Hunting the Damned
Koven was the silhouette of a reaper amidst the roaring flames consuming the village. Within his arms a man twitched and jolted faintly. Their hand reached up to his pallid cheek and weekly scraped against his flesh, then fell limply to the ground. Blood dribbled down the man’s neck. And Koven’s lips as he fed.
Satisfied, he released the dead man and wiped the sanguine ambrosia from his mouth with one gauntlet. He paid the body a frigid, empty glance. A hint of disgust tugged down on his features as he observed the signet of the Cult of the Damned on the man’s ring. The blood of filth like him would at least serve a purpose in fueling the extermination of other acolytes.
Purpose, he thought to himself with a hum in his throat.
He turned to look behind him as a small group of men and women scurried away from where he stood. The only soul standing surrounded by a pile of bodies.
Koven reached down and gripped a dark steel zweihander that had been impaled into the ground beside him. His eyes were smoldering sapphires that pursued the fleeing people with an unspoken conviction. He licked the blood lingering on his lips and pulled the blade free from the blood-soaked earth.
The infestation had not yet been cleansed.
Background
Koven was raised near Acherus during the return of the Lich King. A first generation Death Knight since the return of the Eastern Kingdoms’ butcher. His story is not wholly unlike many that rose with him and were subsequently liberated at the Battle of Light’s Hope. Yet like any individual, his experiences are uniquely his own.
His shackles were not broken at Light’s Hope. They yielded his freedom earlier, but not without an unspeakable cost. One which drives him to this day. His purpose.
Koven is san’layn. Eternally youthful. Abrasive and angry. Conversation is short. Niceties are feigned. Casual decorum and decency are tools to an end. Misery and pain are a bulwark surrounding his heart. Purpose is his citadel. Yet within it are halls that echo with memory. And if one were to infiltrate far enough, they may find something left of the person he once was. A ranger, quiet and forgotten. Even by him.
