Jak: Yva?
Jak makes his usual stolid, slightly clanking return to his sanctum, bearing what appears to be a brace of misshapen skulls at his belt.
Darrows is inside, sketching on the walls with colored chalk. There are two patches of floor covered with tarps and surrounded by candles. She's muttering to herself.
Jak peers around, searchingly.
Darrows wipes at her brow. It's overly hot in here.
Darrows says: Mm . . .
Darrows connects a line and stares at a glyph.
Jak approaches cautiously at first, but pulls off his helmet as he remarks Yva on the floor.
Jak says: Are...is something like to explode if I step into this?
Darrows says: No. Don't step on it. The blood isn't dry.
Darrows holds up her hand.
Darrows says: Good to see you of course.
Darrows returns to the wall.
Jak says: ...whose /is/ that?
Jak seems more curious than anything else.
Darrows holds up a hand, showing off a ruined forearm.
Jak says: Bloody /fuck/, Yva!
Darrows says: I'm FINE.
Darrows's eyes narrow for a moment as she peers at him over her shoulder.
Darrows says: Kiss kiss, love. All in a day's work.
Jak takes a couple steps forward, taking care to maintain a presence outside the runes.
Darrows makes another connection on the wall, humming to herself.
Darrows says: Ice and fire and wind.
Jak says: You look like you antagonized an amateur butcher...
Darrows says: No, I simply needed dead blood.
Jak narrows his eyes, studying the glyphs more closely.
Jak says: Dead blood. You're...
Darrows shrugs and puts her chalk on a side table for a moment, wiping her brow again.
Jak 's head swivels in the direction of - well, from here it's more blank wall, but they both know what he's looking at.
Darrows says: I've been working while you're gone.
Darrows grins wickedly at Jak.
Darrows says: So much work, but it's worthwhile. Learning things.
Darrows twitches.
Jak says: Let none accuse you of sloth, aye. Nor good sense.
Darrows glares angrily at Jak.
Darrows says: I'm fine. Truly. It's just power. Nothing I haven't handled before.
Jak smiles, his tone light.
Jak says: If anyone'd be, my dear, it's you. ...is there a safe path in?
Darrows points to the right side of the tarps.
Darrows says: A path. just in case you came back.
Jak says: I feel an ass standing in my own doorway, such as it is. And you'd best have not soiled my bed.
Darrows says: . . . well of course I wouldn't bleed all over your bed. That'd be rude.
Jak navigates the corridor of tarping, the ghoul skulls at his belt rattling against the wall.
Jak says: Oh, hm.
Darrows beckons Jak over.
Darrows says: I've missed you.
Jak carefully detatches the pair of severed heads and puts them in a corner some distance from, er, whatever before turning back to Yva.
Darrows reaches a bloody hand up towards his face. Seeing the red stops her though, and she pulls back.
Jak says: And you. The days seem so bloody /tedious/...
Yva nods.
Darrows says: All work and no play. Something about dullards.
Darrows rubs her forearms.
Jak says: Being the dullard already, I might as well ask if that's enough blood yet.
Darrows says: Oh yes, well for now. You have to see?
Jak frowns at Yva's savaged forearm again.
Darrows says: . . . You haven't even said you missed me.
Darrows pouts prettily. She lifts her hand again and it's trembling. There's a purple haze of magic clutching her skin.
Jak says: I surely did.
Darrows waves her fingers, seemingly transfixed by the colors.
Jak leans over, his gauntleted hands encircling the wounded arm with a calculated tenderness.
Darrows smiles.
Darrows says: So sweet Jakob. Always sweet.
Darrows trills.
Jak says: I'd best say it more fiercely. But...if you've already begun whatever it is, I'd be loath to interrupt.
Jak glances over his shoulder at the network of runes.
Jak says: And I do enjoy watching you work.
Darrows leans against him with a low growl.
Darrows says: Mmmmmm.
Darrows giggles.
Darrows says: So much to show you. You wish to see now?
Darrows cocks her head to the side.
Jak says: Aye, let's...
Jak releases Yva's arm, though not without some obvious worry.
Jak says: Let's see what you've wrought.
Darrows seems hesitant to step away from him, but she sighs and does so, rubbing at the power riding her skin.
Darrows says: Pull the smaller tarp then. Careful to lift, not drag. I'll do the larger.
Darrows folds the first tarp back, rolling it so the chalk circle beneath is maintained.
Jak leans over to take hold of the tarp, following instructions with the care of a man who has associated with warlocks.
Darrows tosses the tarp into the corner. The two circles are identical, but one is half the size of the other.
Darrows kicks her shoes off.
Darrows steps back towards him, reaching for the knife at his belt, grinning sweetly.
Darrows says: I'd like to say it's not your blade I'm after, but it'd be a lie.
Jak says: I'd hate to make a liar of you.
Jak draws his knife and solemnly hands it over, hilt-first.
Jak says: Yet.
Darrows giggles again, a slightly OFF sound, and without hesitation, runs her palms down either side of the blade. She winces.
Darrows says: Mmm. Thank you.
Darrows makes a kiss-kiss face, humming as she squeezes her hands to gather blood.
Darrows says: Yours. Done, quite of course.
Darrows backs away some. She eyes a small box on the floor.
Jak manages to be too slow and off-guard to either pull back the knife, take the offered kiss, or generally do anything besides look equal parts worried and intrigued.
Darrows reaches into the box and pulls out a dead rabbit by its ears.
