When one thinks of a paladin, several things typically come to mind. Noble sacrifice and boundless inspiration in all who follow them, as exemplified by Turalyon. Wise teachers and stalwart defenders like Uther the Lightbringer. Leaders, bastions of faith and upholders of all that is good. Randra Richaud is not one of them.

That isn’t to say she’s unfit of the title, however. Her faith in the Light and its power to mend, protect and smite is ironclad; her dedication to defending those who cannot defend themselves is without question. Yet where one expects to see wisdom, she instead has impulsiveness. Where others seek to defend, she seeks to attack and repair the damage afterwards. While she may abhor and condemn the forces of undeath and the nether, she is not blind to pragmatism. It’s this very tenet of hers that leads her to the depths of Silithus, a land she swore she’d never return to after what she witnessed in Ahn’Qiraj. However, the allure of knowledge kept hidden by secretive wielders of dark magic is stronger than her suppressed trauma, searching the desiccated land for a week under the merciless sun, surrounded by the remnants of the Qiraji in search of her goal. Her existence consists of hours of trudging through shifting sand, fending off enormous insectoid monsters and nights that forces her to huddle next to a struggling fire, relying on her thick plated robes to keep the desert night’s chill at bay. In a word, torment.

Finally, on the eighth day of her search she spies something; a familiar symbol etched into a collapsed pillar leading into a mountain pass that proves her dedication wasn’t for naught. By mid-afternoon she enters a long-forgotten crypt with torch in hand, the cloudy rays of light from outside gradually giving way to torchlight that bathes her gilded, crimson armor and ponytail of fiery red hair in rich orange hues. The further she delves, the more the darkness beyond her torch seems to deepen until she arrives in a large, looming chamber so high that there may as well be nothing but abyss above. All of a sudden, the sound of stone grinding against stone echoes out from behind, and Randra turns to see the way she came sealed by a collapsing barrier. A gust of stale wind whirls around her torch at the same time, enveloping her in darkness. Now, the sounds of movement are heard, coming from all directions. Light footsteps crunch against the dusty floor, closing in and seemingly growing in number all around the paladin. A telltale rattling makes itself known as the unseen vanguard of the tomb approach, with only the air being cut by a rusted scimitar flying towards Randra warning of their attack.

Her extinguished torch clatters to the floor…and a brief flash of golden light illuminates numerous haggard skeletons, armored with decaying chainmail and bearing equally decrepit weapons all around Randra. Her arm is outstretched towards her would-be assassin—who is bathed in the brightest surge of that light emanating from her palm, collapsing the skeleton into a pile of blackened bones. Slowly, Randra lowers her arm, reaching behind to grab the large glass-like greatsword slung over her back. “Really now…A trap would’ve had a much better chance,” she muses, speaking aloud as the brief surge of illumination fades, and the sound of skeletal footfalls rings out once more as the fight begins in earnest. The darkness seems to not impede her prowess one iota as the sound of battle fill the air. Brief flashes of electric blue arc out from Randra’s crystal blade with every parry, while bursts of divine magic shine a light on the exorcised remnants of her latest fallen foe. The sounds of swords clashing fill the chamber, accentuated by Randra’s amused laughter. “Is this it?! I must be too late to find the tome, and you sorry excuses for undead are all that’s left!” she exclaims, running through the last of her osteal assailants as her blade’s elemental power quickly reduces the skeleton to crumbling ashes.

She takes a deep breath once the din of combat fades, allowing herself a moment of respite. Not hearing any movement from afar, Randra leans down to feel for her torch…and at the last moment throws herself to the side as a spear of pure bone strikes at where her torso was mere moments ago. Her sixth sense for the undead let her avoid the worst of the blow, turning what would’ve been a fatal would to just a gash through the side of her waist; bloody, but not dire. Her teeth gritted, the paladin pulls herself up, clutching that freshly made wound as she begins to channel the Light into the tender flesh. “Okay, I asked for that…” she says, staring at what’s likely the actual guardian of the tomb. Wreathed in pale turquoise flames, it’s a desiccated corpse less wearing and more encased in a suit of ebony platemail etched wicked looking runes. A spear that must be hewn from bone itself is wielded by it, oozing wisps of pure black magic. For a moment, the two warriors stare at one another in silence. Randra’s lips curl into an increasingly sadistic smile, while the corpse-knight wordlessly hefts its spear, taking the first step forward.

The darkness is almost as potent a foe as this knight is, but the necromantic aura empowering it exudes is enough for Randra to go off of in lieu of seeing clearly. A second spear of bone is conjured from the knight’s weapon, arcing out as Randra quickly hops to the side. An attempt to close the distance is foiled by a sudden wave of calcified spikes erupting from the stone, forcing Randra back. Every attempt she makes to get in close results in another blow forcing her back, while her foe steps forward implacably. Before long, Randra’s hearing the sounds echo less from behind, stepping back once more only to feel solid stone against her. It’s at that moment that the undead guardian raises both arms outward, and spikes of bone shoot from the ground from either side of it, effectively fencing Randra into the corner.

