In the Mage Tower of Stormwind, the noisy scratchings of a feathered pen disturbed the quiet of the lit hall. Scholars and instructors both left the young woman to her own devices--Charlette was often not considered pleasant company, especially recently. She wrote harshly upon the parchment, surely if it had been sentient, the paper would make known its complaint of her treatment of it. But really, she treated the paper as she treated most people: harshly and with enough attention to suit her interests.
“No, not him. Not that one…” Charlette mumbled out as she scratched out lines of names on the old file. “…bah! This isn’t even the right town…! Urgh!” With that, the parchment was crumpled up and thrown into the wastebasket. Eyeing the dimming torchlight on the wall as if it had insulted her, the mage crinkled her fingers sharply at it, dosing it with summoned fire. It flared to life, crackling in the cold air of the Tower. The woman shook her hands, threw her head back and raged at the Tower’s ceiling.
“Why?! Why, Mother? Why am I doing this?!” she cried. Which really, sounded more like a young girl, whining pitifully. Unanswered, Charlette stared for a few more moments at the ceiling, and let out a long sigh. Her amber eyes turned sharply to a dark corner of the room, and she continued her fit.
“Why don’t you say something then? You’re too quiet!”
The cat rested peacefully on its seat, the only spot of white in the darkness of the corner. A shift, and a pale hand caressed the furry body, to which it stretched out, pleased. As the cat kneaded into the lap of its owner, the figure settled into the back of her mahogany chair, almost inseparable from the unlit corner, clad in black as she was. Her voice was soft as she answered, a shadowy whisper.
“What do you wish for me to say?”
Charlette kept her scowl on her seated companion, until it faltered, and she looked as if she might cry. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and took in an irritated breath.
“Hmph. You could offer to help me.”
“I thought you wished to carry the request out yourself?” came again, the haunting voice of the mage’s sister. Now two glowing eyes gazed at Charlette, like twin lanterns. This made the mage look away.
“Well, people are incompetent. And the scout I sent over the wall didn’t do her j--”
“You tried to send someone over the Gilnean wall…?”
“She couldn’t get over it. Useless!”
“Charlette. No one can get beyond the wall. It wont matter who you send.”
“You’d think someone from SI:7 could! What do those people train for anyway? Pickpocketing? Spying on people in their homes? How useless!”
“Hush now. Stormwind is not Dalaran, sister.”
“Well that’s obvious!”
Again, silence fell over the Mage Tower, all except for a cat’s rumbling purr. The dark figure slipped out of her seat, gently placing the cat in place of her. Charlette sighed as Annaliese stood behind her. The hood had fallen back from her head--Charlette had grown more comfortable with her sister’s apperance, and actually did not flinch now as her cold fingers lay on her shoulders, a gesture of quiet comfort.
“Mother is wrong. Quintun is lost, with father. Along with the entirety of Gilneas! I must be insane for even looking…” Charlette spoke softly, unlike her usual callous tone. She felt her sister’s hands touch her hair and cradle it, just as their mother used to do. The young mage’s coldness seemed to break down, and all in one moment, Charlette held to the cold hands that comforted her, much like a child would.
“You want to please Mother, as I’m sure you always have, Charlette. She tasked you to find me, which you have, didn’t you? Now, have a little hope like she did. Maybe our brother is alive, yes?”
Sniffles and small whimpers came from the younger sister now, until she let go of the hands, and patted her face dry. Charlette batted her sister’s fingers away shortly after, fixing her with a bleary stare.
“Stop it. I’m not a child!”
The ghost-like woman could only smile, and let her hands fall in front of her, clasping her fingers together demurely. Charlette was…many things. But to Anna now, she was a lonely, stressed young lady. She watched as the girl rose from her own chair, glancing at her.
“The correct census could have been sent to Stormwind, or Lordaeron…who knows? Probably with much of the reports scattered in between. Why don’t you ask him about the census?”
Anna smirked a bit, innocently replying, “Whom?”
Charlette blinked at her sister, and then expelled a weary groan. “You know exactly who I mean.”
“Niklos?”
“Yes. That,” was the curt, unimpressed answer.
“My husband.”
“…whatever. Yes, him.”
Anna grinned a bit now, her glowing eyes glowing subtley.
“Your brother-in-law?”
“Yes. My broth---gah! What? No! That…stop it!”
Anna’s soft laugh hovered in the Wizard’s tower, long after Charlette’s childish glare had passed. She gave her sister a gentle hug, despite the grouchy countenance.
“We’ll figure things out, Charlette. I’ll help…you just have to…ask.”
“So you’ll do what I tell you, yes?”
“Well. Under reason…”
Charlette fixed her with a serious, almost worried look.
“Stay more. With me. And…stop being a warlock.”
“…what?”
“I need your help more! With…things! And I’ll hate you forever if you’ve sworn you’re bloody soul to Kil’Jaeden or something…”
“Charlette…”
“You could become a mage. I’ll even let you share my wardenship in the Violet Hold. It’s such a noble task, suitable for a Handhour. And I wouldn’t be so ashamed of you then, being what you are. Think of what you could become!”
A sigh left the elder sister. “I don’t think I would be the greatest fit, Charlette…”
“Oh..fiddlesticks. I could train you to be competent.”
By now, Annaliese was nearly at the other end of the Tower, exiting, quite hurriedly. “I’ll be…elsewhere, sister. Call me when you need me.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Cathedral.”
“You can’t go in there!”
“Probably not now, no. I have studies there.”
Charlette stopped mid-step, just in front of the portal.
“You’re…becoming a priest?”
“Oh yes. I hold sermons there every night.”