Darrows smears one of her hands down its face, coating its muzzle in blood.
Jak says: ...this is the most complicated recipe for jugged hare I've /ever/ seen.
Darrows 's smile is sly.
Darrows says: Just you wait, love. I'm about to dazzle you.
Darrows places the rabbit in the middle of the smaller circle.
Jak looks moderately dazzled already, though it's worth noting that his sword is still in easy reach.
Darrows conjures a purple stone, similiar to a soultone, and places it in the center of the larger circle.
Darrows steps to the side and hunkers down to her knees.
Darrows eyes the circle.
Darrows murmurs and squeezes her hands into fists, pooling the blood there. She lets out a small hiss.
Jak can't help but notice that said hunkering is doing some interestnig things to his view, but it's hard to pull his gaze away from the blood-spotted circle.
Darrows casts one last smile at Jak before pressing her palms to two small ovals drawn within the circle. As soon as her blood touches the blood on the lines, a purple light starts to shimmer.
Darrows says: Watch.
Darrows stares at the rabbit.
Jak 's breath escapes his pale lips with an audible hiss at the sight of the light; as if in answer, something cold and white flares behind his fixed gaze.
Jak says: Have a care...
Darrows begins to mutter something, some garbled incantation, and the circle goes from a dull purple to a bright shimmering light. She begins to pant and the smaller circle erupts in light too, mirroring the first.
Darrows says: Never harm you. Ever. Not my *sweet Jak*.
Jak says: It's not me I'm worried on.
Darrows laughs, loudly, and it ends on a wail as there's a bright flash. It's gone as quickly as it came, and she bows her head forward, her hair covering most of her face.
Jak says: YVA!
Darrows pants. She peers at him through a veil of her hair.
Jak starts forward, even in his haste avoiding going directly into either circle.
Darrows begins to smile. And it's *awful*.
Darrows pants.
Jak puts his hands carefully on Yva's shoulders, steadying her, watching closely.
Jak says: Are you...there?
Darrows pulls one of her hands away from the oval and puts it to her mouth. She inserts a finger and starts to suck the blood off of it. She pulls it out with a pop.
Darrows says: Oh yes.
Darrows' grin is wicked.
Jak says: You're very here, aye. Did that...what happened?
Darrows crawls across the circle to him, closing the distance. The lines are ruined, but she doesn't seem to care. She moves her mouth near his, smiling.
Darrows says: You're going to kiss me.
Jak says: I might.
Darrows says: I insist.
Jak stands his ground, leaning down to meet the approaching woman, an inscrutable smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Darrows breathes heavily, but her eyes flicker from him to the smaller circle.
Jak leans down to kiss Yva, his arms slipping around her blood-flecked form.
Darrows groans and closes her eyes, wrapping around him as tightly as she can. Her body is feverish with the purple magic.
Darrows laughs against his mouth.
Jak , while certainly engaged in the kiss, has the presence of mind to lift Yva up off the ground, shifting her securely in his plated arms.
Darrows nips his bottom lip once, then twice, and pulls away, still panting.
Darrows says: Look at what I did for you.
Darrows giggles.
Jak swivels to look at the circle, lifting Yva with him with little apparent effort but great care.
Darrows eyes the formerly dead rabbit. It's not quite upright in the circle, but it's trying to stand.
Jak says: ...huh. It's just what I always wanted.
Jak kisses the corner of Yva's mouth, eyes still fixed on the wavering rabbit.
Darrows strokes the side of his face with her free hand, trying not to smear him with her blood.
Jak says: Is it...just going to stay there?
Darrows says: Oh no. I'm going to deconstruct it. If I can make it, I can unmake it. Pull the threads . . . untwine them. And then? I'll know for sure.
Jak says: If you can help her.
Jak smiles down at Yva again, and for a moment he looks very young.
Darrows is studying him intently, her ruined palms sliding over his armor. It's not a sexual touch, more like she's amazed by the contours of the metal. The humming purple light throbs on her skin.
Darrows says: If I can I will. For you.
Darrows licks her lips and sighs.
Darrows ignores the now chittering undead rabbit.
Jak is discomforted by the rabbit.
Jak says: Alright. Let's see to those cuts.
Darrows says: . . . you're pleased?
Darrows suddenly sounds very very unsure.
Darrows shivers in his arms.
Jak shifts his arms again, carrying Yva's negligible weight at the shoulders and thighs.
Jak says: I am.
Darrows says: Then it wasn't for nothing. Thank the gods.
Jak says: You did this for me. For /Mara/, even. How could I not be?
Jak pauses and looks down at Yva.
Jak says: You...found this difficult.
Darrows runs her thumb across his bottom lip.
Darrows says: I never wanted necromancy. Just you. And this was a way to please you.
Darrows laughs again and hums, though the song is warbled.
Jak looks more surprised by that than anything - perhaps even a little frightened.
Jak says: Well.
Darrows frowns.
Jak says: I've never been overly fond of flowers.
Jak 's faint smile returns, and he kisses Yva gently on the forehead.
Jak says: Come on. Lie down. I'll clean the lot later.
Darrows nods.
Darrows says: Thank you Jak. Can you promise me one thing?
Jak carries Yva over to the narrow bed, with no apparent concern for the blood.
Jak says: Mm?
Darrows says: Nevermind.
Darrows looks away at the rabbit, her eyes squinting.
Darrows says: It's not a fair request.
