"I will take the white roses, please, Ms. Primrose" the Forsaken woman requested, a somber , yet gentle smile curving her pale lips. The flowerer blinked at the undead woman's gentle tone, and smiled in return, pleasantly surprised by the Forsaken's polite mannerism.
"Ah, of course. And I have them freshly cut too. How lucky for you!" Aerith Primrose laughs, and turned about for a moment to search for the request. It had become a yearly anniversary, late into the autumn, Annaliese made a visit to the graves of the one's she had lost, the children that she never had a chance to watch grow. White roses were always appropriate--her children always had played within the garden behind their manor, those years ago.
A young woman stepped up to the flower cart, impatiently staring down Ms. Primrose's back. The young mage cleared her throat rather brashly to get the attendant's attention. Annaliese stared down the rude human in retrospect, her yellow eyes glowing softly.
"What?!" Charlette barked out suddenly, taking a few steps back from the Forsaken, as if suddenly realizing she was there. Anna merely let out a breath, and shook her head in dismay at the young mage, which only seemed to steep Charlette's irritation, and her nervousness.
"You! Erm…vendor! I need service! Hello?" Charlette demanded, rapping on the window of the wooden cart. Aerith at last turned about, regarding the girl with a friendly smile.
"How may I help you miss?"
Annaliese only looked on at the girl. It was strange. There was certainly something about her that reminded her of…
"I want a dozen white roses. Fresh!" the mage explained in a haughty tone, glaring at the merchant, ignored too long for her standing. Annaliese stepped closer to the window then, patient. The bouquet of white roses was held in Aerith's hands, and indeed they were fresh, the stems long, slanted at the clean cut. The flowerer peered at Annaliese, before her eyes moved back to the demanding mage.
"I…I'm quite sorry, the order has been placed by another…" Aerith explained in Common. Anna had not heard nor spoken the language in some time, but she could pick up hints of words still. She smiled softly at the vendor, and nodded, extending her hands for the bundle of roses. Charlette…was not about to give up, stubborn as a mage of the Kirin Tor should be.
"I will pay you…double! I -need- those roses! I know, I know…-everyone- needs these roses for the day, but yes…give them to me already. And enchant them will you? I don't need them dying on me too soon."
"I ordered the roses first…" Anna said gently, but with a determination in her unearthly eyes, understanding that the mage was arguing for them, by the way she had been pointing.
Ms. Primrose looked between both women blankly, the Orcish and Common tongues beginning to give the poor woman a headache. She sighed, and at last put her hands up, having put up with the last of this holiday. A hand was held up before the arguing women.
"A half dozen. Six for you, six for you…" she explained in Common, pointing at the Forsaken and then the human, in turn. "Otherwise, you will have to wait for a full dozen…"
"Fine…-finnne-, just give them to me already," Charlette said, rolling her amber eyes. She shot the Forsaken woman a disparaging glance as the six roses were given, and mumbled her disgraces away beneath her breath as she stormed away.
Annaliese smiled softly, and accepted her bundle of roses gratefully, ignoring the mumbled insults, which she only caught some of. She sighed, and picked at the ivory petals as the Flowerer looked on apologetically.
"I am sorry for the trouble. You were so patient. I shouldn't have given the brat a thing."
Anna peered up at Ms. Primrose with a pair of eyes that were still too attached to humanity.
"Don't apologize dear. Everyone has a right to honor their loved ones."
Thursday, December 17, 2009
(40) Trouble
Somewhere in the darkest alleys of Orgrimmar, a mouse let out a terrified screech, and was silenced as its head was bitten off. The killer, a stalking cat, melted perfectly into the shadows as it traveled in search of more prey, luminescent amber eyes perhaps the only sign of her presence. An angry flick of her long tail, and she pounced, mauling whatever it was that she had caught, and mauling it into a bloody smear against the hut. The sound of clinking armor nearby made the shadow of a cat dart off into a streak from the alleyway, startling the Orgrimmar guard as it ran past. The orc cursed beneath his breath, eyeing the darting figure like a bad omen.
"Trouble", as she was so named, struggled to separate animal instinct from her very human thoughts, trying to remember what she was doing, and dampen the lure of chasing mice. Padding silently through the Valley of Spirits, Trouble's long black tail signaled her anxiety as it flicked back and forth behind her. It had been a dirty, dirty trick, what the Death Knight, Lyria Dhuna had done to her. It was a fitting form tonight, unbeknownst to Annaliese, however. Considering her deception on the matter of the death knight--befriending her, luring her, and then sending Lady Lyria into a realm of eternal Nightmare conceived from the reflected fears of her victims--the plan had been an all out success, though not without its surprises and twists.
In all reality, Annaliese had hoped the best for the Death Knight. She had allowed herself the hope that perhaps Ms. Dhuna could be redeemed, returned to society. No more lives wasted, transgressions forgiven. The candle she had prepared was only a precaution, really, even though its intent was indeed malefic. And the preparation had been time consuming…expensive: the Faceless One's bodies were irritatingly hard to work into the candle, though she only had a tentacle to work with in the first place. She wanted the Death Knight to know fear, certainly. Perhaps this would have humbled her in the end?
Being turned into a cat and held by the madwoman as a "toy" changed Annaliese's perspective on the matter all too quickly. The warlock inside of her had bristled with grim satisfaction, watching Lyriah twitch in her tormented sleep, knowing what she was seeing. Annaliese had wanted this to go on forever, knowing what Lyriah had done---done to her, humiliating her like so. It had been a pity the torment was not allowed to continue--the others were greedy for their own senses of vengeance or justice, and picked apart the death knight's body like a corpse upon an apothecary's slab. She had at least retrieved the soul for herself. It would have been a lovely gift in compensation to her husband, for the trouble she put him through.
Even the death knight's soul did not appease him, as Anna found out. How foolish she had been to bring back the magical powder with her-- she knew the Medic was angry already. She took her punishment harshly now, and the desire for soul shards was strong in her--relayed as a lust for hunting, in the instinct of this cat form her own husband doomed her to for the night, once again. Tired with her ordeal, though, the cat made her way back to the owner that abandoned her, as attached pets often do. Trouble curled up next to the body in the hut, and let out a soft, sad mew to the sleeping Medic. Finding him unresponsive to her nuzzles, she paced a few circles on the thick bearskin rug, before curling up around herself, alone.
Trouble dreamed of relief from her punishment. And a warm saucer of milk.
"Trouble", as she was so named, struggled to separate animal instinct from her very human thoughts, trying to remember what she was doing, and dampen the lure of chasing mice. Padding silently through the Valley of Spirits, Trouble's long black tail signaled her anxiety as it flicked back and forth behind her. It had been a dirty, dirty trick, what the Death Knight, Lyria Dhuna had done to her. It was a fitting form tonight, unbeknownst to Annaliese, however. Considering her deception on the matter of the death knight--befriending her, luring her, and then sending Lady Lyria into a realm of eternal Nightmare conceived from the reflected fears of her victims--the plan had been an all out success, though not without its surprises and twists.
In all reality, Annaliese had hoped the best for the Death Knight. She had allowed herself the hope that perhaps Ms. Dhuna could be redeemed, returned to society. No more lives wasted, transgressions forgiven. The candle she had prepared was only a precaution, really, even though its intent was indeed malefic. And the preparation had been time consuming…expensive: the Faceless One's bodies were irritatingly hard to work into the candle, though she only had a tentacle to work with in the first place. She wanted the Death Knight to know fear, certainly. Perhaps this would have humbled her in the end?
Being turned into a cat and held by the madwoman as a "toy" changed Annaliese's perspective on the matter all too quickly. The warlock inside of her had bristled with grim satisfaction, watching Lyriah twitch in her tormented sleep, knowing what she was seeing. Annaliese had wanted this to go on forever, knowing what Lyriah had done---done to her, humiliating her like so. It had been a pity the torment was not allowed to continue--the others were greedy for their own senses of vengeance or justice, and picked apart the death knight's body like a corpse upon an apothecary's slab. She had at least retrieved the soul for herself. It would have been a lovely gift in compensation to her husband, for the trouble she put him through.
Even the death knight's soul did not appease him, as Anna found out. How foolish she had been to bring back the magical powder with her-- she knew the Medic was angry already. She took her punishment harshly now, and the desire for soul shards was strong in her--relayed as a lust for hunting, in the instinct of this cat form her own husband doomed her to for the night, once again. Tired with her ordeal, though, the cat made her way back to the owner that abandoned her, as attached pets often do. Trouble curled up next to the body in the hut, and let out a soft, sad mew to the sleeping Medic. Finding him unresponsive to her nuzzles, she paced a few circles on the thick bearskin rug, before curling up around herself, alone.
Trouble dreamed of relief from her punishment. And a warm saucer of milk.
(39) Puppet
"Anna…ugh…I want to trust y….you…" Alexiel slurred, slumped against Dalaran's wall, lost in her drunken stupor. She fingered the stream of black hair among the blonde as Alexiel explained, "but you’re his "puppet"…"
Anna couldn't even hear the rest of the words that spilled out of her friend's mouth after that. The word, like a sharp stab in her mind, brought other memories on as Alexiel prattled on.
A flash of a page…
The Powers of the Void
Chapter 4...Page 56
'…upon receiving a demon, a warlock must recognize the very real danger of becoming a puppet to the forces that he or she intends to…'
The book was slammed shut before she could finish reading the sentence.
A flash of a voice…
Serah was in her head again, the insidious, softness of her voice whispering just inside of her ear. "…just give it up, Anna. Your body was meant for me, for HIM. Your nothing but a puppet…" The hissing whisper turned into a scream as Annaliese scalded herself with shadow magic to drown it out. Her own scream rattled the catacomb below the Slaughtered Lamb, but the woman knew the self-torment was necessary…to at least stop Serah's.
A flash of a face…
Screaming, Annaliese could -hear- it, the soul ripped from the crystal jar by his hand…it was a child's scream. Bastion cackled as he stuffed Amara's essence into the succubus, then dangled the screaming soul of Anna's damned son before his felhound.
"Ah, such a -good- little girl, isn't she…? She'll be my little puppet, yes…" He leered at the warlock as she sunk to her knees, begging.
"Not them…please…no…" Anna choked, pulling at her own hair.
"Oh, come on Mommy…they'll be such -good- little ones…"
It was too much…
Anna wrapped the stream of black hair around her fist, and -pulled- in a fit of anger, tearing it out of the elf's head. Alexiel screamed, a look of shock on her face as she stared at her infuriated friend, her trembling hand at her head as she slumped over her drink, shuddering into sobs at the pain.
Anna blinked, and shook her head, wiping the thought of enacting the action away. Gritting her teeth against the anger building inside of her, she refocused, peering down at the drunk warlock. The gleam in her glowing eyes settled as she calmed herself. She held her pale, slender hands down into her own lap, nails digging into her own skin.
"I…am not a puppet. And certainly not his. I need him, he needs me…simple as that," Annaliese spoke in a very soft, yet controlled voice.
Alexiel didn't seem so certain. She veered to one side, drifting off balance, and tossed her head back to drain the rest of her mug. Anna sighed.
"…want him, Anna. I do."
"I cannot make the decisions of your heart for you, my friend. You will have to do that. Now then…the ritual. Do you wish to be broken of the Shadow? It would be for the best…"
Alexiel said little, but nodded, wiping at her lips, and sniffing.
"…fine. I will send you a list of reagents I will be needing. The reagents are best gathered by -you-, since you are its intended focus. It will make your wish that much more sincere."
Alexiel nodded again, again twirling the stream of black hair between her delicate fingers. "…yes…"
Anna rose, and briefly hugged her inebriated friend. "I will be in touch…"
She left quickly, afraid of what she might do if she stayed any longer. Anna gritted her teeth again as the word "puppet' sounded off in her head.
…how she hated that word.
Anna couldn't even hear the rest of the words that spilled out of her friend's mouth after that. The word, like a sharp stab in her mind, brought other memories on as Alexiel prattled on.
A flash of a page…
The Powers of the Void
Chapter 4...Page 56
'…upon receiving a demon, a warlock must recognize the very real danger of becoming a puppet to the forces that he or she intends to…'
The book was slammed shut before she could finish reading the sentence.
A flash of a voice…
Serah was in her head again, the insidious, softness of her voice whispering just inside of her ear. "…just give it up, Anna. Your body was meant for me, for HIM. Your nothing but a puppet…" The hissing whisper turned into a scream as Annaliese scalded herself with shadow magic to drown it out. Her own scream rattled the catacomb below the Slaughtered Lamb, but the woman knew the self-torment was necessary…to at least stop Serah's.
A flash of a face…
Screaming, Annaliese could -hear- it, the soul ripped from the crystal jar by his hand…it was a child's scream. Bastion cackled as he stuffed Amara's essence into the succubus, then dangled the screaming soul of Anna's damned son before his felhound.
"Ah, such a -good- little girl, isn't she…? She'll be my little puppet, yes…" He leered at the warlock as she sunk to her knees, begging.
"Not them…please…no…" Anna choked, pulling at her own hair.
"Oh, come on Mommy…they'll be such -good- little ones…"
It was too much…
Anna wrapped the stream of black hair around her fist, and -pulled- in a fit of anger, tearing it out of the elf's head. Alexiel screamed, a look of shock on her face as she stared at her infuriated friend, her trembling hand at her head as she slumped over her drink, shuddering into sobs at the pain.
Anna blinked, and shook her head, wiping the thought of enacting the action away. Gritting her teeth against the anger building inside of her, she refocused, peering down at the drunk warlock. The gleam in her glowing eyes settled as she calmed herself. She held her pale, slender hands down into her own lap, nails digging into her own skin.
"I…am not a puppet. And certainly not his. I need him, he needs me…simple as that," Annaliese spoke in a very soft, yet controlled voice.
Alexiel didn't seem so certain. She veered to one side, drifting off balance, and tossed her head back to drain the rest of her mug. Anna sighed.
"…want him, Anna. I do."
"I cannot make the decisions of your heart for you, my friend. You will have to do that. Now then…the ritual. Do you wish to be broken of the Shadow? It would be for the best…"
Alexiel said little, but nodded, wiping at her lips, and sniffing.
"…fine. I will send you a list of reagents I will be needing. The reagents are best gathered by -you-, since you are its intended focus. It will make your wish that much more sincere."
Alexiel nodded again, again twirling the stream of black hair between her delicate fingers. "…yes…"
Anna rose, and briefly hugged her inebriated friend. "I will be in touch…"
She left quickly, afraid of what she might do if she stayed any longer. Anna gritted her teeth again as the word "puppet' sounded off in her head.
…how she hated that word.
(38) Life of Death Pt. 2
High above the snowcaps of Icecrown, a windrider outwitted blustery winds, soaring over vyrkyl villages, giant mechanical constructs, and legions of undead. Lich dragons soared low below beast and rider, how it always amazed Annise how the windrider seemed unafraid. Gryphons always seemed to seek the safest route around an area, avoiding sweeping too low through a warzone, while windriders had no qualms over flying right over the spear ready vyrkul, or glancing the bony wing of a dragon. It gave the ghost-like rider a free vantage point, searching for any sign for the one that entombed her. Then something caught her attention down below amongst the boney soldiers littering the field.
Power.
Commanding the windrider to dive down to the source, she felt dark magic tease her as the manticore tucked in its wings and seemingly fell from the sky, the frigid whip of winds making neither her nor the creature flinch. A wind tunnel of dark magic rose straight up into the air, perhaps thirty feet, and a familiar presence snagged her attentions. The lone figure weaved the darkness from within the vortex as he pleased, lost in his magic. She could see the swirling tendrils of darkness, and within those, silvery lines, lost souls of the chasm. Swirling around in a chorus, the silent orchestra waltzed around the figure at its center, and he guided them with arms outstretched.
The manticore screeched as it's rider commanded it to land, pulling taughtly on the reigns. She had hardly given the creature space to land, and its leathery wing connected hard with the sharp rock rounding the base of the chasm. Obediently, the windrider let Annise free from its back, though its disgruntled growl followed her. Lumbering dead turned their attentions to the movement, crawling toward the source in hopes of fresh meat.
"...zam..." she whispered, her softly glowing eyes staring across the deathfield at the dark orchestrater in the middle.
It was him, no doubt. He seemed taller, darker, the aura pulsing around him nearly making her swoon. He seemed thinner than she could remember, his robes no longer lined with silver but a straight black that flapped wildly in the rushing magic. His eyes were closed as he channelled, reeling in the rush of power that pounded at his senses. He was completely unaware of anything or anyone around him, but the writhing souls.
Rasped moans grew louder as she began to cross the chasm, but Annise could not recognize the danger as the dead figures closed around her. Neither did she notice that it was not only the figure that drew her instinctually across the deathfield, but the scent, the sound, the energy of the magic tethered about him. She tried to pull upon that same magic inherant within her and focused it upon the boney obstacles in her way, but nothing happened. Her attention snapped to the scavenger's sword as its tip tore through the garments strewn over her shoulder, slicing into cold flesh.
She felt nothing, and continued onward.
Closer she went, and closer still, until she could almost touch the edge of the vortex of darkness that surrounded him. Tendril's swept upward, the wisps of shadow occasionally slowing before her, as if teasing. The figure in the center of the swirling mass channelled still, oblivious, utterly lost as the power alone cleaned his mind . Just behind her, she could smell the stench of long dead bodies reaching for her, clawing. Breaking the lull the energy had on her senses, Annise whipped about, and let loose a wave of hellfire, knocking back her assailants. Undettered, they rose again, armless, legless, still burning, crawling to get to her. Casually, she slipped the fabric of her torn robe over her shouder again, ignoring the angry wound buried into her arm, and strode into the vortex.
The figure's eyes widened as the smooth flow of magic was interrupted. The delicately orchestrated vortex shuddered as the sudden presence of another clashed against the flow of the tide. He stood, no longer directing, no longer channel, as the tendrils of shadow swirled calmly around him. Turning his gaze to the source of the disturbance, he spoke hollowly, face apathetic.
"Who dares?"
Right foot, and left, she moved to the unmoving figure, moving as if she were more drifting than walking. Her steps were not careful, her gait sure even as she stepped confidently, feet bare. Undead stood, rimming the vortex, unsure of touching it, decomposed minds sensing danger as Annise confronted the dark priest. She stood quiet, before him, soft eyes traveling over him, noticing the changes that had overtaken the man she once knew. He was cold, emotionless, his eyes unmoving. Slowly the vortex died, wisps of shadow fading into the cold wind of the glacier. Yet the undead stood at range - perhaps they knew the one in the middle was not to be trifled with. He watched and waited with a tempered patience, knowing he could snap the vortex upon her at any moment, locking her soul into it's silvery streams as well.
"You shut me away. To forget, he said," she spoke, dark hair whipped by an icy wind. An anger rustled beneath her calm form, and he could hear it in the resonance of her voice. He was not the only one who had changed.
A sigh escaped her, only met with his silent, hollow stare. She peered about the perimeter at the groaning undead, all locked in place. The phantom-like Forsaken walked about the stoic Soulmancer, circling him slowly. "Has it really been so long?" she asked softly, then, biting back her emotion. "How long have you been here, stirring the bones of the dead?"
"...a while," was the reply, "months." He looked around him, apathetic to the groaning herd that circled them from afar. He stood still as she circled him, his staff balanced in hand.
"You are here....for?"
She stopped mid-circle at his question, insulted. Her lips quivered as she tried to find an answer, but found none in the face of her impassive husband. "You did not expect me to stay there?! Did...?"
Annise quickly gained control of herself. It had felt so good to lash out with Faranell, and she was letting that easily riled power boil to the surface. There would be other times to be investigate the surge. She backed away, arms across her chest, ready to wall up her lost husband with the memories of a life that was no longer hers.
"I thought I knew. Perhaps the Apothecary was right. Forsaken are not meant to have such...attatchments."
"Faranell..." he murmured the words softly, "attachments..." The words seemed to linger upon his lips. His eyes wavered for a second, but he shook his head, clearing his mind of fog. His eyes trailed to the wound upon her shoulder, trailed down further to the gash along her leg. Finally, he closed the distance as she began to walk from him, grasping her arm, inspecting the torn shoulder.
"You are hurt."
Blinking, she peered down as he knelt before her, his knuckles brushing against the back of her leg, which somehow, was in worse shape than her shoulder. She brought her leg back from his touch, however, her voice hardly heard over the wail of hungry dead. "It's nothing. I didn't even know..." Quieting her argument in the face of his concern, she changed subjects. Face turned upward, she stared where the vortex once circled high into the sky. "I've not seen such a force before...how...?"
He looked up into the sky, where the last wisps of power faded from existence. He shrugged slightly once more before turning his attention back to the gash.
"I practiced," was the short answer. Cool fingers brushed against the back of her, and with that, came a small surge of darkness that seem to coil around her limb.
"You are here seeking treatment...very well. I was almost done...I will treat you," and without another word, the dark figure brought his hand under her legs and scooped her up into his arms. Suddenly a patient, she began to object, but a determination had settled into her carrier's face which she could not bring herself to break. The staff stood by itself, silent as its owner looked around him. Beneath them a dark array traced itself out across the scarred rock.
"To the clinic."
