The Hauntings of a People

[Yva]

She felt him die - her Reed, her precious Reed, the most useful weapon in her arsenal gone just like her boy was gone. It was as if someone reached inside of her, found the chord that bound them together, and tore it out through her chest. She staggered to her knees, her hands splaying in front of her, a piteous wail echoing through the dirty basement.

If he's gone, the girl is lost. You'll need another. Starting over now, so late. Tommy. I won't fail you, Tommy. I won't.

"TOMMY!"

Something ugly churned inside of her, something dark and horrible - the very thing that had drawn Reed to her in the first place, the thing that made him fear her and revere her and love her. The thing that made him swear fealty to her forever.

Forever he said, but forever was so short. Something wicked and horrible snuffed his forever before it could truly begin.

"No, not now. I will not have this NOW."

Shadows amassed around her as she began to chant, raising her stinging eyes to the darkness and calling upon the malevolent things that festered behind the veil that separated the living and the dead. She called upon the spirits, felt them stir around her, a million voices clamoring to be heard, wailing at her ugly extraction from their place of peace. She lifted her arms above her head and tilted her head back, screaming her rage and hatred, splaying her fingers as the churning spirits rushed away like a flock of horrid birds.

Find them. Find them all, any of them, anything near them. Find them and make them suffer. For me. For Reed.

For Tommy.

((The hauntings are going out. Once you give me a thumb's up, it's posted, and you can assume in game your ghost has arrived and is doing its ghostly thing. Harts!))

[Yva]

It begins as a creaking in the corner of the room.

There's a chair there, a rickety one ideal for draping abandoned clothes and personal effects when you're too tired to put anything away but can't quite stomach the idea of just tossing them onto the floor. This is one of those nights - the moon is fat and bright outside, bright enough to make the stars seem nonexistent in that ebon sky. As pretty as she is, she doesn't hold your attention long. Body weary, eyes threatening to droop closed, you find your room, dropping your leathers onto that chair and climbing beneath the heavy dwarven blankets. The oil lamp winks out with a slight turn of your stubby fingers. Your head sinks into your pillow, and you feel the deep haze of sleep already encroaching - a welcome friend for a battered and bruised older man who wants nothing more than to forget these past few weeks.

At just past midnight, the squealing begins. It's like the turning of unoiled gears, except it's slow and rhythmic, and very very close.

Squeaaaaaak thud.
Squeaaaaaak thud.
Squeaaaaaak thud.
Squeaaaaaak thud.

Quiet at first, it grows louder, loud enough to tear you from your dreams, and you lift your head, your fists rubbing at your eyes to clear them of sand and fatigue. You peer around, taking a moment to figure out that the sound is coming from the corner with the chair. Your pupils dilate as they adjust to the darkness. The mess of your clothes have created a misshapen pile of shadows, eerie to behold when combined wit . . .

Squeaaaaaak thud.
Squeaaaaaak thud.

It speeds up. Much to your dismay, it looks like something is moving there in the darkness, in that heap of clothes and wood. You force yourself up onto your elbow with a groan and turn your lantern back on, cringing as the light strikes your face. As soon as the room's darkness is thrust away, the sound stops. The chair is . . . just a chair. The clothes are simply lumped there as you left them.

All is well.

Despite your rationalizations, the hairs on the back of your neck are standing on end.

*****

Night two comes. Once again you find your bed, once again the lantern winks out, once again you drift into dreams, abandoning the hardships of the day. It was easy to chalk the evening before up to circumstance, to overtired ramblings and the workings of an exhausted mind. It does not change the fact that this night, you put your clothes elsewhere - on the bureau - as to not create the same unnerving illusions.

The squealing begins at just past midnight, but instead of starting slow and building in intensity as it did before, it starts hard and fast, waking you much sooner. You tear your head up, once again ripped from the sanctuary of your dreams. There's a coldness on the air now, and the faint smell of mildew.