Panting and still feeling the pain from her semi-healed wound, the paladin swears under her breath. “Didn’t…your masters give you a tongue? Or, or did that rot out with your brain?” Far from beaten yet not sure what to do, Randra resigns herself to letting her opponent make the first move again. Rather than close in to melee range, the risen knight merely thrusts its spear towards Randra, familiar magic emanating from the tip as another mirror of itself is conjured, aimed right at Randra’s middle. She doesn’t have enough room to dodge, and this close she’d need far better reflexes than she has to parry. As her mind races for a way to counter what’s coming the conjuring completes; with only a moment to spare, her hand dips down to her belt, hurriedly lifting a flask to her lips as she gulps the contents down right as the spear arcs out, smashing into her stomach.

Her armor’s breastplate is ripped like it was no stronger than parchment, the cloth beneath providing no resistance as the tip of the spear reaches her flesh. Yet rather than piercing through, it promptly crumples in on itself when it connects with Randra’s skin, now turned as solid as stone. The outer layer is broken, but the actual wound is no deeper than an egg; far from fatal. As the undying defender hesitates, Randra exhales sharply, visibly relaxing for a moment before striding forward. “You almost got me there…and made me use an elixir that took, oh, about three weeks of constant attention to brew. That seems a little unfair, for something so weak to make me have to make such a move, now doesn’t it?” A shimmer of golden light washes over her sword, the glow extending to her surroundings. Her free hand whips out, a streak of blindingly bright light striking out towards the knight just as it raises its spear to absorb the spell, being pushed back several feet by the effort. Randra doesn’t give it the chance to recover, sprinting towards it with her sword whirling towards it from the side. When that blow is hastily parried, she draws back, thrusting forward, then shifting to swing from the opposite side.

Blow after blow lands, arcs of both electricity and divine light searing parts of the guardian, who’s now solely on the defensive in such close range. Each strike is followed by a frustrated grunt from Randra, until finally she gets her opening when her foe tries to counter one of her wild swings. Ducking, she swings upwards, her voice filled with lust for battle. The crystalline edge of her sword meets the arcane metal of her foe’s armor…and like a hot knife through butter slices through, removing its spear-hefting arm from its body. A second blow slices the other arm clean off, shifting into a sweeping strike which sends the undead warrior toppling to the stone as one of its legs is cut clean off. “Not so tough now, are we you wretch? What, your master didn’t make sure you could patch yourself together?” Randra sneers, sending a bolt of holy might directly into the torso of the fallen, unliving corpse and grinning at the sight of it recoiling from the spell. “Creatures like you deserve nothing less. To think, how many of those mongrels,” she spits, nodding towards where she slew the skeletons earlier, “were slain by your hands? Hands that shouldn’t even move anymore, let alone kill the living! Oh, if only your wretched master gave you the ability to scream!” she grunts, thrusting her sword right into the neck of the broken corpse, the wide blade decapitating it in one blow.

Breathing hard, Randra stares down at the once-more lifeless body. Her hair is slightly askew, and her hazel eyes are wide with residual adrenaline from such an admittedly close fight before she used one of her concoctions. Now that the rush of battle’s faded, she can see the fallen guardian for what it truly is—just another wrong righted; an obstacle in her way removed, the foreboding aura of undeath cleansed from the chamber. What’s more, now that she can focus on her surroundings again she spies a pedestal on the edge of the glow offered by her blade, a tome laying atop it. Inquisitively, Randra approaches it, peering down at the dimly-lit cover as a pleased smile appears on her face. “Ah, how lucky for me such an impotent protector was left to watch over this. One step closer now…”

_____________________________________________

Having returned to her home—a small, modest rented apartment in Ironforge’s Mystic Quarter, Randra begins poring over her captured tome immediately. Reading it on the journey back is one thing, but now that she has entirety of her research notes available she can delve more deeply into the book’s formulae without distraction. Having taken a day to rest before diving in, she’s traded her armor for a short green vest and a pair of matching pants, nursing a mug of moonberry juice while poring over her pilfered tome. Occasionally, she turns to the side to tend to her alchemical lab lain out on an adjacent table. Behind it, rows of neatly aligned vials sit in racks that line the wall behind the workspace, each labeled with their contents. In the center of the workspace lies her current project: a freshly-used mortar in a paste of herbs, a curious-looking black stone resting in the center.

That stone is the center of Randra’s attention, as whenever she turns to the lab it’s either to add a small amount of a given liquid to the mortar; to grind the herbal paste against the stone; to transfer the stone briefly to an open flame and wait until it begins to smoke before placing it back into the mortar, or otherwise observe the stone for a moment before returning to the tome.

“It doesn’t make any sense; why would adding…no that would just melt it. Maybe if I…” A far cry from the violent breaker of undead, this more scholastic side of the paladin still has hints of her inner fire within. It isn’t long before the proverbial wall she seems to have hit with her deciphering of the tome leads her to utter an obscenity and abruptly walk away, mumbling her desire for a stiff drink. There will always be more time later…after all, she muses as she throws on her coat before stepping out her door, the benefit of succeeding in her research would make potions like that elixir she used back in the tomb mere child’s play!