"...ever the Medic..." Annise whispered into her carrier's ear, and he felt her tremble in delight as the dark array beneath them worked it's magic. He could almost smell strawberries in her hair, though something else masked the scent, a scent that caught the shadowmancer's attention--burning flowers. "Your staff..." she began, her glowing eyes catching his again.
He wasn't paying attention. He was looking at her, silently, like an observant cat. Yet it wasn't until that the magic seared up around them, and they found themselves in his quarters in the Undercity, that he finally spoke, only after he had sat her upon the small bed for patients in the corner.
"....you remind me of someone I know."
She realized then, as she watched him methodically take his instruments out--it hadn't hit him. Was this a dream to him? Was he not really seeing her? Concentrating solely on the task on hand, he unrolled his trademark bandages, as if in a trance. Glancing about the small clinic she noticed a change during her absence. The small vase of white roses no longer sat upon his desk, as did the small jewelry box that sat on the cupboard. As she looked upon -him-, with his black robes and quiet demeanor, she noticed that the chain he had always worn around his neck was no longer there. She watched as he picked up the small roll of thin bandages and started to dress her leg. Ignoring his work with his bandages, she scooted off the edge of the small cot, and kneeled down before the distracted Medic.
"....zam..."
"Your wound...stay still..." he murmured softly, reached for the loose end of the bandages again.
Cool fingertips slid against the side of his face as he tried to make sense of it all. He was only met with the sincerity in her expression, and then enclosed in her arms suddenly. Her embrace was stronger than she meant it to be. She whispered, a solemn sound, and the emotion of fear hit her like a ton of bricks as she asked herself, "Already lost to me?"
He was stunned, unable to react. The feeling of such familiar an embrace rippled down his being, and by instance, his hands left the bandages, letting the tip curl up over her back. Words lingered at the tip of his tongue, yet only a small, hushed murmur managed to come out.
"Who...how..." he mouthed out, his mind frozen, unable to think.
Bandages wrapped about her legs and over her shoulder, she pulled her arms away from his neck, and gently pulled his face into her hands, forcing him to look into her gaze. Her features trembled as her senses told her to cry, but no tears came--her vulnerability laid out before him, a glimpse of a woman it hurt him to love.
"Did you think death could ever keep me from you?"
Power.
Commanding the windrider to dive down to the source, she felt dark magic tease her as the manticore tucked in its wings and seemingly fell from the sky, the frigid whip of winds making neither her nor the creature flinch. A wind tunnel of dark magic rose straight up into the air, perhaps thirty feet, and a familiar presence snagged her attentions. The lone figure weaved the darkness from within the vortex as he pleased, lost in his magic. She could see the swirling tendrils of darkness, and within those, silvery lines, lost souls of the chasm. Swirling around in a chorus, the silent orchestra waltzed around the figure at its center, and he guided them with arms outstretched.
The manticore screeched as it's rider commanded it to land, pulling taughtly on the reigns. She had hardly given the creature space to land, and its leathery wing connected hard with the sharp rock rounding the base of the chasm. Obediently, the windrider let Annise free from its back, though its disgruntled growl followed her. Lumbering dead turned their attentions to the movement, crawling toward the source in hopes of fresh meat.
"...zam..." she whispered, her softly glowing eyes staring across the deathfield at the dark orchestrater in the middle.
It was him, no doubt. He seemed taller, darker, the aura pulsing around him nearly making her swoon. He seemed thinner than she could remember, his robes no longer lined with silver but a straight black that flapped wildly in the rushing magic. His eyes were closed as he channelled, reeling in the rush of power that pounded at his senses. He was completely unaware of anything or anyone around him, but the writhing souls.
Rasped moans grew louder as she began to cross the chasm, but Annise could not recognize the danger as the dead figures closed around her. Neither did she notice that it was not only the figure that drew her instinctually across the deathfield, but the scent, the sound, the energy of the magic tethered about him. She tried to pull upon that same magic inherant within her and focused it upon the boney obstacles in her way, but nothing happened. Her attention snapped to the scavenger's sword as its tip tore through the garments strewn over her shoulder, slicing into cold flesh.
She felt nothing, and continued onward.
Closer she went, and closer still, until she could almost touch the edge of the vortex of darkness that surrounded him. Tendril's swept upward, the wisps of shadow occasionally slowing before her, as if teasing. The figure in the center of the swirling mass channelled still, oblivious, utterly lost as the power alone cleaned his mind . Just behind her, she could smell the stench of long dead bodies reaching for her, clawing. Breaking the lull the energy had on her senses, Annise whipped about, and let loose a wave of hellfire, knocking back her assailants. Undettered, they rose again, armless, legless, still burning, crawling to get to her. Casually, she slipped the fabric of her torn robe over her shouder again, ignoring the angry wound buried into her arm, and strode into the vortex.
The figure's eyes widened as the smooth flow of magic was interrupted. The delicately orchestrated vortex shuddered as the sudden presence of another clashed against the flow of the tide. He stood, no longer directing, no longer channel, as the tendrils of shadow swirled calmly around him. Turning his gaze to the source of the disturbance, he spoke hollowly, face apathetic.
"Who dares?"
Right foot, and left, she moved to the unmoving figure, moving as if she were more drifting than walking. Her steps were not careful, her gait sure even as she stepped confidently, feet bare. Undead stood, rimming the vortex, unsure of touching it, decomposed minds sensing danger as Annise confronted the dark priest. She stood quiet, before him, soft eyes traveling over him, noticing the changes that had overtaken the man she once knew. He was cold, emotionless, his eyes unmoving. Slowly the vortex died, wisps of shadow fading into the cold wind of the glacier. Yet the undead stood at range - perhaps they knew the one in the middle was not to be trifled with. He watched and waited with a tempered patience, knowing he could snap the vortex upon her at any moment, locking her soul into it's silvery streams as well.
"You shut me away. To forget, he said," she spoke, dark hair whipped by an icy wind. An anger rustled beneath her calm form, and he could hear it in the resonance of her voice. He was not the only one who had changed.
A sigh escaped her, only met with his silent, hollow stare. She peered about the perimeter at the groaning undead, all locked in place. The phantom-like Forsaken walked about the stoic Soulmancer, circling him slowly. "Has it really been so long?" she asked softly, then, biting back her emotion. "How long have you been here, stirring the bones of the dead?"
"...a while," was the reply, "months." He looked around him, apathetic to the groaning herd that circled them from afar. He stood still as she circled him, his staff balanced in hand.
"You are here....for?"
She stopped mid-circle at his question, insulted. Her lips quivered as she tried to find an answer, but found none in the face of her impassive husband. "You did not expect me to stay there?! Did...?"
Annise quickly gained control of herself. It had felt so good to lash out with Faranell, and she was letting that easily riled power boil to the surface. There would be other times to be investigate the surge. She backed away, arms across her chest, ready to wall up her lost husband with the memories of a life that was no longer hers.
"I thought I knew. Perhaps the Apothecary was right. Forsaken are not meant to have such...attatchments."
"Faranell..." he murmured the words softly, "attachments..." The words seemed to linger upon his lips. His eyes wavered for a second, but he shook his head, clearing his mind of fog. His eyes trailed to the wound upon her shoulder, trailed down further to the gash along her leg. Finally, he closed the distance as she began to walk from him, grasping her arm, inspecting the torn shoulder.
"You are hurt."
Blinking, she peered down as he knelt before her, his knuckles brushing against the back of her leg, which somehow, was in worse shape than her shoulder. She brought her leg back from his touch, however, her voice hardly heard over the wail of hungry dead. "It's nothing. I didn't even know..." Quieting her argument in the face of his concern, she changed subjects. Face turned upward, she stared where the vortex once circled high into the sky. "I've not seen such a force before...how...?"
He looked up into the sky, where the last wisps of power faded from existence. He shrugged slightly once more before turning his attention back to the gash.
"I practiced," was the short answer. Cool fingers brushed against the back of her, and with that, came a small surge of darkness that seem to coil around her limb.
"You are here seeking treatment...very well. I was almost done...I will treat you," and without another word, the dark figure brought his hand under her legs and scooped her up into his arms. Suddenly a patient, she began to object, but a determination had settled into her carrier's face which she could not bring herself to break. The staff stood by itself, silent as its owner looked around him. Beneath them a dark array traced itself out across the scarred rock.
"To the clinic."
"...ever the Medic..." Annise whispered into her carrier's ear, and he felt her tremble in delight as the dark array beneath them worked it's magic. He could almost smell strawberries in her hair, though something else masked the scent, a scent that caught the shadowmancer's attention--burning flowers. "Your staff..." she began, her glowing eyes catching his again.
He wasn't paying attention. He was looking at her, silently, like an observant cat. Yet it wasn't until that the magic seared up around them, and they found themselves in his quarters in the Undercity, that he finally spoke, only after he had sat her upon the small bed for patients in the corner.
"....you remind me of someone I know."
She realized then, as she watched him methodically take his instruments out--it hadn't hit him. Was this a dream to him? Was he not really seeing her? Concentrating solely on the task on hand, he unrolled his trademark bandages, as if in a trance. Glancing about the small clinic she noticed a change during her absence. The small vase of white roses no longer sat upon his desk, as did the small jewelry box that sat on the cupboard. As she looked upon -him-, with his black robes and quiet demeanor, she noticed that the chain he had always worn around his neck was no longer there. She watched as he picked up the small roll of thin bandages and started to dress her leg. Ignoring his work with his bandages, she scooted off the edge of the small cot, and kneeled down before the distracted Medic.
"....zam..."
"Your wound...stay still..." he murmured softly, reached for the loose end of the bandages again.
Cool fingertips slid against the side of his face as he tried to make sense of it all. He was only met with the sincerity in her expression, and then enclosed in her arms suddenly. Her embrace was stronger than she meant it to be. She whispered, a solemn sound, and the emotion of fear hit her like a ton of bricks as she asked herself, "Already lost to me?"
He was stunned, unable to react. The feeling of such familiar an embrace rippled down his being, and by instance, his hands left the bandages, letting the tip curl up over her back. Words lingered at the tip of his tongue, yet only a small, hushed murmur managed to come out.
"Who...how..." he mouthed out, his mind frozen, unable to think.
Bandages wrapped about her legs and over her shoulder, she pulled her arms away from his neck, and gently pulled his face into her hands, forcing him to look into her gaze. Her features trembled as her senses told her to cry, but no tears came--her vulnerability laid out before him, a glimpse of a woman it hurt him to love.
"Did you think death could ever keep me from you?"
(37) Life of Death
The snow was crisp, cold to her knees as she sank, a pure white that hid away so much of the pure evil that inhabited the treacherous peaks of Icecrown. It did nothing to comfort the suffocating warlock. She clutched at her throat, trying to breathe, to cough, anything, but she could feel life leave, stolen in increments by the violet energy that snagged her before the altar, making her flail and twitch like a throttled rag doll in the snow. Frantically, she tried to realize her mistake—was Icecrown too defiled by the Lich King to be a proper ritual choice? Had the offering been wrong? No, everything had been right, been in its place. Annaliese was always thorough with rituals, and she had gone over the preparations over and over just yesterday. Static voices went off somewhere, she could hear a woman screaming her name over a radio, but it was all very far away against the hum of dark energy. This was her wish, her granted boon: death was the cure for weakness. Beautiful ribbons of necromantic magic tore away her ability to reason, leaving her to a cold, silent darkness, frigid as the falling snow.
‘May the darkness embrace you!’
Almost silent.
Her own cry echoing against the stone walls abruptly woke her to attention. Eyes snapping open, she sat up, rigid, her chest heaving, though no breath came to make her move so. Even her heart was still—she knew it would be hammering were she alive. Vision blurred, she peered down, and noticed the blanket of white she lay in. Scrambling up to her feet, she realized the whiteness was not cold snow but soft flowers--millions of them, strewn across a white bed. The fragrance was overpowering to her senses, and she struggled to ignore it and remember what had last happened. And why she was trapped in a mausoleum of sorts…
After a few minutes of swimming in explanations and scenarios, Anna steeled herself against it all, her glowing eyes searching the small room she was closed in. She had to first escape from her tomb before she would get any answers. The inability to breathe gave her also the ability to be calm in what could have been a dire situation, she noticed. Flower petals drifted down from her as she paced against the walls of the room, pleased that she could see so well in the darkness. Finding the slab of wall outlined by a frame, she placed her small hands up against it, and pushed slowly. Again, she was amazed by her own strength. She hardly had to put any effort into the door before it began grinding open against the cement ground. To her dismay, more darkness greeted her on the other side of the door. A tunnel lined in torchlight stretched up, and she followed it without question, recognizing the smell of corpses as it grew stronger.
Master Apothecary Faranell was in quite high spirits today. The day’s experiments had yielded very interesting revelations, batches of plague and antidote were shipped off on their scheduled times, general paperwork was topped off, and the latest shipment of spare parts had been delivered on time. He hummed along as tomorrow’s batch of antidote was packed into its designated crate, and nodded at the last assistant.
“Label it properly and I’ll give you a nice bit of sediment to crunch on,” Faranell said, patting the head of one of the experiment subjects turned helper, a half-lobotomized dwarf. The Forsaken admired his thorough stitching at the back of the bald, clammy cranium as the servant obediently rolled out his package of sticky paper. The crate was half- covered, when the screech of a stone wall made the dwarf and Faranell whip around. The Apothecary’s jaw would have dropped to the floor, if he had had one.
The figure that emerged from the forgotten passageway resembled a phantom more than Forsaken, and Faranell dreaded the idea of having to be tasked to escort a lost banshee back to the Royal Quarters. A harder look, however, and the Apothecary realized who the spectre-like woman was. A low hiss escaped him, and he shooed the dwarf away quickly. Things were going so well without her around.
“Well. This is a surprise. Hm.”
The Apothecary made no secret of his irritation, and began setting the wooden top of the crate in its place. It agitated him further that she did not answer in return, nor did she offer to put the stone wall back into place.
“I suppose it isn’t such a surprise, given one of your…talents. Warlocks don’t often stay dead do they? If it weren’t for the damnable soulbindings, we’d all have a little less to worry about!”
Her eyes fell on him, impassive. He wondered if she had even heard him. Sneering (though no one could really tell what expression he wore), Faranell gathered up a few vials and beakers from the nearby table, and wandered to one adjacent to it where potions of every variety brewed and bubbled happily.
“In any event, what can I do for you? Lead you back to your resting place, perhaps? You are better off there you know.”
He eyed Annise sharply, pouring some vile liquid into one glass vial skillfully. He was so adept at potion pouring, he didn’t have to look while he did so.
“Where is…?” the forsaken spoke too quietly, and Faranell grew impatient with her apparent confusion. She had moved closer, and nearer to his work, which made him nervous.
“You’ll need to report to the base in Northrend, my dear. Though I suspect you’ve already done so before. Personally, I think you need more time to take this all in. Still too…human,” he explained disdainfully.
She was not listening, he knew. He grew further miffed at her disinterest in a superior, insulted.
“My husband…”
"What? Him? No, you don't need to see him. He is not your priority, now my dear," the Apothecary Master crooned coolly. He grinned as he poured the final ingredient of his newest batch into it's steaming vial, the bubbling fluid frothing over the glass. He snapped a gleaming, yellow eye up at the Forsaken woman.
“Quite frankly, he doesn’t need your attentions. The Medic has been on task and quite a help to the forces recently. How long has it been…? Hm, a few months at least. But then it’s not been the first time you’ve “disappeared” so suddenly, has it? Either way, he shut you up in there to forget about you, and I have to say things are much better without you to distract him. He doesn’t even come to visit.”
Faranell’s eyes gleamed in wicked fashion, knowing this hit a nerve in the newly risen one. He watched Annise wring her hands indecisively. How pitiful she really was. He would have to work to fix that one way or another.
“Now, go back and rest like a good girl. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll let you assist me here with our next shipment.”
"Only tell me where he is," her whisper came, clearer to the Apothecary’s ears as a result of her dark resurrection. "I'll let you alone, be gone from here, if you tell, I promise you that." The clinking of vials quickened as the Apothecary turned his back on her, forcing a sigh from his throat, which in itself was quite a feat. He had enough, and he refused to sugar-coat things for the forsaken any further.
“Look. You’re priority is your service to the Forsaken now, and we all have much to do. Zamboozle no longer needs you anymore, and neither will I if you keep acting like a whining child. I require obedience here, and you must prove yourself useful, which you’ve failed in doing so far. I can’t believe even in the time that you spent parading around as one of us you’ve not learned anything. Now. Shut up and help me or I’ll find a way to stuff all your pretty body parts into a fleshdoll.”
Something welled up in the ghostly forsaken, unbeknownst to the Apothecary. Showing no sign of outward anger, she obediently drifted to his side. Annise even smiled at him, and Faranell immediately grew more optimistic about her future.
“That’s more like it. Now then, give me that over th—“
He involuntarily shuddered as two vials of precious plague crashed and shattered on the ground. Annise stood with delicate fingers poised over the rest of his shipments. The smile still on her lips, her voice calm, soft, too sweet.
“I think you ought to tell me where my husband is, Master Faranell. Or we might have a little mess on our hands.”
Fuming, the Master Apothecary stormed over to the undaunted woman as she backed a few steps away, vials still in her gentle hands.
“How dare you threaten me! Get over here you little meatbag! I’ll make sure you’re ridden with maggot holes by daylight!”
He stopped as Annise’s eyes flared, her expression still sickeningly sweet. The crate of antidotes went up into flames at her behest.
“Are—are you completely insane?! You can’t do that!”
“My dear Master Faranell, I am quite sure I can and I have. Tell me where I’ll find him, or I’ll make sure everything you’ve worked on is destroyed before the guard drags me away.”
“Ic…ICECROWN! For the love of all that’s unholy, stop it!” Faranell shrieked as he tried to put out the fire, trying to save what he could of the shipment. “Go and rot!”
“Thank you kindly, Sir. Do have a pleasant evening,” her soft voice answered. A trail of burning white flowers were left in her wake, the scent mixing with the ruined plagues and antidotes, choked the air.
“You tell him he has work to do when he comes back!” he screamed after Annise.
‘May the darkness embrace you!’
Almost silent.
Her own cry echoing against the stone walls abruptly woke her to attention. Eyes snapping open, she sat up, rigid, her chest heaving, though no breath came to make her move so. Even her heart was still—she knew it would be hammering were she alive. Vision blurred, she peered down, and noticed the blanket of white she lay in. Scrambling up to her feet, she realized the whiteness was not cold snow but soft flowers--millions of them, strewn across a white bed. The fragrance was overpowering to her senses, and she struggled to ignore it and remember what had last happened. And why she was trapped in a mausoleum of sorts…
After a few minutes of swimming in explanations and scenarios, Anna steeled herself against it all, her glowing eyes searching the small room she was closed in. She had to first escape from her tomb before she would get any answers. The inability to breathe gave her also the ability to be calm in what could have been a dire situation, she noticed. Flower petals drifted down from her as she paced against the walls of the room, pleased that she could see so well in the darkness. Finding the slab of wall outlined by a frame, she placed her small hands up against it, and pushed slowly. Again, she was amazed by her own strength. She hardly had to put any effort into the door before it began grinding open against the cement ground. To her dismay, more darkness greeted her on the other side of the door. A tunnel lined in torchlight stretched up, and she followed it without question, recognizing the smell of corpses as it grew stronger.
Master Apothecary Faranell was in quite high spirits today. The day’s experiments had yielded very interesting revelations, batches of plague and antidote were shipped off on their scheduled times, general paperwork was topped off, and the latest shipment of spare parts had been delivered on time. He hummed along as tomorrow’s batch of antidote was packed into its designated crate, and nodded at the last assistant.
“Label it properly and I’ll give you a nice bit of sediment to crunch on,” Faranell said, patting the head of one of the experiment subjects turned helper, a half-lobotomized dwarf. The Forsaken admired his thorough stitching at the back of the bald, clammy cranium as the servant obediently rolled out his package of sticky paper. The crate was half- covered, when the screech of a stone wall made the dwarf and Faranell whip around. The Apothecary’s jaw would have dropped to the floor, if he had had one.
The figure that emerged from the forgotten passageway resembled a phantom more than Forsaken, and Faranell dreaded the idea of having to be tasked to escort a lost banshee back to the Royal Quarters. A harder look, however, and the Apothecary realized who the spectre-like woman was. A low hiss escaped him, and he shooed the dwarf away quickly. Things were going so well without her around.
“Well. This is a surprise. Hm.”
The Apothecary made no secret of his irritation, and began setting the wooden top of the crate in its place. It agitated him further that she did not answer in return, nor did she offer to put the stone wall back into place.
“I suppose it isn’t such a surprise, given one of your…talents. Warlocks don’t often stay dead do they? If it weren’t for the damnable soulbindings, we’d all have a little less to worry about!”
Her eyes fell on him, impassive. He wondered if she had even heard him. Sneering (though no one could really tell what expression he wore), Faranell gathered up a few vials and beakers from the nearby table, and wandered to one adjacent to it where potions of every variety brewed and bubbled happily.
“In any event, what can I do for you? Lead you back to your resting place, perhaps? You are better off there you know.”
