"Where..." a voice echoes in the back of her mind. Her own voice. "...where am I?" The answer doesn't come, her eyes refuse to open, her body numb, though she can feel, at the least, that she is laying down. Memories are faint, her time spent in Karazhan, the blood spilled--granted most of it her own, and ... her rescue? Days spent wavering in and out of consciousness through pain on a high bridge tends to run days and even weeks together with nothing to make clear their passing. She briefly recalls flashing images, moments of waking, her friends... No. None of that. The images are gone as soon as they had come, her mind left blank. Confusion sets in, and she tries once more to move. She's greeted swiftly by a dull pain shooting up her arm, though nothing unfamiliar to her. The lack of sight is disconcerting, or better, the lack of feeling where her eyes should be. Something is terribly wrong. She parts her lips, attempting to speak, but only coughs at the dryness of her throat, the chill from night air rushing in. But even the cough lacks the spirit she would have had, vaguely recalling losing blood this way, and yet, the sound reaching her ears is dry and hollow.

"What in th'ell..." she manages to mutter, the sound of her own voice raspy, ragged, not the voice in her mind. She forces herself to sit up, gritting her teeth, the welcome sharpness of her fangs felt on her dry lips as the dull pain is everywhere. Her fists clench, and she feels her fingers ending in long, sharp points, a harsh chilly wind rushing around her body. Her body... the wind cuts deep in some places, almost feeling it inside of her, and yet in others she hardly feels it at all. At last she is aware of the rags she is dressed in, hardly modest, and hardly comfortable, the cold stone of what she's laying on felt through the thin sack cloth. And still, no sight, though the presence of something covering her face, tightly, at last is felt. She pays it little mind, trying to force her eyes open with all of her willpower. As she sits on the edge of the stone slab, she quivers with effort, at last greeted by a blinding blue/grey light. She hisses, recoils, trying to shield her eyes from the brightness that she is so unused to, then is even more taken aback at what she sees of her arm.

It is bare, the skin worn, hanging off of bone in some places. And yet, she can see the outline of a full, thick, strong arm, of what the shadow used to be at one time. She recognizes them both as her arms, though her hands do in fact end in vicious claws, the flesh of her joints missing from her fingers to her elbow. As if this is not enough, she becomes aware of her surroundings, a dark, dank crypt. The blue permeates everything, however, and she murmurs, with her cold, raspy voice, "..Shadowlands..?" She sounds uncertain, feeling more dead than alive but still, somewhere in between. The torchlight has no bearing on her sight, and she starts up the stairs in front of her. Two flights, and she is greeted with the swirling vortex in the sky and a massive graveyard layed out before her.

A man stands by the entrance to the tomb, holding a lantern. He is robed, and the outline granted by her dual sight shows a handsome man, if old, a dutiful undertaker. "About time you woke up," he begins, seeing her stumble from the stone steps to the path down. "We were ready to toss you into the fire with the others, but it looks like you made it." He speaks slowly, but kindly, in a practiced manner, as if he'd been here for years saying the same exact thing to every fresh corpse. As Jade approaches the undertaker, her half-sight on him diminishes, his features fading from the handsome man to a decrepit standing corpse, the flesh peeling from his bones much like her own, and yet, standing, and full of unlife. "I am Mordo," he introduces, "the caretaker of the crypt of Deathknell... And you are the.." his voice fades in her mind. Deathknell? Tirisfal? Where she herself had fought the legions of the Scourge so many years ago? "Is this some kinna sick joke?" she rasps, growling, curling her bony fingers around his neck. He only chuckles, having no need to breathe, his body far stronger than hers by practiced unlife.

"...Far from it, my child. You are no longer among the living, yet no longer among the dead... You are not of the Scourge, either. We are Forsaken. We are servants of the Dark Lady, and you would do well to remember your place in that respect," he grabs her wrist and pulls her hand free of his neck. She growls, but submits, her strength far, far from her own as her rapidly fading memories tell her. Though 'blind', and now dead, a fire stilll burns deep down. She looks to the north, to the valley, to Deathknell. The caretaker dusts his robe off, a futile gesture, "Speak with the shadow priest in the chapel at the base of the hill... he will tell you more of what you must know.." and with that, he bows, gesturing down the path. The woman mutters, "'ardly... must know an' want to know are two diff'rn things..." She growls again, feeling hollow, barely clinging to this form with nothing inside to hold her here. She pulls a rusty sword off of a wrecked cart, a level of familiarity returning to her. Empty inside, but to be filled with something else. Rage, perhaps.

---------------------------

"Where..." a voice echoes in the back of her mind. Her own voice. "...where am I?" The answer doesn't come, her eyes refuse to open, her body numb, though she can feel, at the least, that she is laying down. Memories are faint, her time spent in Karazhan, the blood spilled--granted most of it her own, and ... her rescue? Days spent wavering in and out of consciousness through pain on a high bridge tends to run days and even weeks together with nothing to make clear their passing. She briefly recalls flashing images, moments of waking, her friends... Nicholai... Nan... Rabbly... the warmth. An accompanying chill, but still, warmth. She briefly recalls her charging at someone... familiar... then falling into unconsciousness again before a portal with the familiar halls of Ironforge within. And then more warmth, and more darkness. In the back of her mind she can feel a faint chill brushing over her, mind's eye rushing into the deep shadows of an old stone tomb, and then darkness.

She hngs softly, forcing her eyes open, the dim lighting of laterns warming her sight slowly, the warmth of a soft bed beneath her warming her body. And the fire in her soul burning brightly once again, though the occasional flicker, one small piece within is missing, one less shard of the rage aspect a part of her now. She just lay there, the lingering scent of metalworking everywhere, the lingering scent of a certain Dwarven priest on her clothes. A brief pain in her stomach, sharp, but more from hunger than anything, her wound sealed days ago. She sits up slowly, allowing herself a smile, a fangy grin, and a laugh. "...'ome an' safe..." she murmurs, glad to hear the sound of her own voice again....