Darrows smiles faintly. The light on her skin dissipates.
Jak says: ...later, then.
Darrows says: Even then. I was going to ask that you not think less of me for the things I do. It's impossible to ask for that without being ridiculous.
Darrows shakes as she settles into the bed.
Jak, digging into a chest at the foot of the bed, looks up with a roll of bandages in hand and a strange expression on his face.
Jak says: Dear, I am an impossibility. Nothing is ridiculous.
Jak leans over the bed again, unlocking his gauntlets to take Yva's cool, blood-slick hands in his grasp.
Darrows stares at him. The frenzied eye glint is gone, replaced by insecurity and not just a little bit of exhaustion.
Jak says: And I've learned that those I ought think ill of never think it of themselves. Which means that I should think nothing but the best of you.
Jak unstraps a bandage, winding it carefully around the tattered meat of Yva's forearm.
Darrows says: You'll stay for a day or so? Darrows says: Before you leave again?
Darrows grits her teeth. That sounded more pathetic than she liked.
Jak says: Aye. I want to keep an eye on that rabbit. I don't trust him.
Darrows says: Cage him outside. It's not like he'll get cold. He needs to continue to be in order for me to continue this damned research.
Jak wipes the blood from Yva's cut hands with a workmanlike air.
Jak says: You'll rest up first. And tell me what I can do to help.
Darrows says: Just be here when I wake.
Darrows smiles quietly.
Jak says: No fear of that.
Darrows says: Then that is enough.
For Mara.
Moderator: Guild Officer
For Mara.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
Progress.
The man she left beneath that tower wore a mask of bravado. He looked at his scourged sister with hope in his eye and a forced smile on his lips. He maintained his composure as he bandied words, trying to show Mara the error of her ways and break her from Arthas's clutch through logic, shared memories, and an outpouring of brotherly affection.
It should have been fine then. How could she have known an hour later he'd be so utterly broken? She should have been there, she could have . . .
Could have what? Made her swallow your magics until her insides imploded? Punished her with physical injury for his mental ones? He'd have never allowed you that. He'd have hated you for it. There was nothing you could have done anyway.
Yva didn't say anything when he half stumbled into their shared room. Truthfully, the 'why' of his misery was unimportant compared to the abject hurt on his face. She opened her arms and held him until the shaking abated. She kissed his temple, she kept the ice threatening to spill over her hands at bay. When he made for the door, grabbing a sword and his helmet and disappearing into the night of the Plaguelands, she didn't try to follow
“I'll come home, three or four days,” was all he said. Someone would bleed for his agonies she knew, but the unknown dead were not her worry.
Mara Balthasar was.
She snarled as she slammed the door closed. Her small feet paced across the stones of the tower. Jak was away and wouldn't see the ice spreading through the tower. He wouldn't see the magical manifestation of her temper. She didn't want him to know how angry she was at the woman who held them both hostage. That was the truth of things, wasn't it? Mara had trapped them as effectively as Jak had trapped her. They shared a bed but no affection therein. They couldn't leave his sister alone in the basement, and so they remained in the most barren landscape in all of Azeroth waiting for something to change.
The goal Yva and Jak shared – to see Mara righted – was the same but all together different. He wanted his sister back out of familial love and obligation, and Yva was honest enough to admit she just wanted Jak back without this horrid duty shadowing him. The deathknight was the key to unlocking the future, and Yva found herself angry at the hopelessness of the situation. She didn't like to be at anyone's behest, and though Mara was the one wearing chains, Yva felt the weight of them. She felt them as though she herself were in manacles.
There was no freedom for anyone while Mara remained the puppet of the Bastard King.
Yva blinked and her icy sheath shattered in a swirl of glittering snow. The humming strained from her throat, and she rolled her sleeves up before unwrapping the last of Jak's carefully laid bandages. She'd almost healed. He'd be unhappy that she had to reopen the wounds, but what could she do? The ritual needed blood and hers was all she had to offer. She'd live through it; she was the undying dead, after all, and it took more than bloodletting to stop her kind.
The chalks, the paints, the glyphs, all of them were recreated. The torches blazed and the temperature in the room rose, hour after hour, until Yva felt sweat slicking her hair to her back as she worked. The first circle was laid, the runes and glyphs carefully measured. She threw her cape onto the bed, and then her gown, uncaring that she was covered in the dirt and grime of a tower floor.
The last line was drawn, pale white next to the scarlets and blues. She reached for her dagger, flinching as she forced the edge of it into her still pink scars. A fat drop of blood gathered on blade's edge, and she pushed forward, swearing as her hands began to shake. Blood dripped into a bowl, gathering in a fast cooling pool, and when she had enough – so much she felt faint – she traced over the chalk lines, sealing the circle with her own essence.
It took her all night to finish.
Exhausted and feeling woozy from her blood loss, she allowed herself some hours of rest before continuing on. The sun was deep in the western sky by the time she rose, naked and covered in chalk dust, dried blood, and caking dirt, but she didn't stop to pretty herself. A second circle was needed, and unlike the rabbit which had required a lesser version of circle one, this would require one of equal size. The floor didn't offer her enough room, and so she'd moved it to the wall, using a crate to draw the upper portions of the glyph. The spacing was painstakingly duplicated, down to the color of the chalks and the width of the circle. By the time she'd finished, she was squinting and panting and feeling like she would vomit. Her stomach was howling for sustenance, and lack of water had made her temples pound.