He eyed Annise sharply, pouring some vile liquid into one glass vial skillfully. He was so adept at potion pouring, he didn’t have to look while he did so.
“Where is…?” the forsaken spoke too quietly, and Faranell grew impatient with her apparent confusion. She had moved closer, and nearer to his work, which made him nervous.
“You’ll need to report to the base in Northrend, my dear. Though I suspect you’ve already done so before. Personally, I think you need more time to take this all in. Still too…human,” he explained disdainfully.
She was not listening, he knew. He grew further miffed at her disinterest in a superior, insulted.
“My husband…”
"What? Him? No, you don't need to see him. He is not your priority, now my dear," the Apothecary Master crooned coolly. He grinned as he poured the final ingredient of his newest batch into it's steaming vial, the bubbling fluid frothing over the glass. He snapped a gleaming, yellow eye up at the Forsaken woman.
“Quite frankly, he doesn’t need your attentions. The Medic has been on task and quite a help to the forces recently. How long has it been…? Hm, a few months at least. But then it’s not been the first time you’ve “disappeared” so suddenly, has it? Either way, he shut you up in there to forget about you, and I have to say things are much better without you to distract him. He doesn’t even come to visit.”
Faranell’s eyes gleamed in wicked fashion, knowing this hit a nerve in the newly risen one. He watched Annise wring her hands indecisively. How pitiful she really was. He would have to work to fix that one way or another.
“Now, go back and rest like a good girl. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll let you assist me here with our next shipment.”
"Only tell me where he is," her whisper came, clearer to the Apothecary’s ears as a result of her dark resurrection. "I'll let you alone, be gone from here, if you tell, I promise you that." The clinking of vials quickened as the Apothecary turned his back on her, forcing a sigh from his throat, which in itself was quite a feat. He had enough, and he refused to sugar-coat things for the forsaken any further.
“Look. You’re priority is your service to the Forsaken now, and we all have much to do. Zamboozle no longer needs you anymore, and neither will I if you keep acting like a whining child. I require obedience here, and you must prove yourself useful, which you’ve failed in doing so far. I can’t believe even in the time that you spent parading around as one of us you’ve not learned anything. Now. Shut up and help me or I’ll find a way to stuff all your pretty body parts into a fleshdoll.”
Something welled up in the ghostly forsaken, unbeknownst to the Apothecary. Showing no sign of outward anger, she obediently drifted to his side. Annise even smiled at him, and Faranell immediately grew more optimistic about her future.
“That’s more like it. Now then, give me that over th—“
He involuntarily shuddered as two vials of precious plague crashed and shattered on the ground. Annise stood with delicate fingers poised over the rest of his shipments. The smile still on her lips, her voice calm, soft, too sweet.
“I think you ought to tell me where my husband is, Master Faranell. Or we might have a little mess on our hands.”
Fuming, the Master Apothecary stormed over to the undaunted woman as she backed a few steps away, vials still in her gentle hands.
“How dare you threaten me! Get over here you little meatbag! I’ll make sure you’re ridden with maggot holes by daylight!”
He stopped as Annise’s eyes flared, her expression still sickeningly sweet. The crate of antidotes went up into flames at her behest.
“Are—are you completely insane?! You can’t do that!”
“My dear Master Faranell, I am quite sure I can and I have. Tell me where I’ll find him, or I’ll make sure everything you’ve worked on is destroyed before the guard drags me away.”
“Ic…ICECROWN! For the love of all that’s unholy, stop it!” Faranell shrieked as he tried to put out the fire, trying to save what he could of the shipment. “Go and rot!”
“Thank you kindly, Sir. Do have a pleasant evening,” her soft voice answered. A trail of burning white flowers were left in her wake, the scent mixing with the ruined plagues and antidotes, choked the air.
“You tell him he has work to do when he comes back!” he screamed after Annise.
(36) Rebith
The incessant clinking of metal within the laboratory was almost mesmorizing, if not for the large hunks of undead flesh that hung on their chained hooks, awaiting testing. Apothecary Faranell hummed along as he stitched the slowly rotting skin of a detatched leg closed. The bone still strong, it would serve well as a resort for a new guard despite it's lack of...appearance. Most forsaken were not concerned with "appearance" anyway. The few that did most certainly did not come to recieve his little "fix-ups", though his work was renown throughout the Undercity.
Piling the leg up on the top of the other reserved limbs, he rounded back to his desk, stacking his papers, and prepared the census of newer arrivals for the day to be sent and filed up to the medical quarter just upstairs. A grumble left him through raspy lungs as he thought on the usually attentive Medic, who was more or less a hermit inside of his quarters now for whatever reason there might be. Just before he could press in the buzzer to catch the hermit's attention, he was distracted by the rustle of feet of a few nervous assistants, clambering down the stairs.
"Ugh...what is it now?" came the throaty groan of the master alchemist, knowing he would be pulled away from his precious potions again. Two nameless apprentices approached Faranell's desk, a third figure trailing just behind.
"A...a new arrival, Sir, " one apprentice stammered, scratching at the sores that decorated his deformed face with bony fingertips. The other apprentice, eyeless and female, simply nodded after the first. Faranell slammed his hand on his own desk, making the trio jump slightly at his irritation. "Call the damnable Medic down here already, and have him deal with it! I have experiments to run, don't you see that?!"
The alchemist wavered his skinless fingers toward the table behind him, decorated with flasks and jars of every color, awaiting his tinkering. The apprentices looked at each other in hesitation, parting slightly as they began to turn around--possibly to a certain doom at disturbing the Medic. The new arrival behind them, pale, and ghost-like, carried herself with a certain elegance as she followed behind silently. Faranell followed her with his eyes as she walked away...and stood up from his chair.
"Wait...wait. You. Come here, dear. Have a seat," the apothecary offered in a gentlemanly tone, pointing to the empty seat before his desk. The apprentices quickly advocated the laboratory, relieved beyond belief, leaving the new forsaken to what awaited her. The guest was dazed and lost like most new forsaken tended to be, her eyes downcast, the unearthly light of them cast downward as well. Faranell laughed quietly at her sadness, his fingers interlocking upon the top of his desk as he took a study of her when she sat---how incredibly kind undeath had been to her, keeping her whole from what he could see.
"Don't be so sad, my dear," the apothecary remarked, trying to fight back the tinge of envy of her condition he felt. "You'll find your new life fantastic soon enough. So much to be accomplished, so much to do, and an eternity to do them in--if you are smart!"
The Apothecary grinned--or he would have, if he had a mouth. His tongue lolled haplessly as he talked without a jaw--it was a skill to speak so fluently without the luxury of lips, reliant on the throaty garble of his vocal chords. He focused more on the forsaken before him, and paused, musing.
"You do look quite familiar...where have I seen such a lovely lady before, hmm..." he said, thrumming his fingers upon the desk. His guest sighed, shaking her head, dark hair falling about her lifeless face. Her fingers kept moving to her throat in habit, though nothing decorated it. Always having an eye for details, Faranell caught sight of the silver ring on her slender finger as she touched her neck. He sat back against his chair in realization as she looked up at him from the darkness of her hair, a bit too silent.
"Ahh! I must admit, milady, it's been a time since I've seen you. Nevertheless, welcome, welcome...what can I do for you?"
The forsaken peered from one end of the Apothecarium, and then the other. Her voice came softly, though a resonance echoed after it--the after-effect of necromantic meddling. "I...I don't know really. I didn't know where else...to go..."
"Hrm. You seem quite confused, madame. I doubt I can help you here. You are hardl--" the Apothecary took a longer sweep of the forsaken with his eyes, the pallid skin, devoid of any life, the quite real effect that such dark magic can have on the living that no enchantment could hope to imitate. A hiss escaped Apothecary Faranell, meant to be a sigh, the bony fingers steepling against each other as he nodded gravely. The amount of amusement he felt right now was...priceless, behind the serious exterior.
"I see. Most interesting, my dear, this little revelation. I suppose you'll be wanting to see your husband...? Yes?"
She looked up, shifting uncertainly, picking at the black lace that decorated her sleeves. The master alchemist began pressing the buzzer under his desk obnoxiusly, before she could answer.
"...what? WHAT?!" the Medic's voice cried helplessly on the other end of the communication.
"Finally!" Faranell exclaimed. "You can't be a hermit forever, Medic. Get down here. Your wife is waiting for you."
There was a long pause before a reply came, the voice on the other end spiteful, and hurt. "Tell my wife that I am too busy doing "unspeakable things" with a blood elf to attend to her."
Annise's chair creaked as she heard the hurtful voice, a pitiful, guilty expression coming over her pale face. Faranell, on the other hand, sighed into the microphone, holding up a finger to her to request her staying.
"Oh? How good for you then, since your wife is dead. Come along, milady, I'll take -care- of you."
The chains above rattled as something -crashed- on the upper level. One could hear the pounding of steps follow, several surprised cries as the Medic made his way down, knocking anyone and anything down in his way.
In a flurry of dark robes, his blonde hair tangled from the run, the Medic stood frozen, staring down at the figure of his wife in her chair--death magic having taken hold and stolen her life.
"A...Anna?!" he spoke, in shock as he kneeled, taking the new addition's hand in his. A garbled, throaty sound came from the Apothecary as he cleared his throat, making the couple peer back at him.
"Lady Annise..." Faranell said, bowing deeply, "welcome, to the fold."
And with that, he turned back to his precious concoctions, snickering at the situation.
Piling the leg up on the top of the other reserved limbs, he rounded back to his desk, stacking his papers, and prepared the census of newer arrivals for the day to be sent and filed up to the medical quarter just upstairs. A grumble left him through raspy lungs as he thought on the usually attentive Medic, who was more or less a hermit inside of his quarters now for whatever reason there might be. Just before he could press in the buzzer to catch the hermit's attention, he was distracted by the rustle of feet of a few nervous assistants, clambering down the stairs.
"Ugh...what is it now?" came the throaty groan of the master alchemist, knowing he would be pulled away from his precious potions again. Two nameless apprentices approached Faranell's desk, a third figure trailing just behind.
"A...a new arrival, Sir, " one apprentice stammered, scratching at the sores that decorated his deformed face with bony fingertips. The other apprentice, eyeless and female, simply nodded after the first. Faranell slammed his hand on his own desk, making the trio jump slightly at his irritation. "Call the damnable Medic down here already, and have him deal with it! I have experiments to run, don't you see that?!"
The alchemist wavered his skinless fingers toward the table behind him, decorated with flasks and jars of every color, awaiting his tinkering. The apprentices looked at each other in hesitation, parting slightly as they began to turn around--possibly to a certain doom at disturbing the Medic. The new arrival behind them, pale, and ghost-like, carried herself with a certain elegance as she followed behind silently. Faranell followed her with his eyes as she walked away...and stood up from his chair.
"Wait...wait. You. Come here, dear. Have a seat," the apothecary offered in a gentlemanly tone, pointing to the empty seat before his desk. The apprentices quickly advocated the laboratory, relieved beyond belief, leaving the new forsaken to what awaited her. The guest was dazed and lost like most new forsaken tended to be, her eyes downcast, the unearthly light of them cast downward as well. Faranell laughed quietly at her sadness, his fingers interlocking upon the top of his desk as he took a study of her when she sat---how incredibly kind undeath had been to her, keeping her whole from what he could see.
"Don't be so sad, my dear," the apothecary remarked, trying to fight back the tinge of envy of her condition he felt. "You'll find your new life fantastic soon enough. So much to be accomplished, so much to do, and an eternity to do them in--if you are smart!"
The Apothecary grinned--or he would have, if he had a mouth. His tongue lolled haplessly as he talked without a jaw--it was a skill to speak so fluently without the luxury of lips, reliant on the throaty garble of his vocal chords. He focused more on the forsaken before him, and paused, musing.
"You do look quite familiar...where have I seen such a lovely lady before, hmm..." he said, thrumming his fingers upon the desk. His guest sighed, shaking her head, dark hair falling about her lifeless face. Her fingers kept moving to her throat in habit, though nothing decorated it. Always having an eye for details, Faranell caught sight of the silver ring on her slender finger as she touched her neck. He sat back against his chair in realization as she looked up at him from the darkness of her hair, a bit too silent.
"Ahh! I must admit, milady, it's been a time since I've seen you. Nevertheless, welcome, welcome...what can I do for you?"
The forsaken peered from one end of the Apothecarium, and then the other. Her voice came softly, though a resonance echoed after it--the after-effect of necromantic meddling. "I...I don't know really. I didn't know where else...to go..."
"Hrm. You seem quite confused, madame. I doubt I can help you here. You are hardl--" the Apothecary took a longer sweep of the forsaken with his eyes, the pallid skin, devoid of any life, the quite real effect that such dark magic can have on the living that no enchantment could hope to imitate. A hiss escaped Apothecary Faranell, meant to be a sigh, the bony fingers steepling against each other as he nodded gravely. The amount of amusement he felt right now was...priceless, behind the serious exterior.
"I see. Most interesting, my dear, this little revelation. I suppose you'll be wanting to see your husband...? Yes?"
She looked up, shifting uncertainly, picking at the black lace that decorated her sleeves. The master alchemist began pressing the buzzer under his desk obnoxiusly, before she could answer.
"...what? WHAT?!" the Medic's voice cried helplessly on the other end of the communication.
"Finally!" Faranell exclaimed. "You can't be a hermit forever, Medic. Get down here. Your wife is waiting for you."
There was a long pause before a reply came, the voice on the other end spiteful, and hurt. "Tell my wife that I am too busy doing "unspeakable things" with a blood elf to attend to her."
Annise's chair creaked as she heard the hurtful voice, a pitiful, guilty expression coming over her pale face. Faranell, on the other hand, sighed into the microphone, holding up a finger to her to request her staying.
"Oh? How good for you then, since your wife is dead. Come along, milady, I'll take -care- of you."
The chains above rattled as something -crashed- on the upper level. One could hear the pounding of steps follow, several surprised cries as the Medic made his way down, knocking anyone and anything down in his way.
In a flurry of dark robes, his blonde hair tangled from the run, the Medic stood frozen, staring down at the figure of his wife in her chair--death magic having taken hold and stolen her life.
"A...Anna?!" he spoke, in shock as he kneeled, taking the new addition's hand in his. A garbled, throaty sound came from the Apothecary as he cleared his throat, making the couple peer back at him.
"Lady Annise..." Faranell said, bowing deeply, "welcome, to the fold."
And with that, he turned back to his precious concoctions, snickering at the situation.
(35) Mistress
Click, clack. Click...clack. Hooves clicked down the elaborate street of Dalaran, night bringing a reserved quiet to the bustling, magical city. Elernia snorted at the display of pies as the fragile little elf baker took them inside, quick to avoid the gleaming eyes of the succubus. She could only grin, fingers tapping against a fang as she thought of how to properly introduce herself to the pretty little high elf, and show her a real way to heat sweet things up.
"Elernia. Come along," came the soft, delicate voice of her mistress, pulling her out of her own schemes. The Sayaadi pushed up her leathery corset, the gesture far more improper than intended. She breathed out, making sure to puff out her chest, and bosom for view.
"Coming darling," Elernia answered with a grin. She was glad to see her Mistress doing well now, since her ill-fated confrontation with the barbarian named Ricardys. Of course, if it hadn't been for her, Annaliese would probably still be unconscious, swimming in her own mind, lying like a corpse in the damned Forsaken's clinic. Elernia's remaining wing twitched in rememberence of her disfigurement--frequent trips to the shadowy realm of the Nether would grow the missing wing back eventually, but it would take time.
The succubus grinned deviously as she planned on how to screw up the "Medic's" life again. Smash and scatter through his collection of orbs? Feed his ridiculous crawdad an over-abundance of fel-stones? Send the Medic a male prostitute? Elernia laughed quietly as the schemes rattled through her mind, and then decided on one, as they climbed their way to the Violet Citadel. She gave a disarming smile to the powerful archmage Rhonin as she thought, following her mistress: 'How terribly convenient it would be were the Medic's assistance required for a solid month or so in...say...Ogri'la. Just a change in schedule could be made, and he'd be off to a happy little vacation...away from the Mistress...how delightful! Then maybe I could dissaude her interest in him...show her other...mm...oppurtunities.'
The succubus' grin only grew wider as the thoughts progressed, passing through the portal to the Purple Parlor, just behind the warlock. It amazed her still, how this quiet, reserved human could control the forces of the fel so expertly, and be so uncertain of herself. There was potential to be unlocked, but it would be unseen as long as the Forsaken had his hold on her fragile, human heart, Elernia knew. It was an irritation before, something the succubus overlooked. But now, she knew he was a threat now, to her specifically. Demons were tied to warlocks for a reason--to help them to be ushered to their destiny--Elernia would be damned if her Mistress would not be a part of the Final Plan.
Annaliese stood at the balcony, away from the studious mages in the Parlor, arms folded across her chest, awaiting. Flexing her single, leathery wing, Elernia approached casually.
"I want you to tell me what you did," the woman said softly, her back turned, looking over the quiet street below.
"Did? I do many, many wondrous things, My Mistress," Elernia purred with a chuckle, shimmying slightly in the night wind. Anna turned around to face her...and the succubus paused. There was something different about the warlock. The gentle, warm eyes had gone cold, a ring of deep violet circling the amber color of her eyes. Elernia shuddered somewhat in the face of her mistress, though Anna had done nothing threatening to her.
"Tell me. Tell me what you did. To him," again came the soft, measured voice. "He can hardly look at me anymore. And he blames you. What did you do?"
Elernia scoffed, hand on hip, a sneer at blood red lips. "I did what he had no spine to do. I woke you up, Mistress. He cannot understand the responsibilities of a warlock, and with your lack of control on the rest of your Bound, things were growing dire in situation. You were needed. I had your well-being in mind, as I always do, Dove."
Anna was still, watching the succubus, expressionless. Something was on the evening air, something dark...not of the fel. It screamed on the wind of death, in hoarse whispers. Before the Sayaadi could make sense of it all, she was slammed against the wall of the Parlor, an array of necromantic runes glowing vividly behind her as the magic bound her in place.
"Mistress!! That is his magic!!" the succubus hissed as the life seemed to be squelched from her lungs, her mistress trembling in anger.
"Yes. And this is mine..." Anna whispered harshly, fingers clutched tightly to the demon's shoulder. Fire burst from the grip, yellow-green in color--fel fire. The dancing flames rippled down one half of the succubus' body, scalding her smooth skin. The unearthly scream of the demon pierced the night, the fire enveloping the other wing.
"Learn your place. You will stop your "helping", unless I have request for it. Or I will tear off your other wing, and break you like the whore you are," Anna spoke in the same, measured, soft tone, even as the mages put down their books and shuffled outside to see what had transpired.
"My Lady?! Is everything alright...?" the Archmage John Nicolas exclaimed. They were only met with the sight of a lady leaning over the balcony, the succubus, and all hint of dark magic gone. Annaliese smiled gently, and bowed in respect.
"Just enjoying the night, gentlemen..."
"Elernia. Come along," came the soft, delicate voice of her mistress, pulling her out of her own schemes. The Sayaadi pushed up her leathery corset, the gesture far more improper than intended. She breathed out, making sure to puff out her chest, and bosom for view.
"Coming darling," Elernia answered with a grin. She was glad to see her Mistress doing well now, since her ill-fated confrontation with the barbarian named Ricardys. Of course, if it hadn't been for her, Annaliese would probably still be unconscious, swimming in her own mind, lying like a corpse in the damned Forsaken's clinic. Elernia's remaining wing twitched in rememberence of her disfigurement--frequent trips to the shadowy realm of the Nether would grow the missing wing back eventually, but it would take time.
The succubus grinned deviously as she planned on how to screw up the "Medic's" life again. Smash and scatter through his collection of orbs? Feed his ridiculous crawdad an over-abundance of fel-stones? Send the Medic a male prostitute? Elernia laughed quietly as the schemes rattled through her mind, and then decided on one, as they climbed their way to the Violet Citadel. She gave a disarming smile to the powerful archmage Rhonin as she thought, following her mistress: 'How terribly convenient it would be were the Medic's assistance required for a solid month or so in...say...Ogri'la. Just a change in schedule could be made, and he'd be off to a happy little vacation...away from the Mistress...how delightful! Then maybe I could dissaude her interest in him...show her other...mm...oppurtunities.'
The succubus' grin only grew wider as the thoughts progressed, passing through the portal to the Purple Parlor, just behind the warlock. It amazed her still, how this quiet, reserved human could control the forces of the fel so expertly, and be so uncertain of herself. There was potential to be unlocked, but it would be unseen as long as the Forsaken had his hold on her fragile, human heart, Elernia knew. It was an irritation before, something the succubus overlooked. But now, she knew he was a threat now, to her specifically. Demons were tied to warlocks for a reason--to help them to be ushered to their destiny--Elernia would be damned if her Mistress would not be a part of the Final Plan.
Annaliese stood at the balcony, away from the studious mages in the Parlor, arms folded across her chest, awaiting. Flexing her single, leathery wing, Elernia approached casually.
"I want you to tell me what you did," the woman said softly, her back turned, looking over the quiet street below.
