him and she left for Northrend on a pilgrimage after five months. He returned not long after her departure, but was released to do as he pleased as she had left without a trace as well. During her time in Northrend, Saint Lo’kir changed dramatically and returned with a much darker and looming presence than she had ever possessed before and any talk of Damian to her is only met with a shrug. To speak ill of Damian within earshot of Saint Lo’kir, however, would be most likely an unfortunate mistake, the shadows that surround her always eager to be let loose against those who anger her.