Idiot woman, you can't do this if you pass out.
She knew she needed proper care before attempting the incantation. It was exhausting on a healthy body, never mind an overtaxed one. She rifled through her bags to find a teleport rune and used it to touch ground in Stormwind. Pulling her hood past her face, she swept through the streets, keeping herself as inconspicuous as possible in the throng of merchants and magi. She climbed the stairs to her apartments with a hiss, her joints as sore as a woman three or four times her age.
Aside from a small layer of dust on her tables, everything was in order. She swept her hand through the air and the lamps and wood stove stirred, fire winking into life at her command. Her cloak was abandoned on the couch. She groaned as Flaadhun eyed it and then climbed onto it in a big, fel heap of dog.
“Slob,” she murmured. She allowed herself a smile as she found food – canned fruits, crusty bread, and some of that Trias man's best cheese. With the plate in her lap she sat beside her hound, feeding him a small piece of whatever she happened to be eating. He seemed to like the cheese best, and he put his ugly face in her lap, his tentacles attempting to steal chunks as his tail thudded against the armrest.
A tub, some good wine, and a fresh change of clothes later, she knew she had to go back. The Plaguelands waited for her, and she had only a few nights before Jak's return. It wasn't that she didn't think he could handle her rituals, it was that she was afraid of failure, and in the case of failure, she wanted another attempt before seeing him again. She felt she'd gotten his hopes up, and crushing them now – even if she was only dabbling in this black art - well, she'd have felt much like she'd taken something good away from him.
Looking at Mara, looking at what had happened to him in Northrend, he needed that hope. It was one light in a dark time.
At midnight, she returnd to Light's Hope. She summoned her dreadsteed and rode to the northwest, forcing her heels into his withers to spur him faster. Corin's Crossing was dark, but thanks to a heavy yellow moon, she could make out shapes and dim colors. She stopped just outside of a decrepit farmhouse. She willed Flaadhun away for a time, needing instead the strength and surety of the void. She couldn't carry a scourged body back, but He certainly could. She was fairly sure He could carry a mammoth if he so chose.
From the nether came the rippling blue and black smoke indicative of Zangdok's coming. She stepped aside from the crevice in the ground, watching dispassionately as the enormous walker pulled itself together, white eyes glowing from beneath heavy brows.
“Mistress.” His voice was thunder rumbling through a tin drum. “So glad to serve you today. I've been aching to see you.”
“Enough.”
He smiled, revealing a black mouth populated with equally-as-black fangs that glinted in the moonlight. To others, it was unnerving. To her, it was annoying. He took liberties she wasn't quite comfortable with. From the succubus she expected such behavior, but from her understanding the voids were usually more complacent.
Zangdok was not complacent.
She waved at the town, pointing a a cluster of risen scourge ambling by a cart. “I need one of them. Unspoiled, if you will. We're bringing it back to the tower.”
“Oh? Is your boy there, then? Why can't he do it?”
She spun on him, holding a hand covered in ice and shadow at his face. She said nothing, but his smile wavered some as a pulse of magic flared near his face.
“I see. Well then, don't let me stop you from collecting your dead.”
“Do it.”
“As you command.”
The blue drifted off, lumbering towards a scourged civilian tottering on half rotten feet. His arms extended – far beyond where they logically should have reached, like he could simply will his shape to shift how he saw fit – and he pulled the ghoul to him, trapping it against his chest. It hissed and bucked, attempting to bite him, but Zangdok ignored it, ambling back towards Yva like the writhing thing in his arms didn't even exist.
She found her saddle again, and they traveled through the Plaguelands, their captive gurgling and snarling all the while. By the time they reached the tower, the dead thing was tiring of its antics. It gave a good snap of jaws every few minutes, but that was all it could muster. At one point Zangdok put a hand over its mouth to keep its keening squeals to a minimum.
“Bring it here.” Yva pointed at the first circle on the floor.
“Her you mean,” he said. As if to showcase a point, he turned the zombie's face so Yva had to look at it. Beneath the fathomless, milk-white eyes, the features were still rather feminine, with high cheekbones and an upturned nose. “Still rather well in tact, all things considered. She was probably rather pretty.”
“It, it is an IT for this. Dear Gods, shut up.”
Zangdok laughed as he placed the scourge down onto the circle, wrestling her inside of the middle portions where there were no glyphs or lines. Ropes were wound around her wrist and feet, forcing her flat. Her keens became wails, and finally, when she had lost her voice and could only rasp, she began to chitter like an angry animal. Her snarls forced her upper lip to curl.
“Keep her steady.”
Yva pulled the dagger from her belt. She placed another bowl beneath the scourged woman's arm, and with a muttered apology, dug into the fleshy bicep. The blood was black and smelled putrid, of rotting meat and magic. Yva frowned as it poured from the injury, filling the bowl. It was a lump ridden, gel-like mass that was far too sludgy to be anything even remotely human. The ghoul never registered the pain of the injury, she never changed in any way, other than craning her neck to bite as Yva wrapped a bandage around her arm.
“You do realize,” Zangdok said, watching Yva drop a paintbrush into the bowl. “That in order for this to work you shouldn't have . . . “ He stopped talking and shook his head. “Apologies, Mistress. I overstep myself.”
“Just say it.” Yva climbed back onto her crates, using the paintbrush to trace over the chalklines on the wall. “I hate your games.”
“No, I will not question your methods. Your precision is amazing, Mistress.”