"Did? I do many, many wondrous things, My Mistress," Elernia purred with a chuckle, shimmying slightly in the night wind. Anna turned around to face her...and the succubus paused. There was something different about the warlock. The gentle, warm eyes had gone cold, a ring of deep violet circling the amber color of her eyes. Elernia shuddered somewhat in the face of her mistress, though Anna had done nothing threatening to her.
"Tell me. Tell me what you did. To him," again came the soft, measured voice. "He can hardly look at me anymore. And he blames you. What did you do?"
Elernia scoffed, hand on hip, a sneer at blood red lips. "I did what he had no spine to do. I woke you up, Mistress. He cannot understand the responsibilities of a warlock, and with your lack of control on the rest of your Bound, things were growing dire in situation. You were needed. I had your well-being in mind, as I always do, Dove."
Anna was still, watching the succubus, expressionless. Something was on the evening air, something dark...not of the fel. It screamed on the wind of death, in hoarse whispers. Before the Sayaadi could make sense of it all, she was slammed against the wall of the Parlor, an array of necromantic runes glowing vividly behind her as the magic bound her in place.
"Mistress!! That is his magic!!" the succubus hissed as the life seemed to be squelched from her lungs, her mistress trembling in anger.
"Yes. And this is mine..." Anna whispered harshly, fingers clutched tightly to the demon's shoulder. Fire burst from the grip, yellow-green in color--fel fire. The dancing flames rippled down one half of the succubus' body, scalding her smooth skin. The unearthly scream of the demon pierced the night, the fire enveloping the other wing.
"Learn your place. You will stop your "helping", unless I have request for it. Or I will tear off your other wing, and break you like the whore you are," Anna spoke in the same, measured, soft tone, even as the mages put down their books and shuffled outside to see what had transpired.
"My Lady?! Is everything alright...?" the Archmage John Nicolas exclaimed. They were only met with the sight of a lady leaning over the balcony, the succubus, and all hint of dark magic gone. Annaliese smiled gently, and bowed in respect.
"Just enjoying the night, gentlemen..."
(34) Coma
Even for Annaliese, the day left a sour taste in her mouth. For one increment of a moment, she wished she would be left alone. She chastised herself for offering her help to Josin earlier in the day--the consistent battering upon the Halls of Lightning began to wear her down. After her long contract amongst the Sons of Hodir, trying to gain their respect for the chance at their knowledge of a jewel crafting design, she never wanted to step in snow again. Too bad it covered most of the continent of Northrend.
Now, she wallowed in it, her body still burning from within with the sting of lightning. Anna trembled from the pain, the cold of the snow in no way numbing the pain of her wounds. Ricardys was always handy with his healing magics, and with crafting new weapons of destruction. The motorcycle he drove off of the city of Dalaran with lay toppled in the snow, and Anna had managed to scramble away from the passenger seat he had thrown her in after incapacitating her. She was shocked she was alive, but not so surprised that her guild mate was. Ricardys was incredibly resilient. And annoyingly thick-headed.
It was not stubborn, or pig-headedness that drove Rick now, but the whim of the purely insane. He leered over her now, even as she scrambled through the snow to get away, eyes full of bloodlust, his skin the red of a furious crawdad. Her pleas had gone unheard, her display of choosing not to harm him, ignored.
"Now…now you know the Truth of death…" he spoke through gritted teeth as he rose his heavy, glowing mace to his side. "…so let it be done!"
The sound of the mace cracking against her skull was sickening, and the salty taste of her own blood soon took place of the sourness in her throat.
(A time later...)
The boat rocked gently on the waves of the sea, stretching endlessly. The water was clear, and gray, the color reflected from the skies above. No shore was in sight, and Annaliese could not tell where her small wooden boat was going. Even the oars were missing. It did not take her long to break down, seeing that she was alone. Her face in her hands, she sobbed, the occasional lap of water her reply. She thought she would scream--and then a voice rang out through the skies above her, calling her name. Looking up, she startled, almost tipping the boat. She relaxed immediately upon the sight of her husband, clad in white robes, so handsome, with her in her small boat on the sea.
"Anna…anna!" he said with a relieved sigh, reaching out to crush her to him. She felt his warmth, and welcomed it, sobs forgotten. "It's alright, love…it's alright. I'm here…"
Zam asked his questions, and she did her best to answer…the sooner she could be held again, the better. Each answer, however, seemed to darken him, or make his manner so sullen. He seemed to stare out over the water as he held to her hands, just as lost as she.
"I can't feel you….I wish I could…" she sighed at last, squeezing his hands, but not feeling his skin. He turned his soft eyes to hers, a deep, deep melancholy caught within his gaze.
"I've healed your body, managed to salvage it…but your mind is…lost. It might take time to recover, love…" he explained, his words painful. She wondered if he even knew he was here, in this boat, rocking. Anna realized then, that she was trapped in her own mind, and no shore would appear, until she was strong enough to see it. Zam tried to smile at her, but could not even bring himself to do it, the light fading from his eyes. Again, she fell to tears, holding to her distraught love.
"I'm…I'm so sorry…I should have…fought. Did something. I'm such an idiot…" Anna murmured incomprehensibly between tears. "I can't stand seeing you like this…"
His hand rose, a warm beacon of light filling it. Settling it on her chest, he murmured softly as she began to slip to the bottom of the boat, the lull of it putting her to sleep as much as the warmth of his magic.
"You are tired…you've been through so much, love. Surely you need to rest…?"
The Medic stared down at the body of his wife, still, upon the table. Washed clean of blood finally, her chest rose rhythmically as she breathed. Dark thoughts swirled in his mind, thoughts he drove away with all he could manage…but only to resurface. A blanket was pulled up to Anna's chin. He was glad to give her some sort of rest.
He couldn't allow her to see him fall apart.
Now, she wallowed in it, her body still burning from within with the sting of lightning. Anna trembled from the pain, the cold of the snow in no way numbing the pain of her wounds. Ricardys was always handy with his healing magics, and with crafting new weapons of destruction. The motorcycle he drove off of the city of Dalaran with lay toppled in the snow, and Anna had managed to scramble away from the passenger seat he had thrown her in after incapacitating her. She was shocked she was alive, but not so surprised that her guild mate was. Ricardys was incredibly resilient. And annoyingly thick-headed.
It was not stubborn, or pig-headedness that drove Rick now, but the whim of the purely insane. He leered over her now, even as she scrambled through the snow to get away, eyes full of bloodlust, his skin the red of a furious crawdad. Her pleas had gone unheard, her display of choosing not to harm him, ignored.
"Now…now you know the Truth of death…" he spoke through gritted teeth as he rose his heavy, glowing mace to his side. "…so let it be done!"
The sound of the mace cracking against her skull was sickening, and the salty taste of her own blood soon took place of the sourness in her throat.
(A time later...)
The boat rocked gently on the waves of the sea, stretching endlessly. The water was clear, and gray, the color reflected from the skies above. No shore was in sight, and Annaliese could not tell where her small wooden boat was going. Even the oars were missing. It did not take her long to break down, seeing that she was alone. Her face in her hands, she sobbed, the occasional lap of water her reply. She thought she would scream--and then a voice rang out through the skies above her, calling her name. Looking up, she startled, almost tipping the boat. She relaxed immediately upon the sight of her husband, clad in white robes, so handsome, with her in her small boat on the sea.
"Anna…anna!" he said with a relieved sigh, reaching out to crush her to him. She felt his warmth, and welcomed it, sobs forgotten. "It's alright, love…it's alright. I'm here…"
Zam asked his questions, and she did her best to answer…the sooner she could be held again, the better. Each answer, however, seemed to darken him, or make his manner so sullen. He seemed to stare out over the water as he held to her hands, just as lost as she.
"I can't feel you….I wish I could…" she sighed at last, squeezing his hands, but not feeling his skin. He turned his soft eyes to hers, a deep, deep melancholy caught within his gaze.
"I've healed your body, managed to salvage it…but your mind is…lost. It might take time to recover, love…" he explained, his words painful. She wondered if he even knew he was here, in this boat, rocking. Anna realized then, that she was trapped in her own mind, and no shore would appear, until she was strong enough to see it. Zam tried to smile at her, but could not even bring himself to do it, the light fading from his eyes. Again, she fell to tears, holding to her distraught love.
"I'm…I'm so sorry…I should have…fought. Did something. I'm such an idiot…" Anna murmured incomprehensibly between tears. "I can't stand seeing you like this…"
His hand rose, a warm beacon of light filling it. Settling it on her chest, he murmured softly as she began to slip to the bottom of the boat, the lull of it putting her to sleep as much as the warmth of his magic.
"You are tired…you've been through so much, love. Surely you need to rest…?"
The Medic stared down at the body of his wife, still, upon the table. Washed clean of blood finally, her chest rose rhythmically as she breathed. Dark thoughts swirled in his mind, thoughts he drove away with all he could manage…but only to resurface. A blanket was pulled up to Anna's chin. He was glad to give her some sort of rest.
He couldn't allow her to see him fall apart.
(33) Business
Again, she opened the broken seal upon the envelope, and unfolded the thick piece of folded parchment, studying the writing. It took all her calm to resist crumpling the instructions, or to rip them into tiny pieces. Sliding her fingers up through her hair, a wisp of dark red trembled at her exhaled breath before she tucked it behind her ear. She let the letter float down to her desk, supporting herself against it as she leaned over, looking over her reagents.
"Well," she spoke beneath her breath to the air, "lets get started, shall we?"
Grasping the obsidian hilt of the dagger, she pushed in the large ruby eye embedded in the ornate leather, triggering the mechanism to release the trapped blood inside of the blade. It had drawn the right amount of blood from the targeted demon, like a syringe, and she smiled faintly at it's handiwork. The stream of thick blood dripped upon the fixed circlet of felsteel, painting the metal with a brilliant crimson.
Muttering in thought to herself, she twisted around to a top shelf of her cabinet, bringing out the ornate box, which contained a treasure trove of soul shards. Bits of essences lie within each glimmering prison, some stolen from the most vile, powerful, or ethereal creatures of the lands she has visited. She frowned, sighing in disappointment as she removed one of the shards from it's velvet setting. The box lid slammed down harshly as she turned back to the ring, the blood dripping over it.
Carefully, she set the glowing shard into the metal catch, made for it, just at the front of the ring. It glowed like an eye already, spying upon it's creator.
"Oh, don't you look at me like that. You should feel privileged. I've held you in that box all this time, and now you're going to be the focus of a pretty little ring," she murmured aloud, caressing the pink glass with a finger tip. "Make me proud…"
With that, she curled her hands over the ring, shoulders slackened as she brought the shadow magic to her will. It was heavy in the air of the shop, all around her, like a black, foreboding fog. Flexing her fingers downward, toward the ring, the shadow magic fell upon the trinket like a black flame, growing more corporeal as the soft, chanted words escaped from her lips, like a dark lullaby:
"Ithic kull narraxis xi astarr..
Ithic kull narraxis xi astarr..
Nith avit ver thine
Neherat"
The black flame snapped upward at the last word spoken, an echo of whispers having repeated her words, fading with the shadow. The soul shard gleamed, fused to the now black, delicate metal of the ring.
Annaliese stared at the cursed ring for a long moment, a malevolent piece kissed by the Dark.
"I hope you choke on it," she gritted between her teeth, whipping around to find a suitable box for the ring.
"Well," she spoke beneath her breath to the air, "lets get started, shall we?"
Grasping the obsidian hilt of the dagger, she pushed in the large ruby eye embedded in the ornate leather, triggering the mechanism to release the trapped blood inside of the blade. It had drawn the right amount of blood from the targeted demon, like a syringe, and she smiled faintly at it's handiwork. The stream of thick blood dripped upon the fixed circlet of felsteel, painting the metal with a brilliant crimson.
Muttering in thought to herself, she twisted around to a top shelf of her cabinet, bringing out the ornate box, which contained a treasure trove of soul shards. Bits of essences lie within each glimmering prison, some stolen from the most vile, powerful, or ethereal creatures of the lands she has visited. She frowned, sighing in disappointment as she removed one of the shards from it's velvet setting. The box lid slammed down harshly as she turned back to the ring, the blood dripping over it.
Carefully, she set the glowing shard into the metal catch, made for it, just at the front of the ring. It glowed like an eye already, spying upon it's creator.
"Oh, don't you look at me like that. You should feel privileged. I've held you in that box all this time, and now you're going to be the focus of a pretty little ring," she murmured aloud, caressing the pink glass with a finger tip. "Make me proud…"
With that, she curled her hands over the ring, shoulders slackened as she brought the shadow magic to her will. It was heavy in the air of the shop, all around her, like a black, foreboding fog. Flexing her fingers downward, toward the ring, the shadow magic fell upon the trinket like a black flame, growing more corporeal as the soft, chanted words escaped from her lips, like a dark lullaby:
"Ithic kull narraxis xi astarr..
Ithic kull narraxis xi astarr..
Nith avit ver thine
Neherat"
The black flame snapped upward at the last word spoken, an echo of whispers having repeated her words, fading with the shadow. The soul shard gleamed, fused to the now black, delicate metal of the ring.
Annaliese stared at the cursed ring for a long moment, a malevolent piece kissed by the Dark.
"I hope you choke on it," she gritted between her teeth, whipping around to find a suitable box for the ring.
(32) Message
The sound of another gem shattering broke the peace of the Aldor Tier yet again. Her slender fingers would not cease their trembling. As the sun began to rise over Shattrath, Annaliese only began to notice that she had not slept at all. She gazed around the room, in which a multitude of cut gems lie around her, thousands, perhaps. Eyes sore, overworked, she picked up another gem, a talasite, and began to grind it with the heavy stone methodically.
"What...oath? There is no oath...no more..." she whispered to herself, the talasite gem held tightly between her hand and the grinding stone. Wound tight, on edge, she recollected the words from the voice over the stone earlier that day.
"The Dark Lord reminds you of your oath, and he wishes for you to remember him."
The talasite gem broke under the pressure, a large piece of it shattering and lodging in her hand. Gasping under the sudden pain of the injury, Annaliese rushed to gather a strip of cloth from the nearby desk. Blood weeped from the glimmering shard stuck between forefinger and thumb. Though her eyes were hardly able to keep open from the lack of sleep, still, they were drawn to the flow of blood.
A flurry of images swept through her mind, the ritualistic taking of demonic blood, cut fresh from the vein of a Dreadlord, the exalted silence of others around her as she drank it down, sealing her oath to the Great Dark.
Somewhere, came the whisper, indistinguishable from reality or memory...
Darkness embrace you all.
"I am not bound by the oath! You are dead!" she cried out, the talasite flung across the floor, shattering further into small pieces. The empty bed served for comfort as she wavered toward it, her hands cradling her head in frustration. As her blood crept down her fingers, down her wedding ring, down her wrist, the lingering bit of cloth was forgotten as well as the pain of the wound, and sleep became a close friend.
"What...oath? There is no oath...no more..." she whispered to herself, the talasite gem held tightly between her hand and the grinding stone. Wound tight, on edge, she recollected the words from the voice over the stone earlier that day.
"The Dark Lord reminds you of your oath, and he wishes for you to remember him."
The talasite gem broke under the pressure, a large piece of it shattering and lodging in her hand. Gasping under the sudden pain of the injury, Annaliese rushed to gather a strip of cloth from the nearby desk. Blood weeped from the glimmering shard stuck between forefinger and thumb. Though her eyes were hardly able to keep open from the lack of sleep, still, they were drawn to the flow of blood.
A flurry of images swept through her mind, the ritualistic taking of demonic blood, cut fresh from the vein of a Dreadlord, the exalted silence of others around her as she drank it down, sealing her oath to the Great Dark.
Somewhere, came the whisper, indistinguishable from reality or memory...
Darkness embrace you all.
"I am not bound by the oath! You are dead!" she cried out, the talasite flung across the floor, shattering further into small pieces. The empty bed served for comfort as she wavered toward it, her hands cradling her head in frustration. As her blood crept down her fingers, down her wedding ring, down her wrist, the lingering bit of cloth was forgotten as well as the pain of the wound, and sleep became a close friend.
(31) Change
Glittering gems littered the shelves, everything from Blood Garnets, to Lionseyes were safely displayed. A smile was pulled from Annaliese's lips, her slender fingers passing over the gold trimmed vanity box which housed her collection of "trophies": powerful soul shards, even the essence of Kael'thas himself imprisoned in one. With a sigh, she closed the cabinet shut, twisting the lock in place. She felt a little silly having to take such precautions, but it really was better to be safe, than sorry. The new location of her shop was satisfying at least--there would be no more incredulous rental fees to worry about, and it definititely was safer than the former store in the Park of Stormwind. It was clear, after the last two break-ins, it was time to move.
Moving around the smooth metal benches that decorated the Aldor tier, she sighed, fingers clenched tightly to the black book at her side. It was the only clue left at the tower that Investigator Darokin pointed her to, and there was nothing else incriminating of this "Shadow Wolf" entity she was referred to. Months ago, her store was vandalized by Defias, and though the burglers were apprehended, they spoke nothing of their allegiances, other than the given personage. Furthermore, a priceless pendant that was stolen still had to be returned, only one other in existance of its kind. Though the Consortium's work with her on the product ended up in failure, the piece was still dear to her, fragile as it was.
Idly, she flipped through the small journal of handwritten notes, which listed targeted merchant establishments all over Azeroth--her shop, "Nightseye Designs, being the last listed. What were these people after? It bothered her to no end, that nothing was done by the Stormwind guard to alleviate the situation. Stuffing the journal into her satchel, she quirked her lips into a frown, fearing she'd never see her belongings returned. Treading out toward the exit of the new Nightseye Designs, the ward came into effect as she stepped out of the shop, barring out uninvited "guests"...or rather souls...from entering. She had yet to thank Niklos for his abilities with soul magics.
Quietly, she mused to herself, wondering if her husband had the soiled carpet she brought from her former shop cleaned.
(Later)
Despite her adoration of the weapon, the Frostscythe of Lord Ahune was heavier than most of the powerful staves, swords and daggers Annaliese had collected. Unlatching it from her back, she let the inscribed blade down gently, toward the tiled floor of the Wizard's Tower. An old wizard near the bookshelves toward the back of the room hesitantly pulled his eyes away from the magnificent staff she wielded, and she had to hide a smile in glimpsing his silent admiration. Drawing out a sigh, Anna stepped out of the portal that lead out to the spiraling ramp, and into the Park of Stormwind. For a moment, she pondered the reason for the secondary portal--perhaps a security enchantment to prevent powerful things from being stolen from the Tower? She shrugged her shoulders in quiet forethought, and accepted the company of the empty chair near her. Her momentary peace was broken however, as a voice purred from the ramp, just beyond her vision.
"What is your name?" the figure called as it neared her, the entirety of her form cloaked in a shadowy magic so much so it was almost hard to separate the dranei priestess from it.
"Anna," she said simply, wiping along the curve of the blade with a piece of nether weave cloth. The white of the dranei's eyes seemed to pierce through Anna, inquisitive.
"Ah, Annaliese, then? You own a store here in Stormwind, do you not? Fine gems for sell and such?"
The warlock sighed quietly in reply, tucking her scarlet hair from her face.
"My store has been recently relocated, but yes, Nightseye Designs. How might I serve you?"
The dranei smiled strangely, as if given the answer to a riddle not meant for one to solve.
"Mm, serve. What an excellent term," she purred outward, letting the shadowy aura drop from around her. The dranei was stunningly beautiful, as most of her people were, but a danger lurked behind her conniving smile--a danger that Annaliese did not like. Still, she played up a soft laugh, a warm smile coming to her lips, almost out of habit.
"Please, milady, when it comes to my store and its patrons, I do my best to please them. In that aspect, yes, I do take pride in serving."
"Most excellent!" was the all too quick reply. "I have heard that some things were stolen things from your store. How unfortunate."
Anna nodded in agreement, shifting against the back of the chair as the dranei bent down toward her, giving her an ample view of her bosom. Dranei indeed...
"I hoped we could come to a business agreement, in liu of such an unfortunate event. I have a proposition for you."
"Do tell..." Anna spoke softly, half amused, half wary. This one was a strange one.
"My organization wishes for a few specialized orders. With your talents, I am sure that you can create what they have in mind."
"I've no idea what your talking about, miss. I make gems, jewelry."
"Oh, come now, Miss Annaliese. We both know that more was stolen from your shop than simple amulets," she whispered sultrily near the warlock's ear. Anna blinked in surprise at the knowing smile, fangs daintily grazing the dranei's lower lip. Her fingers tightened around the grip of the scythe in realization.
"Those...pieces were never meant to see the light of day!" Anna replied back in a harsh whisper.
"And they will remain that way, if you agree to the business deal, Lady Annaliese. If no, and if I do not return to deliver a message soon,it is probable that your pretty little face will not see the light of day either, should those insidious trinkets you made will end up in the hands of the Stormwind guard. I know the murderers and rapists of the Stockades would so enjoy your company."
Thoughts raced in her mind of what the dranei implied. Despite the growing anger that developed in her stomach at being manipulated in such a way, Annaliese remained outwardly composed as usual, her gentle demeanor betraying nothing of the rage that curdled inside of her.
"Fine. I agree. I will...submit to a short contract, with your superiors. On one condition. I want my belongings returned to me. All of them. And by this..."Shadow Wolf" himself."