Squeaaaaaak thud.
~Whisper~
Squeaaaaaak thud.
Squeaaaaaak thud.

It sounds like someone talking below their breath, but the rhythmic pounding on the floorboards makes it hard to discern the words. Your eyes make out that same misshapen form in the chair - what you thought were clothes before, but know now is something else altogether. Your belly clenches into a knot.

Squeaaaaaak thud.
~Whisper~
Squeaaaaaak thud.
Squeaaaaaak thud.
Click. Click click click.

A new sound now, the addition of a slightly metallic click to the droning whispers, the squealing gears. You watch in horror as the shape in the chair starts teetering, rocking back and forth in time with the squeaks and thuds, almost like . . . a rocking chair? You lift your hand, about to turn the lantern on, and you hear a distinct cackle as the rocking chair goes faster, and faster. The clicking sounds are maddening.

The light is on, the shadows are thrust away, and all you see is a still chair in a corner.

[Yva]

It's been a long day, a hard day, and all you want is a hot meal and a bath. The food is provided by the mousy looking girl in the inn's kitchen who shovels stringy chicken and broth into a bread bowl and tells you it's a stew. It's nothing special, but you've had worse. At least the bread is fresh and crispy, and the ale is cold.

You climb the steps to your room, boots heavy on the creaking floor planks. The key slides into the lock and turns with a soft click, and the corners of your mouth turn into a weary smile. You're close now, close to sleeping off this utter exhaustion. An entire day of swinging your mace at scourge has been unkind to the muscles throbbing in your back.

Layer upon layer of heavy plate is cast aside, stacked in a pile resembling organized on top of the desk. You're careful not to scuff the polished top of the wood - the innkeep made it clear rooms were inspected for damage before check out the next day. He apparently attracts a rowdy bunch.

There's running water in this inn, the primary reason you chose it above the others strewn through the city, and you turn the faucet, hearing the creaks and whines of pipes as the pressure builds. Soon, a steady stream of steamy water begins filling the claw-footed tub, and you rub your hand over your neck, stifling a yawn into your shoulder.

Tired. Very, very tired.

Soon the tub is filled halfway. The faucet stops, and you can hear the pipes shuddering their displeasure. You step in - it's too hot, but you don't care. All you want is to scrub the grime from your body, to take a brush to your fingernails and get the blood off of your cuticles. The desperation for cleanliness and the sleep that will follow means a high tolerance for the discomfort of too-hot bath water.

There's a sponge and a fresh bar of soap in the basket beside you. You've begun lathering your skin when you hear the pipes begin to thud again. It's a different sound, now . . . almost like someone is taking a hammer to the metal on one of the lower floors. You try to ignore it, but the rhythmic, heavy whacks continue for the new few minutes. Sighing, you glance up, and sure enough, the pipes are trembling in time to those solid strikes. It's easy to dismiss as someone working on the boiler, or performing some kind of plumbing work somewhere else in the building, but the odd thing is the thuds get louder over time, almost like the hammer strikes are moving closer to you. What began three floors below now sounds like it's only two floors below, and then one. Your eyes flit to your faucet, and you can see it shaking, the vibrations of the pipework passing through its metal.

The bath, which should have been a relaxation, has become an annoyance. You want to close the door to the bathroom and bury your head beneath your pillows in hopes of shutting out the clangs and thuds on the pipes.

You finish cleaning your body and reach for the shampoo, placing it on the little table beside the tub. You lean back into the water, intent to wet your hair down so you can get the sweat from your scalp, and that's when the entire tub shudders - hard. Your eyes shoot open, and you start to push yourself up, but something seems to be stopping you, holding you in place. It feels like there are hands in your hair, tugging and twisting on the heavy tresses. You jerk your head up again, trying to move, but the hold grows even tighter.

The hold on your hair is frightening enough, but it's not over. The other hands - phantom hands you can't see, but can definitely feel - grip onto you through the water and begin pulling you down - two on your shoulders, one on your throat, another on your stomach.