Yva glared at him over her shoulder. “I shouldn't have what, Zangdok. You will speak. I command it.”
The void walker smiled again, another teeth revealing grin that looked twice as sinister in the flickering candlelight. “So be it. You shouldn't have used your blood on the first circle.” He motioned at her haggard forearm. “It has cost you, and will cost you.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Your concern is flattering. For now, though, I'm done with you. Be gone, Zangdok. I'm dismissing you.”
The void's eyes grew wide as Yva raised her hand, purple power flickering around her fingers. “I have more to tell regarding your ritual, Mistress. Do not be so quick to . . . “
And then he screamed as she banished him to the nether. The ground reopened, the blue and black haze dragged him into it like a vacuum. His hands reached for the floor, as if might alone could keep him above ground, but it was not enough. The nether called and he had to answer its call. She'd commanded his return.
Silence spread through the tower. Even the scourge in the circle lost her sounds - only the clicking of her bones against the stone ruined the peace. Yva turned back to her glyph, carefully tracing her chalk lines with the paintbrush, an old, familiar song starting to stream through her head. She tried to keep the melody at bay, but the more blood she fed into her circle, the more she felt the song boiling over her tongue, and she blurted it out as she finished her tracing.
My love is ice and fire and wind,
The rush of the river
The lark that sings.
She abandoned the bloody bowl outside of the front door. The fresh robe was thrown onto the bed, and she conjured twin purple soulstones – one for herself, one for the ghoul. They were placed in their proper positions, on the runes at the southern sides of the circles. Ritual candles were lit, incense burned to keep her focused. The more she did to prepare, the less the song threatened to rape her thoughts.
Eventually, when she was cleaning her dagger to cut her palms wide, she heard no song at all.
She breathed hard through her nostrils as she cut her hands, grunting as the pain forced a shiver to careen down her spine. The dagger fell to the floor with a clang. The incantation played about her tongue, and she closed her eyes as she gathered her power to her. Her fingers hovered above the proper places on the wall. Just one touch of her bloodied palms to the runes – the catalyst for the ritual – and it would begin.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered, and then she began to chant, feeling her magic amassing. At first it was a quiet litany, but before long she was nearly shouting. She braced her legs apart, and with one last glance at the scourge twitching on the floor, she pressed her hands to the circle. There was a faint glow, but then there was light as the spell took effect, pingponging through every point her circle. The same brilliant glow began in the other circle, the glyphs mirrors of one another as power became a near tangible weight upon the air.
The ghoul began to scream, scream even though she had no voice left to scream with, and as the power flooded from the glyph on the wall back into Yva's arms, she screamed too, feeling cold and hot all at the same time. The light was too bright to see past, too bright to contain, and she knew she had to finish the thing, to end the ritual before magic splintered them both apart. She pulled one hand away from the wall, using all of her will to snatch the purple soulstone from its place by her feet. Wailing the last bits of her incantation, she used her shadows to burst the stone apart, leaving only a pile of glittering dust that crumbled to the floor.
The light dimmed as the power of the wall circle shot into the hand still touching it. It wracked up her arms and then down to her chest and legs, sizzling along her skin like lightning. It made her body vibrate and her teeth chatter like she was freezing to death. She fell to her knees, panting and gagging as magic coiled through her body. She tried to call her ice, to block herself inside of its protective embrace, but she couldn't muster enough concentration to even do that.
Only the ghoul's screams kept her from passing out.
The original circle was still alight, the magic still coursing through it, pummeling the thing trapped inside. Yva flopped onto her stomach and began to crawl across the floor, reaching for the soulstone. To end this thing, she had to crush it. She had to break the stone. When her magic wouldn't come, when she couldn't even call the smallest bit of shadow, she grabbed one of Jak's plated sabatons and began to beat the stone, hoping the weight was enough.
A single, brutal strike was all it took to break the stone apart. The light in the circle swelled to one last pulse before rocketing into the ghoul's body, making her twitch like bacon on a frypan. The screaming stopped as the light forced itself into the scourge's eyes and mouth, her nostrils, her ears, anywhere it could find proper entry. Yva watched as the insides of the creature lit up, so bright beneath the skin she could see every vein and capillary, she could see the lumps of dead inside that were her lungs and heart.
She watched the scourge contorting with the power, and smelling something on the air – something like dead, roasting meat – Yva turned her head to the side and vomited her supper. Tears swelled in her eyes as she curled into a ball, trying not to smear her face or hair in the mess by her head. She couldn't walk, she couldn't even crawl, but she could cry, and she did just that, huddling in a vibrating, broken mess, wishing that Jak were here, wishing she'd waited for him after all.
It should have been fine then. How could she have known an hour later he'd be so utterly broken? She should have been there, she could have . . .
Could have what? Made her swallow your magics until her insides imploded? Punished her with physical injury for his mental ones? He'd have never allowed you that. He'd have hated you for it. There was nothing you could have done anyway.
Yva didn't say anything when he half stumbled into their shared room. Truthfully, the 'why' of his misery was unimportant compared to the abject hurt on his face. She opened her arms and held him until the shaking abated. She kissed his temple, she kept the ice threatening to spill over her hands at bay. When he made for the door, grabbing a sword and his helmet and disappearing into the night of the Plaguelands, she didn't try to follow
“I'll come home, three or four days,” was all he said. Someone would bleed for his agonies she knew, but the unknown dead were not her worry.