The dranei let out a light-hearted chuckle, shaking her head. "I am only a messenger. But as I see now, with the general distrust between you and my benefactor, the agreement will be that a piece will be returned as a piece is made. Safely."
Anna gritted her teeth, as if stung by a blade. She managed a nod and crossed her legs, looking away from the dranei's wicked smile.
"Excellent. I was sure you were capable of working with, and in the Shadow so wonderfully. I am sure you will receive your first request in the coming days. It was a pleasure working with you, Lady Annaliese, Mistress of Shadows."
Anna sighed at the title and waved her hand dismissively at the shadow priestess, or whatever she may pretend to be.
"Anna. Just, Anna," she chided, but the dranei had already made her way down the ramp, hooves clopping in a rhythmic pattern. Annaliese sat back in her chair with a groan, wondering how she would get herself out of this predicament.
Moving around the smooth metal benches that decorated the Aldor tier, she sighed, fingers clenched tightly to the black book at her side. It was the only clue left at the tower that Investigator Darokin pointed her to, and there was nothing else incriminating of this "Shadow Wolf" entity she was referred to. Months ago, her store was vandalized by Defias, and though the burglers were apprehended, they spoke nothing of their allegiances, other than the given personage. Furthermore, a priceless pendant that was stolen still had to be returned, only one other in existance of its kind. Though the Consortium's work with her on the product ended up in failure, the piece was still dear to her, fragile as it was.
Idly, she flipped through the small journal of handwritten notes, which listed targeted merchant establishments all over Azeroth--her shop, "Nightseye Designs, being the last listed. What were these people after? It bothered her to no end, that nothing was done by the Stormwind guard to alleviate the situation. Stuffing the journal into her satchel, she quirked her lips into a frown, fearing she'd never see her belongings returned. Treading out toward the exit of the new Nightseye Designs, the ward came into effect as she stepped out of the shop, barring out uninvited "guests"...or rather souls...from entering. She had yet to thank Niklos for his abilities with soul magics.
Quietly, she mused to herself, wondering if her husband had the soiled carpet she brought from her former shop cleaned.
(Later)
Despite her adoration of the weapon, the Frostscythe of Lord Ahune was heavier than most of the powerful staves, swords and daggers Annaliese had collected. Unlatching it from her back, she let the inscribed blade down gently, toward the tiled floor of the Wizard's Tower. An old wizard near the bookshelves toward the back of the room hesitantly pulled his eyes away from the magnificent staff she wielded, and she had to hide a smile in glimpsing his silent admiration. Drawing out a sigh, Anna stepped out of the portal that lead out to the spiraling ramp, and into the Park of Stormwind. For a moment, she pondered the reason for the secondary portal--perhaps a security enchantment to prevent powerful things from being stolen from the Tower? She shrugged her shoulders in quiet forethought, and accepted the company of the empty chair near her. Her momentary peace was broken however, as a voice purred from the ramp, just beyond her vision.
"What is your name?" the figure called as it neared her, the entirety of her form cloaked in a shadowy magic so much so it was almost hard to separate the dranei priestess from it.
"Anna," she said simply, wiping along the curve of the blade with a piece of nether weave cloth. The white of the dranei's eyes seemed to pierce through Anna, inquisitive.
"Ah, Annaliese, then? You own a store here in Stormwind, do you not? Fine gems for sell and such?"
The warlock sighed quietly in reply, tucking her scarlet hair from her face.
"My store has been recently relocated, but yes, Nightseye Designs. How might I serve you?"
The dranei smiled strangely, as if given the answer to a riddle not meant for one to solve.
"Mm, serve. What an excellent term," she purred outward, letting the shadowy aura drop from around her. The dranei was stunningly beautiful, as most of her people were, but a danger lurked behind her conniving smile--a danger that Annaliese did not like. Still, she played up a soft laugh, a warm smile coming to her lips, almost out of habit.
"Please, milady, when it comes to my store and its patrons, I do my best to please them. In that aspect, yes, I do take pride in serving."
"Most excellent!" was the all too quick reply. "I have heard that some things were stolen things from your store. How unfortunate."
Anna nodded in agreement, shifting against the back of the chair as the dranei bent down toward her, giving her an ample view of her bosom. Dranei indeed...
"I hoped we could come to a business agreement, in liu of such an unfortunate event. I have a proposition for you."
"Do tell..." Anna spoke softly, half amused, half wary. This one was a strange one.
"My organization wishes for a few specialized orders. With your talents, I am sure that you can create what they have in mind."
"I've no idea what your talking about, miss. I make gems, jewelry."
"Oh, come now, Miss Annaliese. We both know that more was stolen from your shop than simple amulets," she whispered sultrily near the warlock's ear. Anna blinked in surprise at the knowing smile, fangs daintily grazing the dranei's lower lip. Her fingers tightened around the grip of the scythe in realization.
"Those...pieces were never meant to see the light of day!" Anna replied back in a harsh whisper.
"And they will remain that way, if you agree to the business deal, Lady Annaliese. If no, and if I do not return to deliver a message soon,it is probable that your pretty little face will not see the light of day either, should those insidious trinkets you made will end up in the hands of the Stormwind guard. I know the murderers and rapists of the Stockades would so enjoy your company."
Thoughts raced in her mind of what the dranei implied. Despite the growing anger that developed in her stomach at being manipulated in such a way, Annaliese remained outwardly composed as usual, her gentle demeanor betraying nothing of the rage that curdled inside of her.
"Fine. I agree. I will...submit to a short contract, with your superiors. On one condition. I want my belongings returned to me. All of them. And by this..."Shadow Wolf" himself."
The dranei let out a light-hearted chuckle, shaking her head. "I am only a messenger. But as I see now, with the general distrust between you and my benefactor, the agreement will be that a piece will be returned as a piece is made. Safely."
Anna gritted her teeth, as if stung by a blade. She managed a nod and crossed her legs, looking away from the dranei's wicked smile.
"Excellent. I was sure you were capable of working with, and in the Shadow so wonderfully. I am sure you will receive your first request in the coming days. It was a pleasure working with you, Lady Annaliese, Mistress of Shadows."
Anna sighed at the title and waved her hand dismissively at the shadow priestess, or whatever she may pretend to be.
"Anna. Just, Anna," she chided, but the dranei had already made her way down the ramp, hooves clopping in a rhythmic pattern. Annaliese sat back in her chair with a groan, wondering how she would get herself out of this predicament.
(30) Ritual
The mountain was secluded, held under a red fog, as if the air had been misted with blood. There was no mistaking the power of the area: acolytes there basked in it. They watched the two trespassers upon their safe house and closed in, like angry wolves, defending their turf. It made no difference, as both figures ignored the threats, choosing instead to focus upon one another. The male, clad in black robes, confused them with his cheery tone and manner as he turned away from his companion and spoke:
"I hope you do not mind us borrowing this place for a small while. It is needed, and I very well don't like the idea of having to find another of its kind," he smiled, clutching onto the female's hand, and drawing it to his lips.
Humans, or Forsaken-- to the cultists, it wasn't quite clear. What was clear was that even their numbers would have no hope of removing the two from their land: the amount of magic the two wielded choked the air around them, clashing with the dark hum of energy that suffused the mountaintop. Still, these acolytes stood their ground stubbornly. The fair-haired man finally made himself known to be Forsaken, his eyes holding their yellow, threatening gleam through the red mist, though his voice still held it's melodic tone, unchanged.
"Of course, if you would wish to make a mess of a perfectly sensible agreement…I would appreciate the contribution to my orb collection…" the man grinned in a gentlemanly manner. His eyes seemed to bore through each and every "wolf" that circled around the two, stripping them down to their bare essences.
It did not take long for the mountaintop to be advocated of angry cultists.
Annise chuckled softly, as she set the thick, black candles around the scrawled runic circle, and reached out, to welcome her husband to the center of the array.
"You certainly have a way with words."
The Medic shrugged, displaying a boyish grin.
"It would have been upsetting if we were forced to move. Especially after all your work."
He watched with a slight shuffle of his robes as his love drew the ornate goblet from the bag she had brought, and set it into the center of the circle, crossing the deep grooves made into the sand. A thick, dark mixture was poured into the goblet, which drew out curiosity.
"What is that, love?" Zam asked with a slight twinge of concern in his voice, though he did his best to hide it. Anna let out another breath of a laugh, shaking her head at his question.
"I did give you the copy of the ritual to look over, didn't I?"
Zam quieted, and simply nodded, peering over the goblet. "…demon blood."
"It will dilute what will be put into the goblet later," she said softly, and his eyes darted right away to the dagger lying along the sand between them, its blade thin, long and sharp. He felt her fingers move to stroke his jaw line, the eye-shaped amulet she wore dangling over the goblet as she reached.
"Does this unnerve you still? We do not have to do this, if you do not wish to," she whispered across the array. Tenderly, he kissed each finger she touched him with, enjoying the sight of the smile tugging at the corners of her lips as he did so.
"Just curious, my love."
"It is only a binding ritual, to bring us closer to one another. A…marriage of souls, so to speak. I know what I'm doing love."
Zam nodded, and let her take back her fingers. Slightly amused by the quirk of her lips as she pouted, Zam watched the woman as she looked over the circle thoughtfully.
"Hm. These candles must be lit at the same moment. Simultaneously…"
Zam blinked. His hands searched over his robes for a match, even as his mind tried to decide how this would be accomplished. Four hands would not light five candles at one time. Anna giggled as she watched her love struggle with the problem.
"Ah! Here…" Anna said, and straightened herself, sitting upright. Her hands stretched over the circle, as if feeling for something intangible. Closing her eyes, she flexed her fingers, and pulled her hands up toward herself, a wave of flame shooting around in a circle to light the wicks of each candle, avoiding flesh and cloth.
"You…are getting quite good with your fire magics," The Medic stated musingly, impressed. She smiled coyly as she opened a small book upon the circle before her, which listed the words of the ritual.
"Practice does make perfect. Still learning…but it's not so much different from what I know already. Shadow, flame and ice--to control them only requires the will to learn, and patience, as with everything."
Whisking her fingers across the pages of the open tome, Anna took in a breath and settled the soft glow of her eyes on the man across her, no hint of affection hidden in the gaze. It was strangely quiet on that mountain top, the mist forever floating silently on the winds.
"Are you ready…?" came her soft voice, a call in the crimson that swirled around them. Zam, tense, nodded his agreement, his eyes never leaving his wife. With that, she began to read from the tome, her words firm, carried through the dense, dream-like air.
"The Nether that can be described is not the eternal Nether. The power that can be spoken is not the Eternal Power."
She drew the sharp dagger into her hands then, feeling along its elongated blade. Something…was felt, between the both of them, something like a caress. It was when the fires of each candle began to darken, and turn a deep violet, that Zam began to feel the pangs of panic come on, try as he might to push them down. Shadow magic made him edgy, she knew this. The Medic was sensitive to darkness – a bit too sensitive. Yet she had started this, and there was no going back.
"Freed from hate, you can see the hidden mystery. By having desire, you can see more than what is visibly real."
The candle wax that drifted through the carved runes had moved, almost like water, filling, and meeting, connecting within the rune. Meeting underneath the placed goblet, the rune glowed a deep violet, taking on the same hue of the candlelight. It was beautiful to watch, though unnerving--the Medic could not stop his fingers from twitching. The look on his face resembled Hoots when trapped in a birdcage. As Anna reached forward and took the small rune dagger in her hands, Zam was ready to lunge away at a moment’s notice – only that he could not. The shadow magic that had come forth now strapped them to the ground, choking the air around them with its essence.
"Yet mystery and reality emerge from the same source. This source is called darkness."
He winced as he watched the blade cut into her palm, sliding along her flesh all too easily. Fresh blood was dropped into the cup slowly, his eyes unable to leave the goblet. Something in him…already began to anticipate drinking from the goblet. He shook his head. Now was not the time – but then the urge was there, and he could not deny the fact that the magic within the goblet was…attractive. He shifted uncomfortably as she reached for his hand, but Anna's soft smile seemed to make the act of giving her his hand much easier.
"Darkness born from darkness. The beginning of all understanding."
Zam had to look away as the blade cut into his skin, though it was hardly as painful as he would have thought. She squeezed his hand lightly, coercing the droplets of blood to fall, and fall they did, mixing into the other contents of the goblet. The hum of the circle was all he heard, watching her take the cup to her lips, drinking…the hum began to turn to whispers as he tasted the sweet mixture himself. There were..familiar whispers, of his own voice. And with an inward grumble he realized what he has gotten himself into.
"Soul of my soul, will of…my will. Let none sever what was wrought this night…" she breathed out into the air, finishing the ritual. She heard it, the Voice in the darkness, speaking the words over, and over, as if consuming her very voice. Something…was wrong. Incomplete…
"Wait…" she wavered, the bloodwine taking its effect. "It's not done…what is missing…?"
Two arms slipped around her, locking around her waist, and she felt herself being pulled. Zam's voice purred into her ear--or rather an echo of it, sending shivers down her spine.
"My poor little warlock," she heard him chuckle darkly. "What have you got yourself into…?"
Fear struck her as she recognized the voice. She felt it settle in the pit of her stomach as she stared up into the gleaming, yellow eyes. She was the proverbial mouse, caught under the cat's claws, and she struggled with her predicament, just as prey would. It made him laugh, enticing him.
"Ah…now don't be afraid, my dear," he whispered softly, dangerous, a far cry from the Medic she knew. He entangled himself around her the more she pushed away. Her fighting excited him, and he found himself eyeing her with amusement as he pinned the frantic woman to the ritual circle.
"Isn’t this what you asked for? A soul binding ritual?” he asked, dark magic melting from each word he spoke, entangling with her senses. She stared up at him, her defiance slowly melting away. The circle now hummed with magic, his magic.
"I know what must be done, he said," bringing her wrists to his lips, tasting the skin. She struggled once more in vain, breathing heavily as the shadows solidified. Tendrils wrapped around the two, drowning them in shadow magic. Losing herself, she slackened, unable to fight that which, perhaps, was hers all along…
" And I'll show you," he whispered near her ear. Cold ran through her body as she watched his hand come to rest on her chest, as if feeling her heart beat. It was only when his hand dove into her, grasping her soul, that she cried out, cold turned to alarming heat as it sunk through her flesh.
The binding had just begun.
"I hope you do not mind us borrowing this place for a small while. It is needed, and I very well don't like the idea of having to find another of its kind," he smiled, clutching onto the female's hand, and drawing it to his lips.
Humans, or Forsaken-- to the cultists, it wasn't quite clear. What was clear was that even their numbers would have no hope of removing the two from their land: the amount of magic the two wielded choked the air around them, clashing with the dark hum of energy that suffused the mountaintop. Still, these acolytes stood their ground stubbornly. The fair-haired man finally made himself known to be Forsaken, his eyes holding their yellow, threatening gleam through the red mist, though his voice still held it's melodic tone, unchanged.
"Of course, if you would wish to make a mess of a perfectly sensible agreement…I would appreciate the contribution to my orb collection…" the man grinned in a gentlemanly manner. His eyes seemed to bore through each and every "wolf" that circled around the two, stripping them down to their bare essences.
It did not take long for the mountaintop to be advocated of angry cultists.
Annise chuckled softly, as she set the thick, black candles around the scrawled runic circle, and reached out, to welcome her husband to the center of the array.
"You certainly have a way with words."
The Medic shrugged, displaying a boyish grin.
"It would have been upsetting if we were forced to move. Especially after all your work."
He watched with a slight shuffle of his robes as his love drew the ornate goblet from the bag she had brought, and set it into the center of the circle, crossing the deep grooves made into the sand. A thick, dark mixture was poured into the goblet, which drew out curiosity.
"What is that, love?" Zam asked with a slight twinge of concern in his voice, though he did his best to hide it. Anna let out another breath of a laugh, shaking her head at his question.
"I did give you the copy of the ritual to look over, didn't I?"
Zam quieted, and simply nodded, peering over the goblet. "…demon blood."
"It will dilute what will be put into the goblet later," she said softly, and his eyes darted right away to the dagger lying along the sand between them, its blade thin, long and sharp. He felt her fingers move to stroke his jaw line, the eye-shaped amulet she wore dangling over the goblet as she reached.
"Does this unnerve you still? We do not have to do this, if you do not wish to," she whispered across the array. Tenderly, he kissed each finger she touched him with, enjoying the sight of the smile tugging at the corners of her lips as he did so.
"Just curious, my love."
"It is only a binding ritual, to bring us closer to one another. A…marriage of souls, so to speak. I know what I'm doing love."
Zam nodded, and let her take back her fingers. Slightly amused by the quirk of her lips as she pouted, Zam watched the woman as she looked over the circle thoughtfully.
"Hm. These candles must be lit at the same moment. Simultaneously…"
Zam blinked. His hands searched over his robes for a match, even as his mind tried to decide how this would be accomplished. Four hands would not light five candles at one time. Anna giggled as she watched her love struggle with the problem.
"Ah! Here…" Anna said, and straightened herself, sitting upright. Her hands stretched over the circle, as if feeling for something intangible. Closing her eyes, she flexed her fingers, and pulled her hands up toward herself, a wave of flame shooting around in a circle to light the wicks of each candle, avoiding flesh and cloth.
"You…are getting quite good with your fire magics," The Medic stated musingly, impressed. She smiled coyly as she opened a small book upon the circle before her, which listed the words of the ritual.
"Practice does make perfect. Still learning…but it's not so much different from what I know already. Shadow, flame and ice--to control them only requires the will to learn, and patience, as with everything."
Whisking her fingers across the pages of the open tome, Anna took in a breath and settled the soft glow of her eyes on the man across her, no hint of affection hidden in the gaze. It was strangely quiet on that mountain top, the mist forever floating silently on the winds.
"Are you ready…?" came her soft voice, a call in the crimson that swirled around them. Zam, tense, nodded his agreement, his eyes never leaving his wife. With that, she began to read from the tome, her words firm, carried through the dense, dream-like air.
"The Nether that can be described is not the eternal Nether. The power that can be spoken is not the Eternal Power."
She drew the sharp dagger into her hands then, feeling along its elongated blade. Something…was felt, between the both of them, something like a caress. It was when the fires of each candle began to darken, and turn a deep violet, that Zam began to feel the pangs of panic come on, try as he might to push them down. Shadow magic made him edgy, she knew this. The Medic was sensitive to darkness – a bit too sensitive. Yet she had started this, and there was no going back.
"Freed from hate, you can see the hidden mystery. By having desire, you can see more than what is visibly real."
The candle wax that drifted through the carved runes had moved, almost like water, filling, and meeting, connecting within the rune. Meeting underneath the placed goblet, the rune glowed a deep violet, taking on the same hue of the candlelight. It was beautiful to watch, though unnerving--the Medic could not stop his fingers from twitching. The look on his face resembled Hoots when trapped in a birdcage. As Anna reached forward and took the small rune dagger in her hands, Zam was ready to lunge away at a moment’s notice – only that he could not. The shadow magic that had come forth now strapped them to the ground, choking the air around them with its essence.
"Yet mystery and reality emerge from the same source. This source is called darkness."
He winced as he watched the blade cut into her palm, sliding along her flesh all too easily. Fresh blood was dropped into the cup slowly, his eyes unable to leave the goblet. Something in him…already began to anticipate drinking from the goblet. He shook his head. Now was not the time – but then the urge was there, and he could not deny the fact that the magic within the goblet was…attractive. He shifted uncomfortably as she reached for his hand, but Anna's soft smile seemed to make the act of giving her his hand much easier.
"Darkness born from darkness. The beginning of all understanding."
Zam had to look away as the blade cut into his skin, though it was hardly as painful as he would have thought. She squeezed his hand lightly, coercing the droplets of blood to fall, and fall they did, mixing into the other contents of the goblet. The hum of the circle was all he heard, watching her take the cup to her lips, drinking…the hum began to turn to whispers as he tasted the sweet mixture himself. There were..familiar whispers, of his own voice. And with an inward grumble he realized what he has gotten himself into.
"Soul of my soul, will of…my will. Let none sever what was wrought this night…" she breathed out into the air, finishing the ritual. She heard it, the Voice in the darkness, speaking the words over, and over, as if consuming her very voice. Something…was wrong. Incomplete…
"Wait…" she wavered, the bloodwine taking its effect. "It's not done…what is missing…?"
Two arms slipped around her, locking around her waist, and she felt herself being pulled. Zam's voice purred into her ear--or rather an echo of it, sending shivers down her spine.
"My poor little warlock," she heard him chuckle darkly. "What have you got yourself into…?"
Fear struck her as she recognized the voice. She felt it settle in the pit of her stomach as she stared up into the gleaming, yellow eyes. She was the proverbial mouse, caught under the cat's claws, and she struggled with her predicament, just as prey would. It made him laugh, enticing him.
"Ah…now don't be afraid, my dear," he whispered softly, dangerous, a far cry from the Medic she knew. He entangled himself around her the more she pushed away. Her fighting excited him, and he found himself eyeing her with amusement as he pinned the frantic woman to the ritual circle.