“…what? Every night? Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
A laugh fled Anna once again, as she slid her hood back up around her head. “You’re completely gullible, sister.”
“I…don’t like you.”
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Farewells
It was quiet in the room. Too quiet. Lady Margaret Handhour of the Dalaran Council lay, prone, and still on the pristine sheets. Slender, pale fingers reached out to caress the age-worn face of the deceased lady. Warmth had long fled the mother's body, but she wore a serene expression. She had been ready for death, while her daughters had not.
Lady Handhour was cold to the touch, just as her eldest daughter now was.
"Miss? It would be wise for us to take the body now, from the bed, yes?"
Anna jumped up a bit at the sound of the gentlemanly voice behind her. She turned, closing the large hood around her face on instinct, covering her glowing eyes. Her pale lips could only be seen there as she spoke in her soft tone.
"Would be wise, yes. Forgive me, I only wished for more time with her."
The old doctor smiled sincerely, though Anna could see no more than his thick trousers, and the chubby hand which held the medical bag.
"Miss Charlette said as much too. With her permission, we may take the body to have it prepared now. I believe the papers are in order, signed? She had mentioned her assistant would have them."
Annaliese paused, momentarily confused. She stopped herself--Orcish came more naturally to her these days, and she had to rethink her words in Common.
"I...I have them on the desk. Over there. Yes," she pointed with a pale finger to the shelf of the room, where the balcony's breeze billowed the paper's gently. Posing as a human assistant of Miss Charlette Handhour was easier than explaining off her strange circumstance. Of all things, she seemed to be good at disguises after all. She watched as the old doctor procured the papers, listening to the sound of his booted feet pad along the carpeted floor. Her attention next fled to more footsteps, stepping in through the doorway of the room. Lifting her head just a bit, she found the two carried a cloth gurney, as well as a few sheets, while the old Doctor directed them.
"Take her gently now, gently," he urged, and Annaliese fought the urge to help, or rather maybe to run them off from the body. She stiffened as these feelings of rushed her. She had such little time, so little words...
"Please tell your mistress that we will take good care of her mother, miss," the Doctor now spoke, suddenly very near to her. Anna held the hood closed, her head bowed down quickly. "Y...yes. Thank you. I shall...ehm..."
The old doctor took hold of her hand, and brought it to his lips eloquently. She winced as she felt the tickling of his mustasche upon her pale fingers.
"Lady, you are so cold. Are you sure you are not taking ill? I can take a look at you..."
The slender hand recoiled from his grasp before he could finish his words. "The night has been a sorrowful, sir. And my mistress's sorrow has been mine. I am sure I will be better with some sleep, thank you."
With a pause, and rustle of papers, the old man hummed in an odd tone to himself, but his feet followed the others soon enough as the Lady's body was carried from the room. "I will await arrangement orders from the Priest, then. Good day."
Anna stood for a long moment, cloaked in her dark robes, staring down at the now empty bed. There were no tears to be had.
Only the young girl years ago, staring out of her rain-streaked window, who whispered her farewells.
Lady Handhour was cold to the touch, just as her eldest daughter now was.
"Miss? It would be wise for us to take the body now, from the bed, yes?"
Anna jumped up a bit at the sound of the gentlemanly voice behind her. She turned, closing the large hood around her face on instinct, covering her glowing eyes. Her pale lips could only be seen there as she spoke in her soft tone.
"Would be wise, yes. Forgive me, I only wished for more time with her."
The old doctor smiled sincerely, though Anna could see no more than his thick trousers, and the chubby hand which held the medical bag.
"Miss Charlette said as much too. With her permission, we may take the body to have it prepared now. I believe the papers are in order, signed? She had mentioned her assistant would have them."
Annaliese paused, momentarily confused. She stopped herself--Orcish came more naturally to her these days, and she had to rethink her words in Common.
"I...I have them on the desk. Over there. Yes," she pointed with a pale finger to the shelf of the room, where the balcony's breeze billowed the paper's gently. Posing as a human assistant of Miss Charlette Handhour was easier than explaining off her strange circumstance. Of all things, she seemed to be good at disguises after all. She watched as the old doctor procured the papers, listening to the sound of his booted feet pad along the carpeted floor. Her attention next fled to more footsteps, stepping in through the doorway of the room. Lifting her head just a bit, she found the two carried a cloth gurney, as well as a few sheets, while the old Doctor directed them.
"Take her gently now, gently," he urged, and Annaliese fought the urge to help, or rather maybe to run them off from the body. She stiffened as these feelings of rushed her. She had such little time, so little words...
"Please tell your mistress that we will take good care of her mother, miss," the Doctor now spoke, suddenly very near to her. Anna held the hood closed, her head bowed down quickly. "Y...yes. Thank you. I shall...ehm..."
The old doctor took hold of her hand, and brought it to his lips eloquently. She winced as she felt the tickling of his mustasche upon her pale fingers.
"Lady, you are so cold. Are you sure you are not taking ill? I can take a look at you..."
The slender hand recoiled from his grasp before he could finish his words. "The night has been a sorrowful, sir. And my mistress's sorrow has been mine. I am sure I will be better with some sleep, thank you."
With a pause, and rustle of papers, the old man hummed in an odd tone to himself, but his feet followed the others soon enough as the Lady's body was carried from the room. "I will await arrangement orders from the Priest, then. Good day."
Anna stood for a long moment, cloaked in her dark robes, staring down at the now empty bed. There were no tears to be had.
Only the young girl years ago, staring out of her rain-streaked window, who whispered her farewells.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
(41) Roses
"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."
"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."
(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.
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