You thrash against your invisible nemesis, panic swelling in your chest, but the more you fight the tighter its - their? - grip becomes. You suck air into your lungs, desperately trying not to be jerked beneath the water's surface, but the struggle is futile. You're pulled under, water rushing over your face and up your nose. You want to scream but you can't, because then the water will be in your mouth.

As you churn beneath the water's surface, in the midst of the chaos of being forcibly drowned by phantom hands, you begin to hear the voices. There's many of them, so many of them, the owners of the phantom hands trying to keep you held here forever. .

All of them are laughing.

[Yva]

It starts as footsteps in the halls. The abbey's a bustling place, and so footsteps wearing paths over the creaking floorboards are not that unusual, but this influx of activity at this hour is noteworthy. Midnight, one o'clock, two . . . the dead of night shouldn't see the pounding of feet down a hall, but that's just what's occurring. It sounds like a small army bustling its way back and forth, over and over again, followed by the same feet pounding up the steps towards the bell tower and back.

The circuit repeats every two minutes or so. No one else is awake to hear it, or nearby enough at least, and you head down to the hall in question, peering into the darkness. You see nothing that should cause such a fuss, but that doesn't mean the sound isn't there. It continues on the far end, drawing ever nearer. The footsteps are pounding, running - Yes, Running - closer now and you brace, finding yourself ready to confront whatever group is causing late night mischief in the hallowed halls. Closer, and closer still until it's right in front of you and . . .

Right through you. The sound comes, approaches, and blasts through your body in a wave of cold that's over and done with in a fleeting moment. The pounding up the steps continues behind you almost immediately. Only when these phantom runners course through your armor, through your body, do you hear the children's voices singsonging a rhyme and laughing. There's at least five of them shouting in chorus. You don't make out the verse at first, but you turn, watching the steps and waiting for their return.

Sure enough the fleet of ghost children come around again. Their last passage through your body wasn't a horrible discomfort - cold is not the nemesis to you that it is to others - but it does feel invasive enough to warrant a stiff spine as they approach. Again there's that blast as they shove through, almost a strong enough force to sway you on your feet. You're actively listening this time, trying to hear, and you can discern the first few strings of words to whatever game they happen to be playing.

On day one, Mother had her fun.
On day two, there was much to do.

Your eyes narrow as they go to the far end of the hall, and you wait again. You seem to only be able to hear them when they're inside and just outside of your form. As such it takes another half dozen rounds for you to make out the entirety of their chant. You piece the chorus together inside of your head, digesting the entirety of the rhyme.

On day one, Mother had her fun.
On day two, there was much to do.
Day three came, and I was lame.
On day four, they locked the door.
On day five I was bare alive.
On day six, Reed joined the mix.
The seventh brought pain, o'er and o'er again.
On day eight it was much too late.
Day nine sprung, my flesh was wrung.
Day ten dawned and I'd moved on.

The children that seemed so happy and innocent no longer feel like benign visitors. Realizing this, identifying the force as a malevolent entity, stirs something around you, and you feel the winds begin, breezes that rush towards you and grow in intensity as the seconds tick by. The running circuit continues, nears again with that now familiar rush of chilled air, and you can hear the chant echoing through the hall. They no longer need to be pressing through you to be audible. Over and over the ghosts rhyme, growing louder with every line of the twisted little poem, until their young voices are cracking as they scream the words.

All of their laughter is gone, replaced by the panicked sobs of little children as they strain to be heard above a now wailing wind.

[Yva]

Smoke and ash. It's all you can smell today, which is unusual. Normally the scents of the dwarven district don't find their way towards this part of Old Town - unless there's a strong southern wind, of course, but today there is no wind. It's a beautiful, balmy spring day with nary a cloud in the sky.

Your paws are padding over the cobblestones near the armory as you round the bend towards the Pig. The smell grows stronger almost immediately. You stop and look around, more curious than anything at what could cause this anomaly, and you spot the girl in the alley. She's nothing remarkable - short and scrawny, with dark blond hair that falls around her ears. She wears patch laden overalls and a faded checkered shirt. Her feet are dirty and bare, and there are smudges of black on her forearms and cheeks.