"Isn’t this what you asked for? A soul binding ritual?” he asked, dark magic melting from each word he spoke, entangling with her senses. She stared up at him, her defiance slowly melting away. The circle now hummed with magic, his magic.
"I know what must be done, he said," bringing her wrists to his lips, tasting the skin. She struggled once more in vain, breathing heavily as the shadows solidified. Tendrils wrapped around the two, drowning them in shadow magic. Losing herself, she slackened, unable to fight that which, perhaps, was hers all along…
" And I'll show you," he whispered near her ear. Cold ran through her body as she watched his hand come to rest on her chest, as if feeling her heart beat. It was only when his hand dove into her, grasping her soul, that she cried out, cold turned to alarming heat as it sunk through her flesh.
The binding had just begun.
(29) The Dark Lady's Gift
"This is both absurd and meaningless! Make use of yourself out there and fight, wretched girl!" the Dark Lady's rant could be heard down the Royal Quarter's halls, her voice like the lash of a whip. "The Forsaken have no use for scrawlings!"
"If…if you would just…stand…stand still a moment. I promise it won't be long…" the mage replied as courteously as she could, though her voice was much too soft to belong to that of true Forsaken. Annise stuck out like a sore thumb--fortunately, Lady Sylvanas was too much in a rant to really notice. A sneer, and the Dark Queen folded her arms tightly across her chest, wisps of white hair sneaking out of her hooded visage.
"You waste my time," the Queen spat between her teeth, cold eyes narrowing dangerously. Anna visibly gulped as she heard a shift of wings behind her: the dread lord Varithamas was also growing weary.
Anna smiled, thinking to herself, as she sat the covered object on the ground, gently.
"A gift for your time then," Anna replied as she closed the sketchbook, in her hands. "I think I can finish the rest on my own time, milady."
The Dark Lady shifted slightly, and nodded to one of her Deathguard to pick up the mysterious object as the strange Forsaken woman left the Royal Quarter, to step into the arms of a familiar Medic. Name's escaped Sylvanas, much of the time, she had to be reminded of her own. Names were things of the past, and pasts were to be shed, like snakeskin.
A flutter of wings, and a guttaral caw filled the Royal Quarter as the Dark Lady freed her gift from its cage.
"If…if you would just…stand…stand still a moment. I promise it won't be long…" the mage replied as courteously as she could, though her voice was much too soft to belong to that of true Forsaken. Annise stuck out like a sore thumb--fortunately, Lady Sylvanas was too much in a rant to really notice. A sneer, and the Dark Queen folded her arms tightly across her chest, wisps of white hair sneaking out of her hooded visage.
"You waste my time," the Queen spat between her teeth, cold eyes narrowing dangerously. Anna visibly gulped as she heard a shift of wings behind her: the dread lord Varithamas was also growing weary.
Anna smiled, thinking to herself, as she sat the covered object on the ground, gently.
"A gift for your time then," Anna replied as she closed the sketchbook, in her hands. "I think I can finish the rest on my own time, milady."
The Dark Lady shifted slightly, and nodded to one of her Deathguard to pick up the mysterious object as the strange Forsaken woman left the Royal Quarter, to step into the arms of a familiar Medic. Name's escaped Sylvanas, much of the time, she had to be reminded of her own. Names were things of the past, and pasts were to be shed, like snakeskin.
A flutter of wings, and a guttaral caw filled the Royal Quarter as the Dark Lady freed her gift from its cage.
(28) Home
It was late evening, when she decided to visit the Cathedral District, the laughing of children and scampering of tiny feet heard across the cobblestone, even from where she and Mirilla stood. Annaliese turned and smiled to the young paladin--how much she seemed to grow into a Lady in the few months they knew each other. Admittedly, Mirilla took a place in her heart, a bittersweet reminder of what her own daughter may have became had fate been kind to the warlock. The maternal care was urged on further by Mirilla's own need for a mother, and the girl's insistence that Anna fit the role. Still, the girl seemed humbled by recent days--the playful spirit the paladin had dulled. The leader of her order, The Crimson Horizon, had stepped away and left, leaving Mirilla lost, unfulfilled in her teachings. It was something that Annaliese related with, the hole left in an Order by its leader often left feelings of resentment or abandonment, by its followers.
The warlock decided to keep her feelings of relief at Mikaylus' departure secreted away from the young paladin.
"I have a few gifts for them," Annaliese smiled, making her way up the ramp of the Orphanage. "I hope its not too late for a visit."
Mirilla simply nodded and followed suit, watching the woman jangle something within her satchel, the sound like tiny, muffled silver bells. Immediately, the two women were met with bright smiles and large eyes, the crowd of children surrounding them. The matron, Shellene, smiled warmly at Annaliese and her guest, beckoning them in, trying not to trip over the little ones that excitedly barred her way.
"Anna, dear, I think your spoiling them!" Shellene replied with a tender laugh. Anna could only grin in reply. The warlock's visits were often, weekly at least. Shellene was never one to ask questions of the visitors that came to the Orphanage, and by all appearances, the lady that passed out tiny rings to the children was kind, gentle, and, more importantly, perhaps a prospect in adoption. The matron's curiosity lingered about Anna, however, with each visit she made, as she could sense the aura of power about her. A priestess perhaps? No, if she was, her ties to the Cathedral would be more prominent, and High Priestess Laurena would have mentioned that the woman was a part of the Clergy. There was definitely something different about the lady that brought her gifts each week, a sense of power deprived of the arrogance that most mages carried.
Undoubtedly, if the Matron were to find out Annaliese's true path, she might have barred the warlock from ever stepping inside the Orphanage again, plucking the rings from the tiny fingers they were given to, fearing them to be cursed.
…yes, the woman kept her identity quite well. It was much easier to bypass the lingering, instinctual fear of warlocks that Stormwind (and perhaps every other Alliance City) harbored.
While the little girls preened and prattled excitedly about the little silver rings they were given, one of the boys groaned with a charming pout, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he approached Anna.
"Rings are for girls!" he piped up, scowling at the black-haired child that took her normal place in Annaliese's lap each visit. She laughed softly, watching Mirilla stifle a chuckle.
"And, that, is why I brought these!" Anna exclaimed, pulling out silver pins shaped into the form of a majestic griffon head. Nearly all the boy's heads turned at the sight, and raced each other to grasp the pins from the satchel. She watched the young paladin slowly brighten, seeing the joyful sprit within the Orphanage, and Anna grinned--all parts of her mission accomplished. Before, there was a…uncertainty, that Anna carried, when it came to children, the prospect of families. She knew she could not have them, and was content with the idea. Annaliese was scarred by the loss of her family.
And then her love gifted her, mended her numb womb. There was life there, feeling there, in that part of her, where there had been none for years. This sense completed her, made her…fully alive. And for the first time in a long time, since Niklos came into her life, Annaliese was happy. And now all the more happier.
For the first time in a long time, she considered children. Anna chuckled to herself at the thought. Her attentions turned to the young girl in her lap, that looked up at her with two large brown eyes, almost expectantly. She came to know this little one as Maria, and almost always ended up pulling her thick, black hair into braids, as was requested of her. Anna was already stiffening at the question that the little girl asked softly, the same question she asked each time Anna visited.
"Miss Anna, are you going to take me home…?"
Annaliese paused, and smoothed Maria's hair down with a tender hand, and Mirilla watched on quietly, quite interested.
The Orphanage grew very quiet, but no answer was given.
The warlock decided to keep her feelings of relief at Mikaylus' departure secreted away from the young paladin.
"I have a few gifts for them," Annaliese smiled, making her way up the ramp of the Orphanage. "I hope its not too late for a visit."
Mirilla simply nodded and followed suit, watching the woman jangle something within her satchel, the sound like tiny, muffled silver bells. Immediately, the two women were met with bright smiles and large eyes, the crowd of children surrounding them. The matron, Shellene, smiled warmly at Annaliese and her guest, beckoning them in, trying not to trip over the little ones that excitedly barred her way.
"Anna, dear, I think your spoiling them!" Shellene replied with a tender laugh. Anna could only grin in reply. The warlock's visits were often, weekly at least. Shellene was never one to ask questions of the visitors that came to the Orphanage, and by all appearances, the lady that passed out tiny rings to the children was kind, gentle, and, more importantly, perhaps a prospect in adoption. The matron's curiosity lingered about Anna, however, with each visit she made, as she could sense the aura of power about her. A priestess perhaps? No, if she was, her ties to the Cathedral would be more prominent, and High Priestess Laurena would have mentioned that the woman was a part of the Clergy. There was definitely something different about the lady that brought her gifts each week, a sense of power deprived of the arrogance that most mages carried.
Undoubtedly, if the Matron were to find out Annaliese's true path, she might have barred the warlock from ever stepping inside the Orphanage again, plucking the rings from the tiny fingers they were given to, fearing them to be cursed.
…yes, the woman kept her identity quite well. It was much easier to bypass the lingering, instinctual fear of warlocks that Stormwind (and perhaps every other Alliance City) harbored.
While the little girls preened and prattled excitedly about the little silver rings they were given, one of the boys groaned with a charming pout, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he approached Anna.
"Rings are for girls!" he piped up, scowling at the black-haired child that took her normal place in Annaliese's lap each visit. She laughed softly, watching Mirilla stifle a chuckle.
"And, that, is why I brought these!" Anna exclaimed, pulling out silver pins shaped into the form of a majestic griffon head. Nearly all the boy's heads turned at the sight, and raced each other to grasp the pins from the satchel. She watched the young paladin slowly brighten, seeing the joyful sprit within the Orphanage, and Anna grinned--all parts of her mission accomplished. Before, there was a…uncertainty, that Anna carried, when it came to children, the prospect of families. She knew she could not have them, and was content with the idea. Annaliese was scarred by the loss of her family.
And then her love gifted her, mended her numb womb. There was life there, feeling there, in that part of her, where there had been none for years. This sense completed her, made her…fully alive. And for the first time in a long time, since Niklos came into her life, Annaliese was happy. And now all the more happier.
For the first time in a long time, she considered children. Anna chuckled to herself at the thought. Her attentions turned to the young girl in her lap, that looked up at her with two large brown eyes, almost expectantly. She came to know this little one as Maria, and almost always ended up pulling her thick, black hair into braids, as was requested of her. Anna was already stiffening at the question that the little girl asked softly, the same question she asked each time Anna visited.
"Miss Anna, are you going to take me home…?"
Annaliese paused, and smoothed Maria's hair down with a tender hand, and Mirilla watched on quietly, quite interested.
The Orphanage grew very quiet, but no answer was given.
(27) Reflection
The smell of the ocean was strong, the undulating waves lapping upon the midnight shore calming to the senses. Two boats sat on the grass near the cottage just ahead, and one boat had been occupied. The wood creaked ever so slightly as she shifted in his arms, the cool skin she rested against oddly comforting. It had been an eventful evening, and the two Forsaken were seemingly content to at last be here together, alone.
“I still can’t believe he is back,” came her voice, soft and wispy, barely heard against the night tide. His reply was a well-known chuckle and a tighter grasp around her.
“He is still adjusting. He did well to ask for my help. He’ll know what to expect now,” Zamboozle spoke gently, pulling his Forsaken lover closer still. Her skin was much too warm to be truly Undead, he knew, and his hands traveled down the slope of her shoulders, then to the amulet that hung around her neck, the source of her enchantment.
“Here, here,” he whispered near her ear, fiddling with the amulet. “You should be more…comfortable. No one can see us now.”
Pushing down upon the iris of the eye-shaped amulet, an audible click sounded. Her body and features shimmered and wavered, the enchantment melting away to reveal her true form…a human woman, very much alive. She turned in his arms as he released the amulet, and the Medic found himself staring into the honey-colored orbs that were her eyes, his cold, marble-like hands moving upwards to caress the scarlet hair. She seemed so lost, her expression uncertain.
“You are bothered by his return…” Zam spoke, not so much a confirmation, but a questioning. Anna looked away before she answered, her eyes following the tribal carvings upon the front of the boat.
“I am surprised…taken aback by how he was returned. I did not expect it at all, to be honest.”
Zam nodded, and she tucked an errant curl of hair behind her ear, which he smiled at.
“And…the Caverns of Time…? Surely, he will be punished for abusing them in such a way…for his personal use.”
Zam shrugged helplessly, then met his love with slight smile.
“Do not worry over it love. There is only so much he can do. Manipulating his timeline too much will only bring himself to ruin, which I am sure he is smart enough to know.”
Looking upon her again, he pulled her close and silenced her worry with a deep kiss, and she began to relax in his arms, which pleased him. The two lay quiet in the boat, and it was not long before his soothing strokes of her hair calmed her into a sleep. Her eyelids flickered chaotically as images flashed in her mind, memories of time past…of death, of pleads, of a young paladin, the chest cavity cut open, a heart removed and thrown into flames. Anna whimpered in her disturbed sleep, and a soft call escaped her lips, formed into a name:
“Luci….”
The Medic kissed Annaliese’s forehead gently, and looked up to the stars, wishing for a peaceful sleep for his love.
It would never come.
“I still can’t believe he is back,” came her voice, soft and wispy, barely heard against the night tide. His reply was a well-known chuckle and a tighter grasp around her.
“He is still adjusting. He did well to ask for my help. He’ll know what to expect now,” Zamboozle spoke gently, pulling his Forsaken lover closer still. Her skin was much too warm to be truly Undead, he knew, and his hands traveled down the slope of her shoulders, then to the amulet that hung around her neck, the source of her enchantment.
“Here, here,” he whispered near her ear, fiddling with the amulet. “You should be more…comfortable. No one can see us now.”
Pushing down upon the iris of the eye-shaped amulet, an audible click sounded. Her body and features shimmered and wavered, the enchantment melting away to reveal her true form…a human woman, very much alive. She turned in his arms as he released the amulet, and the Medic found himself staring into the honey-colored orbs that were her eyes, his cold, marble-like hands moving upwards to caress the scarlet hair. She seemed so lost, her expression uncertain.
“You are bothered by his return…” Zam spoke, not so much a confirmation, but a questioning. Anna looked away before she answered, her eyes following the tribal carvings upon the front of the boat.
“I am surprised…taken aback by how he was returned. I did not expect it at all, to be honest.”
Zam nodded, and she tucked an errant curl of hair behind her ear, which he smiled at.
“And…the Caverns of Time…? Surely, he will be punished for abusing them in such a way…for his personal use.”
Zam shrugged helplessly, then met his love with slight smile.
“Do not worry over it love. There is only so much he can do. Manipulating his timeline too much will only bring himself to ruin, which I am sure he is smart enough to know.”
Looking upon her again, he pulled her close and silenced her worry with a deep kiss, and she began to relax in his arms, which pleased him. The two lay quiet in the boat, and it was not long before his soothing strokes of her hair calmed her into a sleep. Her eyelids flickered chaotically as images flashed in her mind, memories of time past…of death, of pleads, of a young paladin, the chest cavity cut open, a heart removed and thrown into flames. Anna whimpered in her disturbed sleep, and a soft call escaped her lips, formed into a name:
“Luci….”
The Medic kissed Annaliese’s forehead gently, and looked up to the stars, wishing for a peaceful sleep for his love.
It would never come.
(26) Pendant
She was going insane. Utterly insane. Clothes, books, bags, candlesticks, and various other anonymous items lay strung carelessly across the floorboards of the room. Literally anything that was not nailed down to the upstairs portion of the tavern was moved, or upturned. Gallow's End Tavern had become a whirlwind as she searched each corner, under mattresses, on the shelves…everywhere she could think of to look. It was no use, however. The pendant was missing. Walking back into the room the Medic rented for the night, she sighed inwardly, her hand moving to the place on her throat where the priceless amulet once hung. She studied her hands absently as she tried to calm herself down, the skin pale, appearing cold, the fingernails long, sharp, almost translucent.
She knew how she appeared since using the enchantment the pendant provided: she appeared fresh from death, life's breath and warmth taken from her skin, only to be fastened to the unearthly light that shone from her eyes. She appeared significantly thinner as well, like many of her "kind", though her flesh was untouched by any malady or decomposition. Even most of her human scent was masked by the enchantment, only the keenest of senses able to catch it. Though the pendant's magic could not change the fact that her flesh would still feel warm upon touch, it was convincing enough to make her appear like one of the newly risen, a common sight in Brill.
…there was no way she could go to Stormwind like this.
With a hopeless groan, she sat down on the bed, the sheets sprawled out across the floorboards. She had responsibilities still, on the "other side of the fence", though her antics with the Dragonmaw Orcs of Shadowmoon Valley were at an end, thankfully. She specifically had business in the Allerian Stronghold this very night, where several of the guilds of the Alliance planned on meeting, officers required to attend. Could the necklace on which the pendant hung have snapped, becoming lost in the scuffle in the graveyard the night before? She scowled, remembering how she and a very offended Medic were locked in the mausoleum by Ryutan and Mahryna, in some attempt to get the two to "talk". She brought her fingertips to her temple as she recalled the event. No…she remembered having the amulet with her the entire night.
She saw the small black tome on the wooden floor, between her feet, it's leather cover long discolored. Slowly, she stooped down to pick it up, and flipped through the worn pages, reading the written words of the Dalaran guardian, this Belamoore, over and over. She sighed, thinking of holding the fragments of the Bloodstone in her hands that she retrieved from the Internment Camp, which the mage had written about. She felt the power in the palm of her hands, just as Belamoore had written about, and a slight twinge of regret made it's home inside her, knowing that she had returned them to Tarren Mill, to the Forsaken Magus that requested the delivery of them. She read on, the passage in the journal etched in her mind:
'Remnants of the Old gods still linger in the deep hollows of the world. New forces seek to harness that ancient power, and those who succeed will have a terrible weapon against their enemies.'
Her fingers twitched somewhat…she could not keep completely still. It was the anticipation she felt, of finding this Bloodstone amulet that the writer spoke of. Annise could not help, but want to know more of the artifact. Slowly, she dumped out the gems in her satchel, sifting through them, comparing them to the notes found within the journal on the Bloodstone's description. Anna shook her head, and with a faint laugh, she stood up from the bed, realizing what she was doing. No, it would never be that easy. She stood, slumped, staring at the collection of glittering gems strewn across the bed, lost in her own thoughts. What was it she was looking for…?
"In the name of the Dark Lady, what have you done to my tavern, girl?!" came the rasping voice of Renee, as the innkeeper lingered at the doorway, surveying the mess. She was already picking up the strewn pillows and clothes with an irritated sigh. Annise blinked a few times, pulled out of her reverie.
"Wha…what…?" Anna replied in a confused murmur, looking around at the incredulous mess. She sighed in apology, and began to help. Renee simply stared her down, and Anna swallowed hard, backing off slightly.
"What do you mean "what"?! Look at this mess! Do you think I have nothing better nothing to do than clean up after you?" Renee exclaimed, thrusting the things she had picked up into the surprised woman's hands.
"You do it," Renee almost growled, scolding. Annise nodded vaguely and began to put away the things, not knowing what else to do.
"I…I apologize. I was looking for something. A pendant. It is very important to me," Anna spoke softly, shoving the clothes in the wardrobe with some effort. She turned in time to see Renee dangling a familiar eye-shaped amulet from her hands. Anna stared, wide-eyed, unmoving.
"I'm assuming you mean this thing," Renee replied coolly, as she placed it on top of the shelf of the room. "He told me to keep it until he was off from his duties, make sure you were tended to, all that jazz."
"He…what?!" Anna almost choked, an incredulous laugh escaping from her throat.
"Yeah. Safekeeping, he said," the innkeeper said, a smirk appearing across her marred face, the muscle exposed in a grotesque manner as she grinned. "But, I'm not sacrificing the well-being of my tavern for a personal favor. You had better just be here tonight."
The shadows curled around from the room, almost on cue, as Renee sauntered out of the bedroom. Taking on the form of the Dragonhawk Hatchling, as she was accustomed to, it floated across the floorboards, twisted around Annise's skirts, and poked its tiny beak through her hair, playful. Anna simply sighed, fastening the amulet around her neck once again, to which it responded with an inquisitive growl.
"You evil, evil man," Anna spoke quietly to the Dragonhawk as she scratched underneath it's beak, knowing her love could hear her through it.
The Hawkling merely stared back at her with a pair of very innocent, emerald green eyes, like glittering gems.
She knew how she appeared since using the enchantment the pendant provided: she appeared fresh from death, life's breath and warmth taken from her skin, only to be fastened to the unearthly light that shone from her eyes. She appeared significantly thinner as well, like many of her "kind", though her flesh was untouched by any malady or decomposition. Even most of her human scent was masked by the enchantment, only the keenest of senses able to catch it. Though the pendant's magic could not change the fact that her flesh would still feel warm upon touch, it was convincing enough to make her appear like one of the newly risen, a common sight in Brill.
…there was no way she could go to Stormwind like this.
With a hopeless groan, she sat down on the bed, the sheets sprawled out across the floorboards. She had responsibilities still, on the "other side of the fence", though her antics with the Dragonmaw Orcs of Shadowmoon Valley were at an end, thankfully. She specifically had business in the Allerian Stronghold this very night, where several of the guilds of the Alliance planned on meeting, officers required to attend. Could the necklace on which the pendant hung have snapped, becoming lost in the scuffle in the graveyard the night before? She scowled, remembering how she and a very offended Medic were locked in the mausoleum by Ryutan and Mahryna, in some attempt to get the two to "talk". She brought her fingertips to her temple as she recalled the event. No…she remembered having the amulet with her the entire night.
