(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.