You blink at her, she blinks back, and then she backs away. She doesn't turn around and walk away, she backs away until she's no longer standing in the mouth of the alley but is, instead, shrouded by the deeper shadows.

The smell of smoke goes away. Immediately.

It's strange, to say the least.

Thinking it just a bizarre circumstance not really worthy of much other than a shrug, you go into the Pig, stay for a time with friends and family until the sun is drooping past the horizon and heralding a lovely night. It grows later, and later still. Stifling a yawn, you stretch, make your goodbyes to your people, and head back outside. Once again, stepping upon the street, you're assailed by the smell of smoke and ash. You look up, and the blond girl with her checkered shirt is standing on the steps of the shop across the street. The store's closed now, it's evening, but she's positioned herself in front of the locked door nonetheless.

"Hello?"

She smiles at you, revealing a mouth of . . . bad things. There are gaps where half of her teeth should be and simply aren't, and the teeth that are there are rotting little stumps or jagged spikes. You crinkle your nose, trying to think of something to say, and she begins to recede again, backing towards the shop heel to toe, heel to toe. You want to warn her that the door is closed, to not bump her head, but a closed door doesn't hinder her retreat. She passes through it like it's not there.

You stare, and keep staring, unable to suppress the shudder passing along your spine.

Decision time: to go back into the Pig or to get away. As the girl's presence is here, you've sensed it nowhere else, you flee Old Town and find yourself in the Park, in a nice well lit patch where there's a lovely tree to climb and find sanctuary in. You scale the branches and nestle yourself down into a ball of cat, willing sleep to come so you don't have to think about what you just saw. Your eyes slam shut, paw going over your face.

The sleep does not come easy.

*****

The next day dawns early for you, especially considering the birds bellowing their choruses all around. You yawn, unhinging your feline jaw, your paws going out in front of you in a stretch, your spine arching as your tail goes up.

You smell smoke and ash.

Dread coils in your gut as you dare to open your eyes. You peer around and down, and you see her almost immediately. She's hard to miss. She's standing at the foot of the tree, staring up at you and grinning her jack-o-lantern grin, her hands wedged into her pockets.

You stare back.

As you watch, she begins to move away, and you realize this time she's not bothering to pretend to walk away. She's floating away, and fast, grinning all the while. In broad daylight. As she leaves, the smell leaves, and you're left with your fear in a tree in the Stormwind park.

You know in the recesses of your brain - the parts that are still functioning despite the confusion and panic - that you will see her again.

[Yva]

You're mine, baby. All mine. Been watching you, trying to figure out how to get to you, what buttons to push. Old lady wants it done right, and I won't fuck with her. None of us will. It's asking for hurt, and I've plenty of that already. Do you know what it's like to feel the rope tightening around your neck every day? I've an eternity of it, of damnation thanks to the old bitch. At three o'clock sharp I feel the cord go taut, the air shut off, the gasping, pounding heart, and then the light headedness. My legs kicked for a good long while, you know, and they just stood around and watched. None of them could have cared less. You probably wouldn't have, either. You're about as sensitive as a pile of bricks from everything I've seen. Hard to fuck with someone like that.

I need something of yours, something good, something you trust and need. Some spooks want to jump out of shadows, or fuck with you when you sleep. Not me. I want to make it real, I want you scared, and more than just your heart pounding in your chest for a few minutes.

So let's make this interesting, boyo. Something you use every day. Armor, no, you get days off. Pants? Nope, change those out. Drawers too. Not a lot of jewelry either. Weapons . . . eh. You put 'em down or switch 'em out. Goggles . . . shit. Yes. Goggles. Let's slide in there and get real comfortable. Not too roomy, but I never was all that big anyway. This don't bother me.