She saw the small black tome on the wooden floor, between her feet, it's leather cover long discolored. Slowly, she stooped down to pick it up, and flipped through the worn pages, reading the written words of the Dalaran guardian, this Belamoore, over and over. She sighed, thinking of holding the fragments of the Bloodstone in her hands that she retrieved from the Internment Camp, which the mage had written about. She felt the power in the palm of her hands, just as Belamoore had written about, and a slight twinge of regret made it's home inside her, knowing that she had returned them to Tarren Mill, to the Forsaken Magus that requested the delivery of them. She read on, the passage in the journal etched in her mind:
'Remnants of the Old gods still linger in the deep hollows of the world. New forces seek to harness that ancient power, and those who succeed will have a terrible weapon against their enemies.'
Her fingers twitched somewhat…she could not keep completely still. It was the anticipation she felt, of finding this Bloodstone amulet that the writer spoke of. Annise could not help, but want to know more of the artifact. Slowly, she dumped out the gems in her satchel, sifting through them, comparing them to the notes found within the journal on the Bloodstone's description. Anna shook her head, and with a faint laugh, she stood up from the bed, realizing what she was doing. No, it would never be that easy. She stood, slumped, staring at the collection of glittering gems strewn across the bed, lost in her own thoughts. What was it she was looking for…?
"In the name of the Dark Lady, what have you done to my tavern, girl?!" came the rasping voice of Renee, as the innkeeper lingered at the doorway, surveying the mess. She was already picking up the strewn pillows and clothes with an irritated sigh. Annise blinked a few times, pulled out of her reverie.
"Wha…what…?" Anna replied in a confused murmur, looking around at the incredulous mess. She sighed in apology, and began to help. Renee simply stared her down, and Anna swallowed hard, backing off slightly.
"What do you mean "what"?! Look at this mess! Do you think I have nothing better nothing to do than clean up after you?" Renee exclaimed, thrusting the things she had picked up into the surprised woman's hands.
"You do it," Renee almost growled, scolding. Annise nodded vaguely and began to put away the things, not knowing what else to do.
"I…I apologize. I was looking for something. A pendant. It is very important to me," Anna spoke softly, shoving the clothes in the wardrobe with some effort. She turned in time to see Renee dangling a familiar eye-shaped amulet from her hands. Anna stared, wide-eyed, unmoving.
"I'm assuming you mean this thing," Renee replied coolly, as she placed it on top of the shelf of the room. "He told me to keep it until he was off from his duties, make sure you were tended to, all that jazz."
"He…what?!" Anna almost choked, an incredulous laugh escaping from her throat.
"Yeah. Safekeeping, he said," the innkeeper said, a smirk appearing across her marred face, the muscle exposed in a grotesque manner as she grinned. "But, I'm not sacrificing the well-being of my tavern for a personal favor. You had better just be here tonight."
The shadows curled around from the room, almost on cue, as Renee sauntered out of the bedroom. Taking on the form of the Dragonhawk Hatchling, as she was accustomed to, it floated across the floorboards, twisted around Annise's skirts, and poked its tiny beak through her hair, playful. Anna simply sighed, fastening the amulet around her neck once again, to which it responded with an inquisitive growl.
"You evil, evil man," Anna spoke quietly to the Dragonhawk as she scratched underneath it's beak, knowing her love could hear her through it.
The Hawkling merely stared back at her with a pair of very innocent, emerald green eyes, like glittering gems.
(25) Reform
Moments passed, precious time she had to make a decision before the pitchfork-wielding madman skewered her into a nearby tree. The other had succumbed to a well placed ice trap, and she let the blast of fire from her hands close his eyes for good. The farmer's pitchfork had already bit into her twice, however, and she reacted more on base instinct, her attack breaking the other prematurely from his place. As the enraged man bellowed and rushed at her now, another instinct took place, quickly muttering the words of a curse of fear in demonic--and almost bit through her tongue.
"Damnit!" she hissed to herself as she felt the prongs of the crude weapon pierce her side, gasping in pain. Magically guised as Forsaken, the enchantment refused her use of her power as a warlock while in this form--for all intents and purposes, she was basically a mage, and could only use the power available to her as she learned of it. It was the wrong time to make such a mistake. Suddenly, the human farmer seemed as fierce as a Fel orc.
Gritting her teeth through the pain, she focused her mind, condemning the farmer to thirty seconds of life spent as a bleating sheep, giving her enough time to haul herself from Hillsbrad, leaving the workers in peace. Running on down the road toward Tarren Mill, she paused, trying to catch her breath, a gesture that might have seemed strange for a Forsaken. The blood welled, fresh from her wounds, a bright flag to her real identity; it would be best to leave the main road. She ran into the hills, out of sight from passing travelers, and began to bandage herself the best she could. Watching the Medic bandage wounds on a regular basis was helpful now, and she grinned outwardly at the sufficient work she did.
She let out a frustrated breath, hardly remembering why she was sent to the human town. While she enjoyed the time spent learning a handle on her new magics, the vengeful missions the Forsaken sent her on left her in a state of bottled up anxiety. Working for them was necessary if she were to keep up the act, however. And among some of the heinous acts they would have her do, "Annise" found a way around them one way or another. Thirty human skulls were easily excavated from the graveyard in Deathknell, as the corpses and bones were regularly dug up.
"More fodder to add to the army," she had once been referred to as, when she first used the enchanted amulet and spoke to the Deathguard.
Still, she kept returning when she could. Seeing the Medic made it worth the few instances of discomfort. Even more so since the night at Goldenmist Village, where they exchanged rings, and silent vows. It was clear that Zam comprised all of her world now: he was her source of happiness. After some arguing, some hesitation, a priestess convinced her to search for answers about her condition, and some doors were opened as her mind was laid open. Anna finally knew where she came from, where she had been, after dancing in denial for weeks. There were some memories that would never be recovered again, but Anna was content with that, though the priestess could hardly agree. For the warlock, knowing her experience told her all she needed to know--some things were never meant to be known.
While knowledge was certainly a precursor to power, power is nothing when one is meant to serve and give up life for a single taste of it.
And so, her connection with the Darkness she so clung to became strained, finally letting go of it as she took up her powers in the arcane, in ice, and in fire. So much potency often left her winded in the energies that she tried to harnass, but it was exciting, knowing this wild magic. Studying the cities and the races of the Horde became commonplace for her, as the mass amounts of sketches in her tomes would entail. Many took interest in her jewelcrafting, so she began extending her services, offering to create original designs on request. Tattoos, or skin etches, as she called them, became popular as well, surprisingly. Her hands were steady, and gentle, which was imperative in such a craft.
As Annaliese pulled away from the Shadows however, she noticed that her beloved began to become…closer to it, which might have frightened her if she did not trust him entirely. She would often find him twirling an orb in his hands, and it alarmed her slightly when she found out he had captured a death knight, of all creatures. Still, Zam was the same quiet, helpful medic she knew him to be, though his patience seemed to wane at times with others. He was kept busy more often than not, and cherished the times when she came to him, but as he gazed at her, she could not help but shiver, feeling the strong aura of shadow pulse around his form. Strange that Archaes seemed to fall victim to such a change, but on more dire consequences. She doubted that Zam would have some dark parasite leeching off of him.
Then one night, Zamboozle, Medic extraordinaire, did something that changed her position with the Shadows. She did not know what came over him that night, in Brill, but she was in his arms in one moment, and then reeling from the shadow energies he began siphoning into her, setting all her nerves on flame. Caught between trepidation and alarming rapture, she soon became addicted to the feeling, to the enlivening power he gave to her. Alarming still, was when he had told her that she herself did the same to him, long ago.
She lowered herself to the moist grass, feeling a light wind whip at her neck from the hills. Checking her satchel for soul shards she didn't have, she groaned irritatingly at her mindset. Closing her eyes, she thought of the fountains of Stormwind, imagining that water might one day grace the old stone, instead of the occasional dancing druid or drunken mage…
Anna jumped from her seated position as she felt something brush against her, ready to strike with…something. A creature, formed from…what looked like living shadow, floated near her feet. It took the shape of a Dragonhawk Hatchling, shifting between a blue-violet color, ever moving. She looked around quickly, searching for the creature's owner, a little more than wary. It was not the first time she had seen such creations.
"Go on now," she spoke softly to it, making a waving motion with her hands. Instead, it neared her, trying to nuzzle against her skirts. Anna nearly shrieked.
"Stop that!" she cried out in alarm, paranoid. The creature shuddered somewhat, and with a look of sad disappointment, began to fade away, dematerializing in the cold wind. She stood there, staring at the spot where it floated for a moment longer, thoughtful. It did seem very familiar.
She had the sudden feeling that it would not be the last time she would see the creature.
"Damnit!" she hissed to herself as she felt the prongs of the crude weapon pierce her side, gasping in pain. Magically guised as Forsaken, the enchantment refused her use of her power as a warlock while in this form--for all intents and purposes, she was basically a mage, and could only use the power available to her as she learned of it. It was the wrong time to make such a mistake. Suddenly, the human farmer seemed as fierce as a Fel orc.
Gritting her teeth through the pain, she focused her mind, condemning the farmer to thirty seconds of life spent as a bleating sheep, giving her enough time to haul herself from Hillsbrad, leaving the workers in peace. Running on down the road toward Tarren Mill, she paused, trying to catch her breath, a gesture that might have seemed strange for a Forsaken. The blood welled, fresh from her wounds, a bright flag to her real identity; it would be best to leave the main road. She ran into the hills, out of sight from passing travelers, and began to bandage herself the best she could. Watching the Medic bandage wounds on a regular basis was helpful now, and she grinned outwardly at the sufficient work she did.
She let out a frustrated breath, hardly remembering why she was sent to the human town. While she enjoyed the time spent learning a handle on her new magics, the vengeful missions the Forsaken sent her on left her in a state of bottled up anxiety. Working for them was necessary if she were to keep up the act, however. And among some of the heinous acts they would have her do, "Annise" found a way around them one way or another. Thirty human skulls were easily excavated from the graveyard in Deathknell, as the corpses and bones were regularly dug up.
"More fodder to add to the army," she had once been referred to as, when she first used the enchanted amulet and spoke to the Deathguard.
Still, she kept returning when she could. Seeing the Medic made it worth the few instances of discomfort. Even more so since the night at Goldenmist Village, where they exchanged rings, and silent vows. It was clear that Zam comprised all of her world now: he was her source of happiness. After some arguing, some hesitation, a priestess convinced her to search for answers about her condition, and some doors were opened as her mind was laid open. Anna finally knew where she came from, where she had been, after dancing in denial for weeks. There were some memories that would never be recovered again, but Anna was content with that, though the priestess could hardly agree. For the warlock, knowing her experience told her all she needed to know--some things were never meant to be known.
While knowledge was certainly a precursor to power, power is nothing when one is meant to serve and give up life for a single taste of it.
And so, her connection with the Darkness she so clung to became strained, finally letting go of it as she took up her powers in the arcane, in ice, and in fire. So much potency often left her winded in the energies that she tried to harnass, but it was exciting, knowing this wild magic. Studying the cities and the races of the Horde became commonplace for her, as the mass amounts of sketches in her tomes would entail. Many took interest in her jewelcrafting, so she began extending her services, offering to create original designs on request. Tattoos, or skin etches, as she called them, became popular as well, surprisingly. Her hands were steady, and gentle, which was imperative in such a craft.
As Annaliese pulled away from the Shadows however, she noticed that her beloved began to become…closer to it, which might have frightened her if she did not trust him entirely. She would often find him twirling an orb in his hands, and it alarmed her slightly when she found out he had captured a death knight, of all creatures. Still, Zam was the same quiet, helpful medic she knew him to be, though his patience seemed to wane at times with others. He was kept busy more often than not, and cherished the times when she came to him, but as he gazed at her, she could not help but shiver, feeling the strong aura of shadow pulse around his form. Strange that Archaes seemed to fall victim to such a change, but on more dire consequences. She doubted that Zam would have some dark parasite leeching off of him.
Then one night, Zamboozle, Medic extraordinaire, did something that changed her position with the Shadows. She did not know what came over him that night, in Brill, but she was in his arms in one moment, and then reeling from the shadow energies he began siphoning into her, setting all her nerves on flame. Caught between trepidation and alarming rapture, she soon became addicted to the feeling, to the enlivening power he gave to her. Alarming still, was when he had told her that she herself did the same to him, long ago.
She lowered herself to the moist grass, feeling a light wind whip at her neck from the hills. Checking her satchel for soul shards she didn't have, she groaned irritatingly at her mindset. Closing her eyes, she thought of the fountains of Stormwind, imagining that water might one day grace the old stone, instead of the occasional dancing druid or drunken mage…
Anna jumped from her seated position as she felt something brush against her, ready to strike with…something. A creature, formed from…what looked like living shadow, floated near her feet. It took the shape of a Dragonhawk Hatchling, shifting between a blue-violet color, ever moving. She looked around quickly, searching for the creature's owner, a little more than wary. It was not the first time she had seen such creations.
"Go on now," she spoke softly to it, making a waving motion with her hands. Instead, it neared her, trying to nuzzle against her skirts. Anna nearly shrieked.
"Stop that!" she cried out in alarm, paranoid. The creature shuddered somewhat, and with a look of sad disappointment, began to fade away, dematerializing in the cold wind. She stood there, staring at the spot where it floated for a moment longer, thoughtful. It did seem very familiar.
She had the sudden feeling that it would not be the last time she would see the creature.
(24) Dissolution
The stronghold, forever under attack by outer forces, crumbled around her silently. Brick, stone and mortar crashed to the ground endlessly, leaving a heavy, black sky above. Barefoot, she stepped among the long dead corpses that littered the unprotected fortress, some half-buried, dead faces staring sightlessly at the only living trespasser. Their echoing death cries still stung the haunted air, mixed with screamed commands, the clash of metal, and the searing of fireballs as the spells hit home. The sounds were seemingly out of synch from what was really happening within the walls, for most of the fortress was already destroyed. The scenery was commonplace for her now, having been trapped inside the crumbling labyrinth for at least months now.
In fact, the scene was one she knew. She had been here before many times, but in dreams that recurred, leaving her awakening in a cold sweat each night. That is until she decided that sleep was not so necessary anymore, and afforded herself instead increments of sleep when she could. However, one thing differed from her dreams, since she had walked through the portal, and entered this dark place--the hallway of voices, the entrancing voice that encouraged her to embrace the Darkness was missing. Now, she only seemed lost in this plane, doors only leading to more unrecognizable rooms which eternally fell upon themselves.
This collapsing room was colossal, the arched ceiling, now broken to invite the chaotic skies. Torn, vibrant flags draped across the stone ground and bodies, instead of the columns they were designed to hang around so proudly. Perhaps once an oratory, or library, the room’s glory was now only a memory to the souls that formerly occupied this fortress. She let a soft sigh escape into the shadows of the ruin, a life’s breath that seemed to be engulfed by the lingering darkness. Far too long had she been here, seeking her answers, and the reply was an empty one. The unhinged door across the room was her next destination, and the warlock reached for it with an almost irritated determination.
She half expected the door to fall open when she touched it, but it remained intact as she pushed. The piece of intricately carved wood seemed to have no mass to it, though it looked to be quite heavy, but she pushed it easily to peer into the next room. A broken lamp shone dismally upon the wreckage of a courtyard, or perhaps some type of garden. Light flickered weakly against the heavy night, until it wheezed its last bit of power and accepted the dark, which Annaliese had long grown accustomed to here. Azeroth had opened to her a world of battle, and she had seen her fair share of land and people lost to ongoing conflicts, but this place seemed a melding of what she might have seen, past and present. The skies above crackled much like Netherstorm, fed off the expended energies of the dead.
Dead grass rustled under her feet as she walked on, a trite, trivial sound amongst the quieted bedlam playing all around her. A distant balcony caved in upon itself, slowly falling down the roof of the fortress, as if the destroyed stone had a millennia to hit the ground. Despite this, she walked on, filled with a calm, knowing that she was getting closer, somehow. She walked as if she knew exactly where she was going--a servant of the Great Dark would find the way, surely. She felt her confidence falter, however, as she realized the ground below her bare feet blackened, and writhed. Tendrils solidified from the ground and wrapped around her legs, easing up the rest of her body, pulling her to the ground gently. It was simply shadow, given life, and just as surely as she formed and used it to battle her enemies, she relaxed and let it take her, secure in its embrace.
Breath upon breath, echoes overlapping each other, was what she heard foremost. These breaths, taken from her own lungs, were joined in by subtle murmurs, the same lulling whispers that had brought her through the hallways in night’s past. The shadow that had taken her coursed through every bit of her, and this she realized, was only an extension of her will. Upon opening her eyes, she saw that she was suspended in mid-air, the shadow tendrils acting like an enlivened swing.
‘It is yours to command, warlock. Command them, as you always have,’ the voice carried through the room, neither feminine nor masculine, but a sound balanced between, and heavy, with power. Understanding the words, she extended her will outward, and the tendrils shifted, lowering her gently to the black, mirrored surface of the room. She watched as the tendrils melted away from her, only to join the mass of darkness that climbed the walls surrounding her. A moment’s worth of uncertainty pulsed within her as she stood there, alone, and unprotected.
The figure was immense, imposing. It clung to the walls like amorphous, shadowy vines. A red nimbus of energy pulsed through it, like tiny branching veins reaching throughout the inky darkness. The air was sifting with pieces of it, and it passed through her system like a drug, sparking her synapses to life, the sheer power here implausible. Her calm conquered her senses however, strengthening the twine that held her back from tumbling over the edge into loss of self control. She heard a hiss, something like breath trembling between teeth, echoing all over the room--the Great Dark was amused.
‘Strange, woman, that you hold against the darkness, being what you are. In the power that you wield, most are inseparable from what they serve, avatars in thought and action. You waited seemingly for permission to enter this place, though you knew the way all along,’ the entity spoke quickly, its voice low, nearing monotone, but steady and sure. She paused, thinking over her reply, trying to make up for her silence with two steps and a bow of the head.
‘A warlock does not ask permission before acting,’ the voice continued in absence of hers, almost teasingly, ‘Only a slave. Which are you Annaliese Handhour?’
It shifted in the great expanse of the room, the air thrumming, pulsing with dark energies. She could see the corner of an altar, gleaming obsidian in the middle of the room. Or perhaps a coffin, lying flat--the shadows enveloped it as it did everything else.
“I am not a slave. I am a disciple, grateful to that which gives me purpose in this life,” she spoke softly, her voice small, barely heard. Her eyes did not leave the mass, which twisted from the walls, its bulk compacting, shrinking, taking on a humanoid shape, though of what, she could not say.
‘Humans. Surprising, fragile creatures. I am often astounded by how many warlocks have been made of them. But, here you stand,’ it continued, the voice omnipresent, the gleaming red nimbus pulsating with each syllable pronounced.
‘Your devotion however, is pure, and it has been recognized. Often your manner and action have been…questioned, but the ends justify the means.’
The shadowy figure neared her, extending a dark tendril, the details of its shape blurred in the shifting, black smoke.
‘You play a gentle melody, but it is a tune crafted from my darkness,’ it spoke and inhalation of words as the tendril passed through her skin. She almost lost her footing, and fell to her knees. The hiss of laughter surrounded her, almost a sigh as it released her, satisfied with the taste of her mortality. The ever shifting form glided back to the flat structure in the center of the room.
‘Indeed, not a slave. A daughter of Darkness, then.’
It seemed to watch her through forming eyes, silently there, as its form defined itself, tall, a man seemingly carved of obsidian, great wings spilling from its back. A hand reached out, beckoning her near.
‘Why, little daughter, do you come to this place?’
“As I have served as your Scion, learned your teachings, and embraced the shadows,” she started, choosing her words carefully, “I, feel I have, become lost and have fallen from what I was.”
Again there was the feeling of her words being consumed by the shadows, as though it devoured, not out of hunger, but out of just taste, the enjoyment of a verbal meal.
‘Lost? You know the teachings. You have brought many to our cause, opened eyes to the inevitability of what lies inside their own minds and hearts.’
The pulsating mass separated from its form to twist around her, a towering funnel with the unisex voice caught within.
‘This has served our purpose.’
“Some of the others have lost the sight of what it means to serve, or do not hear your call, or choose not to. E-even when I speak the words during our rituals, they ring empty. I…I am not sure of myself anymore, of what I believe.”
The swirls of darkness circled in close, as did the voice, as if whispered into her ear.
‘For all that are lost, there are those that serve with the required, unfaltering devotion, and in secrecy. Perhaps, where you are lost, you need only find where you fit again.’
In the midst of its counsel, she took a quick study of the room again, but could not begin to know what area this was, or what this plane seemed to emulate. Annaliese jumped slightly as the funnel twisted away from her to rejoin the obsidian form that stood next to the altar, the wings, writhing, stretched outward, as it took heavy steps toward her. She dare not move her body, and kept her eyes low in respect, but she could feel its penetrating gaze upon her, heard the slither of its tendril-like wings.