Mara Balthasar was.
She snarled as she slammed the door closed. Her small feet paced across the stones of the tower. Jak was away and wouldn't see the ice spreading through the tower. He wouldn't see the magical manifestation of her temper. She didn't want him to know how angry she was at the woman who held them both hostage. That was the truth of things, wasn't it? Mara had trapped them as effectively as Jak had trapped her. They shared a bed but no affection therein. They couldn't leave his sister alone in the basement, and so they remained in the most barren landscape in all of Azeroth waiting for something to change.
The goal Yva and Jak shared – to see Mara righted – was the same but all together different. He wanted his sister back out of familial love and obligation, and Yva was honest enough to admit she just wanted Jak back without this horrid duty shadowing him. The deathknight was the key to unlocking the future, and Yva found herself angry at the hopelessness of the situation. She didn't like to be at anyone's behest, and though Mara was the one wearing chains, Yva felt the weight of them. She felt them as though she herself were in manacles.
There was no freedom for anyone while Mara remained the puppet of the Bastard King.
Yva blinked and her icy sheath shattered in a swirl of glittering snow. The humming strained from her throat, and she rolled her sleeves up before unwrapping the last of Jak's carefully laid bandages. She'd almost healed. He'd be unhappy that she had to reopen the wounds, but what could she do? The ritual needed blood and hers was all she had to offer. She'd live through it; she was the undying dead, after all, and it took more than bloodletting to stop her kind.
The chalks, the paints, the glyphs, all of them were recreated. The torches blazed and the temperature in the room rose, hour after hour, until Yva felt sweat slicking her hair to her back as she worked. The first circle was laid, the runes and glyphs carefully measured. She threw her cape onto the bed, and then her gown, uncaring that she was covered in the dirt and grime of a tower floor.
The last line was drawn, pale white next to the scarlets and blues. She reached for her dagger, flinching as she forced the edge of it into her still pink scars. A fat drop of blood gathered on blade's edge, and she pushed forward, swearing as her hands began to shake. Blood dripped into a bowl, gathering in a fast cooling pool, and when she had enough – so much she felt faint – she traced over the chalk lines, sealing the circle with her own essence.
It took her all night to finish.
Exhausted and feeling woozy from her blood loss, she allowed herself some hours of rest before continuing on. The sun was deep in the western sky by the time she rose, naked and covered in chalk dust, dried blood, and caking dirt, but she didn't stop to pretty herself. A second circle was needed, and unlike the rabbit which had required a lesser version of circle one, this would require one of equal size. The floor didn't offer her enough room, and so she'd moved it to the wall, using a crate to draw the upper portions of the glyph. The spacing was painstakingly duplicated, down to the color of the chalks and the width of the circle. By the time she'd finished, she was squinting and panting and feeling like she would vomit. Her stomach was howling for sustenance, and lack of water had made her temples pound.
Idiot woman, you can't do this if you pass out.
She knew she needed proper care before attempting the incantation. It was exhausting on a healthy body, never mind an overtaxed one. She rifled through her bags to find a teleport rune and used it to touch ground in Stormwind. Pulling her hood past her face, she swept through the streets, keeping herself as inconspicuous as possible in the throng of merchants and magi. She climbed the stairs to her apartments with a hiss, her joints as sore as a woman three or four times her age.
Aside from a small layer of dust on her tables, everything was in order. She swept her hand through the air and the lamps and wood stove stirred, fire winking into life at her command. Her cloak was abandoned on the couch. She groaned as Flaadhun eyed it and then climbed onto it in a big, fel heap of dog.
“Slob,” she murmured. She allowed herself a smile as she found food – canned fruits, crusty bread, and some of that Trias man's best cheese. With the plate in her lap she sat beside her hound, feeding him a small piece of whatever she happened to be eating. He seemed to like the cheese best, and he put his ugly face in her lap, his tentacles attempting to steal chunks as his tail thudded against the armrest.
A tub, some good wine, and a fresh change of clothes later, she knew she had to go back. The Plaguelands waited for her, and she had only a few nights before Jak's return. It wasn't that she didn't think he could handle her rituals, it was that she was afraid of failure, and in the case of failure, she wanted another attempt before seeing him again. She felt she'd gotten his hopes up, and crushing them now – even if she was only dabbling in this black art - well, she'd have felt much like she'd taken something good away from him.
Looking at Mara, looking at what had happened to him in Northrend, he needed that hope. It was one light in a dark time.
At midnight, she returnd to Light's Hope. She summoned her dreadsteed and rode to the northwest, forcing her heels into his withers to spur him faster. Corin's Crossing was dark, but thanks to a heavy yellow moon, she could make out shapes and dim colors. She stopped just outside of a decrepit farmhouse. She willed Flaadhun away for a time, needing instead the strength and surety of the void. She couldn't carry a scourged body back, but He certainly could. She was fairly sure He could carry a mammoth if he so chose.
From the nether came the rippling blue and black smoke indicative of Zangdok's coming. She stepped aside from the crevice in the ground, watching dispassionately as the enormous walker pulled itself together, white eyes glowing from beneath heavy brows.
“Mistress.” His voice was thunder rumbling through a tin drum. “So glad to serve you today. I've been aching to see you.”
“Enough.”
He smiled, revealing a black mouth populated with equally-as-black fangs that glinted in the moonlight. To others, it was unnerving. To her, it was annoying. He took liberties she wasn't quite comfortable with. From the succubus she expected such behavior, but from her understanding the voids were usually more complacent.