Now I get to wait til you . . . atta boy. Put 'em on. Gonna look a little bleary for a bit, but that's just the start. See, I'm gonna settle down right here, in your eye and give you a show you won't forget. Blink for me, that's it. Let me squirm on in and give you a glimpse of what no one wants to see. The other side, our side, where we drift and linger. It's what we do, you know. Nothing else to do other than watch the living. Those of us who got left behind, stuck in the in-betweensies, we get to spend our forevers watching you fumble and bumble with the time you're given. None of you fleshbags deserve your years.

All right! This is good, real good. I want you to see us, see what it's going to be like for you, cause you're one of us. A dead man walking, you just don't know it. Let's give you a glimpse of what you got to look forward to, of what kinda spooks watch you every day, of what kinda spook you're going to be. And don't think taking the goggles off is gonna help you, either. They were just my in. See, you invited me by putting them on, and now I got no intention of leaving. You get to see what I see til I'm done showing it to you. And trust me, you're gonna see plenty. We're everywhere. You won't take a shit without one of us watching you. Hope you're ready for the long haul.

Really, it's your fear I want, boyo. And trust me, I know fear. There's nothing worse than knowing you're dying and the death coming slow. I had lots of time to think about things, about the shit that went wrong that landed me on the scaffold. I just wish my neck had broken like the rest of them, but some of us aren't so lucky. Like you, Sevita. You won't be so lucky. You and me are like two peas in a fucking pod.

Now do us both a favor. Look around.

[Yva]

Quiet is a funny thing. On one hand it's a friend who never seems to wear out its welcome. Ask any scholar in a library what they think of it, and after the initial scowl you'll get for disturbing their peace, they'll smile at you with an approving nod before putting their finger against their lips to shush you.

Night quiet is also a pleasant thing. In the comfort of your own bed, surrounded by a soundless dark room, you can oft times fall into a lovely deep rest thanks to its presence. The quiet cocoons you from the frenzy of a traveler's day, shutting out the distractions of the outside world.

On the other hand, quiet can be awkward and uncomfortable, and can teeter upon "too still", as Icecrown's quiet was wont to be. Long stretches of silence are peppered by the howling of ghouls or the shrieking of soldiers as they feel a frostwyrm's jaws snap shut. The quiet here is an unfriendly precursor to another inevitable tragedy.

The clip clop of your horse's hooves are a welcome thing, then, in that they interrupt the terrible stillness of this harsh country. There's a comfort in the rhythmic sound - it's companionable - and the cadence is such that you could hum a tune to it if you were so inclined.

On this day, you're patrolling along the northern borders, east towards Sindragosa's Fall. There's a flat in the crook of the mountains there that will make a suitable camp. It's been a good day in Icecrown, all things considered. Less lich encounters, less aerial attacks from the wyrmlings, less vrykul presence along the pass. You steer your horse up an incline and settle onto a well beaten path where the snow never stays melted thanks to travelers like yourself.

That's when you hear it - him? - the other rider. You turn your head over your shoulder, gauntlet instinctively moving towards the hilt of your axe, body poised and ready. There's nothing there.

You jerk the reins to pull your horse to a stop, head tipped to the side as you listen, but there's no noise save for a wind howling in the valley to the west. A minute passes, and then two. You decide what you heard was a fluke, perhaps a strange echo of your own mount's footfalls, and you continue your journey through the pass Not two minutes later, the phenomenon begins again. Your teeth grit as your eyes flit around. Certainly it's possible that the acoustics here are strange, everything else is strange after all, but you've been here before, it's never done this. And the rider sounds so close, like it ought to be someone riding just behind you.

You stop, it stops. Every time you stop henceforth, the sound stops as well.

It's disconcerting, to say the least, and you hurry your horse along. Tempo doesn't seem to matter - if you speed up, those other footfalls speed up as well. It's growing harder to dismiss it as an echo, too, as the phantom horse's feet seem to hit concurrently to your own mount's steps. It's growing louder, loud enough that had this been a normal noise with a normal rider attached, whoever was traveling with you would be parallel to you, and close enough that your horses would touch if the creatures swished their tails.