‘You know much of the Great Dark, warlock, and you know of what is expected of you, in order for our goals to come to fruition,’ it spoke, heavy limbs reaching out to her once again. Annaliese flinched, a gasp caught in her throat, anticipating the submersion once again, to be baptized in living darkness. Sensing her unease, the limbs merely lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to its towering head, the eyes, deep, deep violet. Its form was not hardened, as she thought, but rather like liquid, still shifting, but keeping shape, the red nimbus pulsing within the chest. She could feel its thrumming pulse as it touched her, and realized that images were being pulled from her mind, thoughts, and random memories.
‘Do not fear me, Annaliese. I have been with you, fought with you, lived within you. You come for my aid, and I intend to help,’ it whispered fluently in a different, ancient tongue. She was shocked that she understood these words, but nodded slowly, and closed her eyes.
‘It is not the first time I have been within you, daughter of shadow…’ its voice crept inside her mind as its fingers dipped beneath the flesh of her face. Annaliese began to protest, but her words became slurred, unintelligible.
‘…fear…has always been your enemy…and your humanity. Such feelings must be quelled, pushed back, if you are to serve without distraction.’
She began to feel the emotions being peeled from her, little by little, eaten away at. Understanding, fueled by the secret of the Dark, knowledge of ancient times, glimpses of a time before all else…and yet the fingers delved deeper, whispering along the halls of her mind.
‘…if you must act, do so in the name of Darkness, if you must sacrifice for the coming of the Dark Age…’ it chanted, replacing emotion with purpose. She felt herself being lifted, then lain upon something solid, the entity pouring itself into her like a sieve. Its form undulated over her as it skimmed through her, the peace welcome.
‘…if you must fear, only fear a world without the embrace of Night, if you must love, love only the Great DaAar--’
The mass of darkness dispersed as a shock ripped through its form, returning everything it began to take from her upon release. Lying upon the altar, she slowed her breathing, waiting for her rampant heartbeat to slow as well. She stared silently up at the red nimbus, its pulse much like her heartbeat, stretching across the room like chaotic stitching on a renegade garment. After a moment, the mass shifted once again, its pace returning to the hypnotic wave of its tendrils. A great face formed in the middle of the mass, the same ambiguous voice pouring from it:
‘To be one with the Great Dark, to be completely devoted to it, warlock, you must break your bonds to others, and give all to that which you serve, alone. This alone distracts you from your place among those who live to serve, and denies you the most secret of wisdoms.’
She sat up on the reflective altar, dreading the answer she knew of all along. The shadows encircled her once more, coiling around her body, the darkness cool and comforting to her sweat-slicked skin. Looking up, she found herself in comforting arms, the Darkness once again solid as it took shape, stolen from her mind.
Like a fluid spirit born of obsidian, a very familiar priest sat cradling her in his lap upon the heavy altar.
‘Learn to embrace the Darkness, will it into your very soul, as if it were your only lover eternally, and you will then find purpose, and with purpose…peace…’ he spoke with his own voice, echoing with dark overtones. Cool and smooth were the fingers that traced her jaw line. She had found her answer, here in these ruins, upon the altar, and reveled in it as the cool lips touched her own.
“I can’t…”
The obsidian Niklos drowned her voice out with a heavier kiss. He was in her mind, whispering, begging for her to accept, and invite him. And yet, as dearly as she wanted it, she refused, and pulled away from the shadow image.
“I cannot give myself to such a purpose, not like this. If love is weakness, then I am not worthy of your secrets, nor can I be a true servant,” Annaliese spoke calmly, though her words may have signed her death warrant. Niklos dissipated, melting off the altar and returning high above, the nimbus crimson red.
‘Careful, warlock. Such words are traitorous, given with what gift of knowledge I bestowed upon you, with what you know of My design…’
“I beg forgiveness, understanding…perhaps, there is another way I might serve…” she began. And oh, how did she feel how heavily her words were weighed, scrutinized. It was then that a thought struck her, that she might not leave this plane alive…
‘Yesss. We know a way for such treachery to be absolved. And it would not require your death, thankfully, for you. Annaliese, rectify your action and words here, and take the task I give to you,’ the voice commanded.
“Tell me…what I must do.”
‘Love…is not so much of a weakness, if it is prepared for use in the Dark design. This one you feel so strongly for, the undead priest who poses as living…open his eyes as you have opened many others, and prepare him in service to Our purpose.’
“But I have opened the door for him, and he will not walk through. He knows he has a place among us, but he is not…entirely comfortable with the stipulations…”
‘Then push him through the door. If he loves you as much , woman, he will obey. His talents would be an useful asset.’
Her answer was decided. There was no question. She would rather die, than force her love into a life of servitude, to use him in such a way. The black shadows unfurled, its nimbus and veins crackling like red lightning, knowing her answer. It struck her upon the altar like hell’s whip, searing her flesh, and she lay limp against the altar, breaths ragged.
‘Then, warlock, your only answer is death.’
Again, the crimson heat lashed at her again, and the smell of burnt flesh hit her--the scream that echoed through the ruins signified the pain. She rose an arm up into the inky darkness, a raspy plead on her lips.
“W--wait, please,” came her voice, insignificant.
‘Begging? Yesss…plead, bleat, little lamb,’ the Dark bellowed, readying another strike.
“A sacrifice…in…ex…exchange f-for life?” she stammered through burnt lips. The tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, stinging her torn skin.
‘P-please…anything…I’ve come so far…to d-die now…”
Silence, all but the hiss of the fiery whip, eager to lay another blow.
‘What sacrifice do you speak of, worthless get?’
“Take what you will, but leave my l--life, love…”
She thought of her last memory of Niklos, sitting upon the beach, after Willaim’s wedding. If there was a chance, that she could salvage what she had…she had come so far, so very, very far.
‘Hm…a pact. Perhaps too merciful for your treachery, but punishment is not restricted to death, alone.’
“Yes…what you will. Only…only spare my life, my love.”
‘Loyalties to the heart….insignificant, meaningless…’
‘…please…’
Annaliese’s fingers curled inward, the breaths squelched in her chest. From her fingertips, blood seeped onto the altar, and a pitiful whimper escaped from her lips, as the Dark One decided her fate.
‘Your blood, Annaliese Handhour, is your contribution to this pact, this day. Your knowledge of the Great Dark is your sacrifice, for I will rip it from your mind. All that you have befriended through the Dark, all you have done in its name, will be taken from your mind, and you will be left broken, with your meaningless life, your worthless love.’
The curling fog leaned in close, menacingly, the crackling nimbus like a monstrous eye.
‘Do you agree to the terms of this pact, Annaliese Handhour, on your life?’
The answer was a wheezed acceptance. There was no mercy in the act. It came for her, the black tendrils, only this time they were not gentle, and violated her mind, ripping into her memory voraciously to take what it wanted. She felt herself sinking, through the obsidian altar, and through the crackling portal, and soon enough, she was falling through the sky. Her body, a seared rag doll, slammed against Arcatraz’s pathway, high above Netherstorm, ribs breaking upon impact, but alive. The pain was too much, finally and the warlock gave in to unconsciousness, but not before plucking a name from her tattered mind, and focusing on the face that came to her.
“…zam…”
In fact, the scene was one she knew. She had been here before many times, but in dreams that recurred, leaving her awakening in a cold sweat each night. That is until she decided that sleep was not so necessary anymore, and afforded herself instead increments of sleep when she could. However, one thing differed from her dreams, since she had walked through the portal, and entered this dark place--the hallway of voices, the entrancing voice that encouraged her to embrace the Darkness was missing. Now, she only seemed lost in this plane, doors only leading to more unrecognizable rooms which eternally fell upon themselves.
This collapsing room was colossal, the arched ceiling, now broken to invite the chaotic skies. Torn, vibrant flags draped across the stone ground and bodies, instead of the columns they were designed to hang around so proudly. Perhaps once an oratory, or library, the room’s glory was now only a memory to the souls that formerly occupied this fortress. She let a soft sigh escape into the shadows of the ruin, a life’s breath that seemed to be engulfed by the lingering darkness. Far too long had she been here, seeking her answers, and the reply was an empty one. The unhinged door across the room was her next destination, and the warlock reached for it with an almost irritated determination.
She half expected the door to fall open when she touched it, but it remained intact as she pushed. The piece of intricately carved wood seemed to have no mass to it, though it looked to be quite heavy, but she pushed it easily to peer into the next room. A broken lamp shone dismally upon the wreckage of a courtyard, or perhaps some type of garden. Light flickered weakly against the heavy night, until it wheezed its last bit of power and accepted the dark, which Annaliese had long grown accustomed to here. Azeroth had opened to her a world of battle, and she had seen her fair share of land and people lost to ongoing conflicts, but this place seemed a melding of what she might have seen, past and present. The skies above crackled much like Netherstorm, fed off the expended energies of the dead.
Dead grass rustled under her feet as she walked on, a trite, trivial sound amongst the quieted bedlam playing all around her. A distant balcony caved in upon itself, slowly falling down the roof of the fortress, as if the destroyed stone had a millennia to hit the ground. Despite this, she walked on, filled with a calm, knowing that she was getting closer, somehow. She walked as if she knew exactly where she was going--a servant of the Great Dark would find the way, surely. She felt her confidence falter, however, as she realized the ground below her bare feet blackened, and writhed. Tendrils solidified from the ground and wrapped around her legs, easing up the rest of her body, pulling her to the ground gently. It was simply shadow, given life, and just as surely as she formed and used it to battle her enemies, she relaxed and let it take her, secure in its embrace.
Breath upon breath, echoes overlapping each other, was what she heard foremost. These breaths, taken from her own lungs, were joined in by subtle murmurs, the same lulling whispers that had brought her through the hallways in night’s past. The shadow that had taken her coursed through every bit of her, and this she realized, was only an extension of her will. Upon opening her eyes, she saw that she was suspended in mid-air, the shadow tendrils acting like an enlivened swing.
‘It is yours to command, warlock. Command them, as you always have,’ the voice carried through the room, neither feminine nor masculine, but a sound balanced between, and heavy, with power. Understanding the words, she extended her will outward, and the tendrils shifted, lowering her gently to the black, mirrored surface of the room. She watched as the tendrils melted away from her, only to join the mass of darkness that climbed the walls surrounding her. A moment’s worth of uncertainty pulsed within her as she stood there, alone, and unprotected.
The figure was immense, imposing. It clung to the walls like amorphous, shadowy vines. A red nimbus of energy pulsed through it, like tiny branching veins reaching throughout the inky darkness. The air was sifting with pieces of it, and it passed through her system like a drug, sparking her synapses to life, the sheer power here implausible. Her calm conquered her senses however, strengthening the twine that held her back from tumbling over the edge into loss of self control. She heard a hiss, something like breath trembling between teeth, echoing all over the room--the Great Dark was amused.
‘Strange, woman, that you hold against the darkness, being what you are. In the power that you wield, most are inseparable from what they serve, avatars in thought and action. You waited seemingly for permission to enter this place, though you knew the way all along,’ the entity spoke quickly, its voice low, nearing monotone, but steady and sure. She paused, thinking over her reply, trying to make up for her silence with two steps and a bow of the head.
‘A warlock does not ask permission before acting,’ the voice continued in absence of hers, almost teasingly, ‘Only a slave. Which are you Annaliese Handhour?’
It shifted in the great expanse of the room, the air thrumming, pulsing with dark energies. She could see the corner of an altar, gleaming obsidian in the middle of the room. Or perhaps a coffin, lying flat--the shadows enveloped it as it did everything else.
“I am not a slave. I am a disciple, grateful to that which gives me purpose in this life,” she spoke softly, her voice small, barely heard. Her eyes did not leave the mass, which twisted from the walls, its bulk compacting, shrinking, taking on a humanoid shape, though of what, she could not say.
‘Humans. Surprising, fragile creatures. I am often astounded by how many warlocks have been made of them. But, here you stand,’ it continued, the voice omnipresent, the gleaming red nimbus pulsating with each syllable pronounced.
‘Your devotion however, is pure, and it has been recognized. Often your manner and action have been…questioned, but the ends justify the means.’
The shadowy figure neared her, extending a dark tendril, the details of its shape blurred in the shifting, black smoke.
‘You play a gentle melody, but it is a tune crafted from my darkness,’ it spoke and inhalation of words as the tendril passed through her skin. She almost lost her footing, and fell to her knees. The hiss of laughter surrounded her, almost a sigh as it released her, satisfied with the taste of her mortality. The ever shifting form glided back to the flat structure in the center of the room.
‘Indeed, not a slave. A daughter of Darkness, then.’
It seemed to watch her through forming eyes, silently there, as its form defined itself, tall, a man seemingly carved of obsidian, great wings spilling from its back. A hand reached out, beckoning her near.
‘Why, little daughter, do you come to this place?’
“As I have served as your Scion, learned your teachings, and embraced the shadows,” she started, choosing her words carefully, “I, feel I have, become lost and have fallen from what I was.”
Again there was the feeling of her words being consumed by the shadows, as though it devoured, not out of hunger, but out of just taste, the enjoyment of a verbal meal.
‘Lost? You know the teachings. You have brought many to our cause, opened eyes to the inevitability of what lies inside their own minds and hearts.’
The pulsating mass separated from its form to twist around her, a towering funnel with the unisex voice caught within.
‘This has served our purpose.’
“Some of the others have lost the sight of what it means to serve, or do not hear your call, or choose not to. E-even when I speak the words during our rituals, they ring empty. I…I am not sure of myself anymore, of what I believe.”
The swirls of darkness circled in close, as did the voice, as if whispered into her ear.
‘For all that are lost, there are those that serve with the required, unfaltering devotion, and in secrecy. Perhaps, where you are lost, you need only find where you fit again.’
In the midst of its counsel, she took a quick study of the room again, but could not begin to know what area this was, or what this plane seemed to emulate. Annaliese jumped slightly as the funnel twisted away from her to rejoin the obsidian form that stood next to the altar, the wings, writhing, stretched outward, as it took heavy steps toward her. She dare not move her body, and kept her eyes low in respect, but she could feel its penetrating gaze upon her, heard the slither of its tendril-like wings.
‘You know much of the Great Dark, warlock, and you know of what is expected of you, in order for our goals to come to fruition,’ it spoke, heavy limbs reaching out to her once again. Annaliese flinched, a gasp caught in her throat, anticipating the submersion once again, to be baptized in living darkness. Sensing her unease, the limbs merely lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to its towering head, the eyes, deep, deep violet. Its form was not hardened, as she thought, but rather like liquid, still shifting, but keeping shape, the red nimbus pulsing within the chest. She could feel its thrumming pulse as it touched her, and realized that images were being pulled from her mind, thoughts, and random memories.
‘Do not fear me, Annaliese. I have been with you, fought with you, lived within you. You come for my aid, and I intend to help,’ it whispered fluently in a different, ancient tongue. She was shocked that she understood these words, but nodded slowly, and closed her eyes.
‘It is not the first time I have been within you, daughter of shadow…’ its voice crept inside her mind as its fingers dipped beneath the flesh of her face. Annaliese began to protest, but her words became slurred, unintelligible.
‘…fear…has always been your enemy…and your humanity. Such feelings must be quelled, pushed back, if you are to serve without distraction.’
She began to feel the emotions being peeled from her, little by little, eaten away at. Understanding, fueled by the secret of the Dark, knowledge of ancient times, glimpses of a time before all else…and yet the fingers delved deeper, whispering along the halls of her mind.
‘…if you must act, do so in the name of Darkness, if you must sacrifice for the coming of the Dark Age…’ it chanted, replacing emotion with purpose. She felt herself being lifted, then lain upon something solid, the entity pouring itself into her like a sieve. Its form undulated over her as it skimmed through her, the peace welcome.
‘…if you must fear, only fear a world without the embrace of Night, if you must love, love only the Great DaAar--’
The mass of darkness dispersed as a shock ripped through its form, returning everything it began to take from her upon release. Lying upon the altar, she slowed her breathing, waiting for her rampant heartbeat to slow as well. She stared silently up at the red nimbus, its pulse much like her heartbeat, stretching across the room like chaotic stitching on a renegade garment. After a moment, the mass shifted once again, its pace returning to the hypnotic wave of its tendrils. A great face formed in the middle of the mass, the same ambiguous voice pouring from it:
‘To be one with the Great Dark, to be completely devoted to it, warlock, you must break your bonds to others, and give all to that which you serve, alone. This alone distracts you from your place among those who live to serve, and denies you the most secret of wisdoms.’
She sat up on the reflective altar, dreading the answer she knew of all along. The shadows encircled her once more, coiling around her body, the darkness cool and comforting to her sweat-slicked skin. Looking up, she found herself in comforting arms, the Darkness once again solid as it took shape, stolen from her mind.
Like a fluid spirit born of obsidian, a very familiar priest sat cradling her in his lap upon the heavy altar.
‘Learn to embrace the Darkness, will it into your very soul, as if it were your only lover eternally, and you will then find purpose, and with purpose…peace…’ he spoke with his own voice, echoing with dark overtones. Cool and smooth were the fingers that traced her jaw line. She had found her answer, here in these ruins, upon the altar, and reveled in it as the cool lips touched her own.
“I can’t…”
The obsidian Niklos drowned her voice out with a heavier kiss. He was in her mind, whispering, begging for her to accept, and invite him. And yet, as dearly as she wanted it, she refused, and pulled away from the shadow image.
“I cannot give myself to such a purpose, not like this. If love is weakness, then I am not worthy of your secrets, nor can I be a true servant,” Annaliese spoke calmly, though her words may have signed her death warrant. Niklos dissipated, melting off the altar and returning high above, the nimbus crimson red.
‘Careful, warlock. Such words are traitorous, given with what gift of knowledge I bestowed upon you, with what you know of My design…’
“I beg forgiveness, understanding…perhaps, there is another way I might serve…” she began. And oh, how did she feel how heavily her words were weighed, scrutinized. It was then that a thought struck her, that she might not leave this plane alive…
‘Yesss. We know a way for such treachery to be absolved. And it would not require your death, thankfully, for you. Annaliese, rectify your action and words here, and take the task I give to you,’ the voice commanded.
“Tell me…what I must do.”
‘Love…is not so much of a weakness, if it is prepared for use in the Dark design. This one you feel so strongly for, the undead priest who poses as living…open his eyes as you have opened many others, and prepare him in service to Our purpose.’
“But I have opened the door for him, and he will not walk through. He knows he has a place among us, but he is not…entirely comfortable with the stipulations…”
‘Then push him through the door. If he loves you as much , woman, he will obey. His talents would be an useful asset.’
Her answer was decided. There was no question. She would rather die, than force her love into a life of servitude, to use him in such a way. The black shadows unfurled, its nimbus and veins crackling like red lightning, knowing her answer. It struck her upon the altar like hell’s whip, searing her flesh, and she lay limp against the altar, breaths ragged.
‘Then, warlock, your only answer is death.’
Again, the crimson heat lashed at her again, and the smell of burnt flesh hit her--the scream that echoed through the ruins signified the pain. She rose an arm up into the inky darkness, a raspy plead on her lips.
“W--wait, please,” came her voice, insignificant.
‘Begging? Yesss…plead, bleat, little lamb,’ the Dark bellowed, readying another strike.
“A sacrifice…in…ex…exchange f-for life?” she stammered through burnt lips. The tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, stinging her torn skin.
‘P-please…anything…I’ve come so far…to d-die now…”
Silence, all but the hiss of the fiery whip, eager to lay another blow.
‘What sacrifice do you speak of, worthless get?’
“Take what you will, but leave my l--life, love…”
She thought of her last memory of Niklos, sitting upon the beach, after Willaim’s wedding. If there was a chance, that she could salvage what she had…she had come so far, so very, very far.
‘Hm…a pact. Perhaps too merciful for your treachery, but punishment is not restricted to death, alone.’
“Yes…what you will. Only…only spare my life, my love.”
‘Loyalties to the heart….insignificant, meaningless…’
‘…please…’
Annaliese’s fingers curled inward, the breaths squelched in her chest. From her fingertips, blood seeped onto the altar, and a pitiful whimper escaped from her lips, as the Dark One decided her fate.
‘Your blood, Annaliese Handhour, is your contribution to this pact, this day. Your knowledge of the Great Dark is your sacrifice, for I will rip it from your mind. All that you have befriended through the Dark, all you have done in its name, will be taken from your mind, and you will be left broken, with your meaningless life, your worthless love.’
The curling fog leaned in close, menacingly, the crackling nimbus like a monstrous eye.
‘Do you agree to the terms of this pact, Annaliese Handhour, on your life?’
The answer was a wheezed acceptance. There was no mercy in the act. It came for her, the black tendrils, only this time they were not gentle, and violated her mind, ripping into her memory voraciously to take what it wanted. She felt herself sinking, through the obsidian altar, and through the crackling portal, and soon enough, she was falling through the sky. Her body, a seared rag doll, slammed against Arcatraz’s pathway, high above Netherstorm, ribs breaking upon impact, but alive. The pain was too much, finally and the warlock gave in to unconsciousness, but not before plucking a name from her tattered mind, and focusing on the face that came to her.
“…zam…”
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