Zangdok was not complacent.
She waved at the town, pointing a a cluster of risen scourge ambling by a cart. “I need one of them. Unspoiled, if you will. We're bringing it back to the tower.”
“Oh? Is your boy there, then? Why can't he do it?”
She spun on him, holding a hand covered in ice and shadow at his face. She said nothing, but his smile wavered some as a pulse of magic flared near his face.
“I see. Well then, don't let me stop you from collecting your dead.”
“Do it.”
“As you command.”
The blue drifted off, lumbering towards a scourged civilian tottering on half rotten feet. His arms extended – far beyond where they logically should have reached, like he could simply will his shape to shift how he saw fit – and he pulled the ghoul to him, trapping it against his chest. It hissed and bucked, attempting to bite him, but Zangdok ignored it, ambling back towards Yva like the writhing thing in his arms didn't even exist.
She found her saddle again, and they traveled through the Plaguelands, their captive gurgling and snarling all the while. By the time they reached the tower, the dead thing was tiring of its antics. It gave a good snap of jaws every few minutes, but that was all it could muster. At one point Zangdok put a hand over its mouth to keep its keening squeals to a minimum.
“Bring it here.” Yva pointed at the first circle on the floor.
“Her you mean,” he said. As if to showcase a point, he turned the zombie's face so Yva had to look at it. Beneath the fathomless, milk-white eyes, the features were still rather feminine, with high cheekbones and an upturned nose. “Still rather well in tact, all things considered. She was probably rather pretty.”
“It, it is an IT for this. Dear Gods, shut up.”
Zangdok laughed as he placed the scourge down onto the circle, wrestling her inside of the middle portions where there were no glyphs or lines. Ropes were wound around her wrist and feet, forcing her flat. Her keens became wails, and finally, when she had lost her voice and could only rasp, she began to chitter like an angry animal. Her snarls forced her upper lip to curl.
“Keep her steady.”
Yva pulled the dagger from her belt. She placed another bowl beneath the scourged woman's arm, and with a muttered apology, dug into the fleshy bicep. The blood was black and smelled putrid, of rotting meat and magic. Yva frowned as it poured from the injury, filling the bowl. It was a lump ridden, gel-like mass that was far too sludgy to be anything even remotely human. The ghoul never registered the pain of the injury, she never changed in any way, other than craning her neck to bite as Yva wrapped a bandage around her arm.
“You do realize,” Zangdok said, watching Yva drop a paintbrush into the bowl. “That in order for this to work you shouldn't have . . . “ He stopped talking and shook his head. “Apologies, Mistress. I overstep myself.”
“Just say it.” Yva climbed back onto her crates, using the paintbrush to trace over the chalklines on the wall. “I hate your games.”
“No, I will not question your methods. Your precision is amazing, Mistress.”
Yva glared at him over her shoulder. “I shouldn't have what, Zangdok. You will speak. I command it.”
The void walker smiled again, another teeth revealing grin that looked twice as sinister in the flickering candlelight. “So be it. You shouldn't have used your blood on the first circle.” He motioned at her haggard forearm. “It has cost you, and will cost you.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Your concern is flattering. For now, though, I'm done with you. Be gone, Zangdok. I'm dismissing you.”
The void's eyes grew wide as Yva raised her hand, purple power flickering around her fingers. “I have more to tell regarding your ritual, Mistress. Do not be so quick to . . . “
And then he screamed as she banished him to the nether. The ground reopened, the blue and black haze dragged him into it like a vacuum. His hands reached for the floor, as if might alone could keep him above ground, but it was not enough. The nether called and he had to answer its call. She'd commanded his return.
Silence spread through the tower. Even the scourge in the circle lost her sounds - only the clicking of her bones against the stone ruined the peace. Yva turned back to her glyph, carefully tracing her chalk lines with the paintbrush, an old, familiar song starting to stream through her head. She tried to keep the melody at bay, but the more blood she fed into her circle, the more she felt the song boiling over her tongue, and she blurted it out as she finished her tracing.
My love is ice and fire and wind,
The rush of the river
The lark that sings.
She abandoned the bloody bowl outside of the front door. The fresh robe was thrown onto the bed, and she conjured twin purple soulstones – one for herself, one for the ghoul. They were placed in their proper positions, on the runes at the southern sides of the circles. Ritual candles were lit, incense burned to keep her focused. The more she did to prepare, the less the song threatened to rape her thoughts.
Eventually, when she was cleaning her dagger to cut her palms wide, she heard no song at all.
She breathed hard through her nostrils as she cut her hands, grunting as the pain forced a shiver to careen down her spine. The dagger fell to the floor with a clang. The incantation played about her tongue, and she closed her eyes as she gathered her power to her. Her fingers hovered above the proper places on the wall. Just one touch of her bloodied palms to the runes – the catalyst for the ritual – and it would begin.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered, and then she began to chant, feeling her magic amassing. At first it was a quiet litany, but before long she was nearly shouting. She braced her legs apart, and with one last glance at the scourge twitching on the floor, she pressed her hands to the circle. There was a faint glow, but then there was light as the spell took effect, pingponging through every point her circle. The same brilliant glow began in the other circle, the glyphs mirrors of one another as power became a near tangible weight upon the air.