What is this? Who is this?

The moment those questions flit through your mind, a dark haziness ripples to your left. You pull your axe, ready to swing at this unwelcome intruder, but turning your head, giving the stranger your full attention makes him . . . shimmer.

You stare, and keep staring, because you can see right through this specter and his horse.

The stranger's plate is rusted at the joints, pieces of it draping where it ought to be welded tight. His helmet's visor is nearly hanging off, dangling down near his desiccated, bony jaw. He's half flesh, half skeleton, thick pieces of graying meat clinging to his bleached looking bones. There's a hole in his chest piece - clearly the blow that took his life - that looks like something huge and pointed punctured right through the steel like it was nothing more than tin.

The horse beneath the rider looks no better than its master. It too is a rotting heap of shambling bone and decaying flesh. The stirrups below the saddle just seem to float, the leather straps connecting the two long since rotten away.

Your hand relaxes on your axe. What good is swinging on something lacking corporeal form? You hesitate, trying to think of the best thing to say or do, but the rider beats you to it. With a quiet, grit laden voice, he opens his mouth to ask "Going my way?"

[Yva]

There are always those few minutes just after you've woken in the morning that you lounge about, staring at the ceiling above you, trying to dislodge the cobwebs of the previous night's dreams. This morning is no different than any other in that way. You feel rested, comfortable, and your blankets are tucked up beneath your chin. Your bed is warm and inviting, so much so you don't really want to start your day quite yet. You really ought to begin your studies sooner than later, but . . . well? Another half hour of sleep is far too inviting of a prospect; you turn your face into your pillow with a blissful sigh, eyes fluttering closed.

Conditions are perfect for the lazy man's extra snooze, but today, it simply doesn't seem like it's going to happen, mostly thanks to the chittering. You're almost asleep when you first hear it, and you grunt. Your tired mind associates it with some sort of rodent - a mice or a rat - and you groan as you shove your blankets off. You've never heard the pests in your home before, but where there's one of the squeaking little beasts, there's many. Its' really not something you should put off investigating, despite your body's protests that more sleep would be simply marvelous right now, and you scrunch your face into a frown.

Skitter. Skitter skitter.

It also seems like they're a busy lot - you can hear them scampering below you, perhaps under the bed or floorboards. It's near enough it's going to be impossible to ignore, and so you regretfully force yourself to an upright position, wedging your fists into your eyes and yawning. The sound of little clawed feet and the associated squeaks seems to be migrating from beneath your bed over towards your bureau. You watch the floor, trying to see one of them poke their whiskers in your general direction, but they're playing shy. Y

ou can hear them, you simply can't see them.

With a string of unhappy mutters your feet hit the floor and you approach the bureau, intent to bend down and peek below to spy your uninvited rodent guests. They go silent, either out of fear of your approach or some wickedly clever instinct to try and trick you. You begin your crouch, knees bending and head tilting to the side for the ensuing inspection, when the hands shoot out from under the bureau.

Your mind has a moment to digest what you're seeing - and feeling. Black hands, shadowy hands formed from shadow and darkness. They manacle around your ankles and begin to pull, the phantoms horrifically strong as they jerk you towards an inky blackness far too thick to be natural. You feel your feet moving and your balance toppling, and you find yourself thudding down onto your bottom. Your hand goes up, a spell brewing in your palm, fire threatening to burn the thing away, but your attacker is smart - it flips you over, lifting your legs and whacking you down onto your stomach so you're in a completely different position than when you started. The air is forced from your middle as the insistent tugs on your legs continue.

Your fingers grip at the floor - the carpet - anything as the hands pull and pull. You're scrambling to keep away from the bad magic now. Your toes wedge under the bureau and touch the thing, and they instantly go cold, sending shivers up your spine and back again. You holler - more from frustration than fear - but it does nothing to stop the onslaught. You're pulled under, and further still, that icy coldness rippling up your legs, to your waist, and chest.

