The Shaping of Seryth

A New Beginning: Seryth forced himself on his feet. He looked up at the ruined ceiling above him, and he saw there were still some holes large enough he could climb through -- if he could reach them.

Seryth summoned his felsteed, but without the Nathssysn, the demon took one look at him on its back and bucked like he was a holy paladin trying to cleanse it. Seryth lost his grip, flying head over heels over the demonic creature’s neck and landing hard in the rubble of the ruined temple.

Pain shot through his chest, and he couldn’t breathe. Tiny hands pressed on his spine and encouraged him to turn over, and he coughed and coughed as he soon as he lay on his shoulder, his spittle opaque and dark with blood in the moonlight.

When he came to again, the imp was sitting on his hip instead of the nathrezim’s cairn.

“I should take you to my master,” it said. “She can help you.”

Seryth grunted an affirmative, even though being under the sway of a new slave-driver didn’t entice him any. He was afraid he would die without aid though, and he certainly couldn’t rely on anyone in Val’sharah or Dalaran. The crimes he had committed…his face would be on every Wanted poster, if they didn’t assume he had died in the rockfall.

“Just let me sleep first,” he told the imp.

“Don’t sleep too long,” replied the imp, “or you might never wake up,” it intoned darkly as soon as Seryth’s consciousness slipped away.

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