Your heart pounds, your mouth opens in a scream, and the whispers begin.

[Yva]

It's a lovely spring day in Stormwind city. The temperatures are high, the winds are low, and there's nary a cloud in the sky. Birds chirp as they pass from tree to rooftop and back again, creating an almost idyllic cityscape.

You walk through the trade district, and then along through the canals. The street vendors are out in full force today, hawking their goods from their carts. There's glass and jewelry and dolls and other things that seem little more than worthless, pretty trinkets. Armorers polish breastplates until they gleam in the sun, leatherworkers display their most colorful pieces to capture the eye. The tailors have strewn swaths of fabric so they look like rainbows draped over their mannequins.

And though these things are nice, though the assortment of goods is marvelous, it's the food vendors that have the highest appeal. Sausages on sticks, muffins, fried dough, icecream and popcorn - every kind of food imaginable can be found here. The smell of cotton candy is strong on the air, almost like you're at a carnival instead of the same old cobblestone streets of Stormwind.

You approach one of the snack vendors, a man dipping fresh fruit into melted milk chocolate, when you spy the clown. He's a jovial looking sort with a wild green wig - the middle patch is bald but the sides have wiry looking hair tufting out above his ears. His nose is a huge red cherry, his skin is painted chalk white. There's a black smile drawn around his painted lips, and enormous blue circles outlining his eyes. He's holding a bunch of balloons in one of his hands.

As you near him, he offers you a closed mouth grin and a balloon. It's yellow and has a big smiley face drawn on it. You accept it with a 'thank you' and move along the stretch of street, your present bobbing above your head. About ten yards away, you're approaching a cart with a spray of fresh flowers, and you see . . . the clown again. You didn't hear him moving behind you, nor do you see alleys in which the clown could have traversed, but there he is again anyway, offering you a lime green balloon with a star drawn on it. You thank him again, your brows knit, and continue along your path. He waves goodbye with his enormous stuffed purple glove.

Ten yards away, next to a jewelry stand, there he is again with a blue balloon. You turn around, trying to see if there are multiple clowns along the street behind you, but you see nothing other than the vendors. You turn back to wave him off, your other balloons in hand, and he frowns. You watch as a makeup drawn tear simply appears on his cheek like it was there all along. Feeling guilty, not knowing quite what else to do, you take the blue balloon and hurry along, fast losing your desire to shop the canals. You turn the corner and . . .

The clown is in the trade district next to the fountain with an orange balloon. More makeup tears are drawn on his cheeks now, and his smiley face has turned into a frown. He waves the balloon. You're now nervous enough that you bustle through the crowds with your balloons, trying to avoid the clown that seems to be everywhere. You turn the corner towards the gates and he's there again, hunched over, mutely sobbing into his hands, a deflating violet balloon billowing towards the ground beside him.

You run back now, unsure of how to get away from this freakish man with his freakish balloons, sprinting towards the cathedral district with a shriek threatening to spill from your lips with the slightest provocation. You let the gifted balloons go, your feet pounding on the road that leads to your house. All you want is to get home, to wrap yourself in the comfort of your family.

You fumble up the front steps, breath coming in short pants. Your hand is shaking as you turn the front knob. When you push it open to slip inside, the clown is standing in the front foyer, hunched over and silently weeping into his palms, the deflated, popped remains of a hundred balloons near his feet.

You scream and pick up the vase by the door, wielding it as a makeshift weapon in case the brightly colored freak makes a move. You hold it steady, your breath coming in short gasps, and he lifts his head to peer at you. You stare in horror. The man's face is melting before you as his tears come, dribbling off, and not simply the makeup, but the actual flesh beneath too. You want to retreat, to back away, but your muscles are frozen to the spot as you watch the clown ooze into a puddle of swirling color on the floor.

[Yva]

The weather here is damp, mists rising off of the moorland in a thick grayish blanket. It's dense enough you can bare see two feet in front of you, never mind watching the winding path of road leading out of Menethil. It's dusk time, those precious moments just before the blue sky goes black and invites night to stay. It's when the fog is thickest, just before the rains come, when the air takes on an unearthly chill made all the stranger by the warmth clutching at the land itself.

You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders. This type of damp seems to tear through cloth, and it's only by the grace of your plate armor that you're able to keep any semblance of heat about you. Your horse's feet clip clop on the rocky road, a lonely sound when combined with the peepers that have begun to wail their evening song. There's rustling in the bushes, and every once in a while when the fog is kind enough to go thin, you spot a crocolisk eyeing you from the shallow depths of water. You can practically see the creature licking its chops, like you'd make a delicious pink feast for its brethren.

Your delivery has to be made before tomorrow - skins that will be used in the war efforts, outfitting who knows how many fighters. You agreed to this simple task in hopes of aiding the Cathedral, who asked you to come as a personal favor to the bishop. The pay will help you layover in Menethil's inn for the night - you won't make it back to the University this eve. Had you realized you'd be passing creatures with gaping maws and lashing tails, you may have thought twice before accepting, but what's done is done, you've committed yourself. You've been on much more perilous journeys before.

Your contact is supposed to be at the crossroads, and you keep hoping the thickening fog will recede so you can better see where you're going. It's easy enough to follow along - there's fences lining the way - but with the dense flora, the fog, and the sounds of the fauna stirring around you, the prospect of getting lost is a frightening one. You keep your eyes pinned upon the wooden posts, using them as your guide.

Time passes, dusk turns to night, the fog grows thick, almost like you're traveling through a ripening storm cloud. It spills into your nose, smelling of mildew, reminding you of cellars that have gone too long without the light of day. You shudder and hunch down closer to your horse. The fog gets tighter around you still.

And tighter.

And tighter.

It's a tangible presence upon your skin now, a weight that's forcing your hair to go limp and stick to your neck in wet streaks. The mildewy smell is worse than ever, and it's starting to give you a headache, making your temples splinter. You start breathing through your mouth to try and avoid the odor, and you can actually feel the thick air spilling in and oozing down your throat. It's slightly nauseating feeling, to be eating this unsavory denseness, to know it's filling your lungs.

You glance around, realizing that your limited vision has quite suddenly become no vision. You can no longer see the fence you've been using as a guide. The sound of the horse's hooves meeting stone continues, though, so you must be on the path, it's just impossible to see it. Trepidation settles into your stomach, clenching like a fist.

I ought to turn around. This is ridiculous. No amount of coin is worth this.

You click your tongue and force the nag to turn back, searching for signs of the fence, looking for a break in the fog. You travel for a half a mile, and then more, and nothing changes. The horse is getting jittery now, whisking its tail and snorting, ears flattening back. You try to soothe it, but it's difficult to make the animal calm down when you're feeling anything but calm yourself. As much as you tell yourself it's aberrant weather, as much as you assure yourself that everything will be fine back at the inn, you can't stop the slight trembling of your shoulders.

Finally, after what seems like forever, you can make out the gates of Menethil Harbor, and you force the horse onward. The fog is everywhere, denser than you've ever seen it, and you move towards the stables more from memory than actually being able to see anything. The stable boy is barely visible, and he peers at you strangely as you hand him the reins. You fumble your way towards the inn, stomping your boots on the mat just outside of the door before walking inside. There's light behind the fog now, and you lick your lips in anticipation of the warmth of the hearth fire. Doing so makes you taste the tang of the thick mildewy air, of the evening moisture that had pearled on your lips. It's bitter and slimy, and makes you spit on the ground.

You push the door open, a smile splitting your face now that you're safe inside. It doesn't take you long to realize something is very, very wrong, though. You see, most times when you go inside, the fog stays outside. This time it comes with you.

And it has no intention of leaving.