The ghoul began to scream, scream even though she had no voice left to scream with, and as the power flooded from the glyph on the wall back into Yva's arms, she screamed too, feeling cold and hot all at the same time. The light was too bright to see past, too bright to contain, and she knew she had to finish the thing, to end the ritual before magic splintered them both apart. She pulled one hand away from the wall, using all of her will to snatch the purple soulstone from its place by her feet. Wailing the last bits of her incantation, she used her shadows to burst the stone apart, leaving only a pile of glittering dust that crumbled to the floor.
The light dimmed as the power of the wall circle shot into the hand still touching it. It wracked up her arms and then down to her chest and legs, sizzling along her skin like lightning. It made her body vibrate and her teeth chatter like she was freezing to death. She fell to her knees, panting and gagging as magic coiled through her body. She tried to call her ice, to block herself inside of its protective embrace, but she couldn't muster enough concentration to even do that.
Only the ghoul's screams kept her from passing out.
The original circle was still alight, the magic still coursing through it, pummeling the thing trapped inside. Yva flopped onto her stomach and began to crawl across the floor, reaching for the soulstone. To end this thing, she had to crush it. She had to break the stone. When her magic wouldn't come, when she couldn't even call the smallest bit of shadow, she grabbed one of Jak's plated sabatons and began to beat the stone, hoping the weight was enough.
A single, brutal strike was all it took to break the stone apart. The light in the circle swelled to one last pulse before rocketing into the ghoul's body, making her twitch like bacon on a frypan. The screaming stopped as the light forced itself into the scourge's eyes and mouth, her nostrils, her ears, anywhere it could find proper entry. Yva watched as the insides of the creature lit up, so bright beneath the skin she could see every vein and capillary, she could see the lumps of dead inside that were her lungs and heart.
She watched the scourge contorting with the power, and smelling something on the air – something like dead, roasting meat – Yva turned her head to the side and vomited her supper. Tears swelled in her eyes as she curled into a ball, trying not to smear her face or hair in the mess by her head. She couldn't walk, she couldn't even crawl, but she could cry, and she did just that, huddling in a vibrating, broken mess, wishing that Jak were here, wishing she'd waited for him after all.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
Re: For Mara.
Short Drop
Her hands were steady as she knotted the rope. It was a knot she'd only tied once before, during a very long and cold winter in the Plaguelands. She'd worn the tabard of the Argent Dawn then, white sun on black sky. Her captain patiently taught her how to tie the tough rope, his thick, workworn hands warm on her's. Though she had only tied it that one time, Mara Balthasar never forgot how to knot a noose.
-
"You've never taken a meaningful life," Calem told her. Those workworn hands were still warm, but the rest of her captain had changed from when they'd tied the noose together. Her mentor now, he'd called himself. At first, Mara had called him many names, none of them his own, none of them so respectful. With her voice full of betrayal and disbelief, she'd cursed him for a traitor with every word she knew. Now she simply called him 'priest.'
"A meaningful life...?" She asked cautiously. Calem nodded, trailing his finger along the sharp details 'decorating' the bars of Mara's cage. The first time he had done that, she'd grabbed his hand and twisted it just so. The stump of his index finger was finally starting to heal. Now, she made no such grab for his hand, she only sat calmly in the middle of the cage. She would have stood, if possible, but the cage wasn't tall enough to allow it. The Scourge liked to take everything, even the ability to stand on one's own feet.
"You've killed men like any good soldier. But most of them, to be frank, were damned already. You've never taken-"
"An innocent life," Mara interrupted, eyes narrowed.
"An innocent life?" Calem laughed at his prisoner, slamming his palm hard enough against the bars that the entire cage shook dreadfully. "A innocent life? My dearest stupid girl, haven't you learned anything yet? There are no innocents, Mara. Children lie, steal, cheat and brutalize their peers. They only grow worse as they grow older. Even the holiest of holy men entertain dark and corrupt thoughts. There is no such thing as an innocent life for you to take. Let's call it, instead...a 'good life.' Does that make it more clear?"
Mara was silent, her green eyes deep. Calem watched her, looking past the mark her captivity had made on her. He saw a woman on the brink of something enormous. A smile touched his face, twisting his black markings of the Cult of the Damned.
"Who do you want me to kill?" She finally replied with a perfectly calm finality. Calem kept his smile, and in another life his heart would have broken in two with his former companion's lack of reticence.
"Yourself, Mara."
-
All of the tree's leaves had fallen long enough ago that they formed a rotting blanket at it's exposed, gnarled roots. There were many other trees like it in this small grove, but each other tree had creaking limbs that swung with hung corpses. This tree's boughs were empty, but not for much longer. Calem had brought out a chair that just barely looked like it survived a fire. Mara's bare feet were stained with soot and filled with splinters from the short time she had been standing on the chair. She tied the noose to the thick unyielding branch, with perfectly steady hands.
Calem watched from below, his dark eyes lively as a crow's, as if waiting for the first peck at her dead eyes.
Finally the rope was secure on the branch. Mara turned and ignored the protesting squeak of the burnt chair. Calem looked into her eyes with a strangely happy smile. It wasn't an expression that looked right on the death-priest's face, but when he had been her captain, before the pale skin and the twisted cult's black markings, that smile would have lifted Mara's heart through even the worst of times. That smile had gotten her through long nights with the dead hammering at the doors. That smile had kept her sane through the constant funeral rites, through the smell of her friends' bodies burning. That smile was better than the Light. That smile had made sure she tied the noose tight and hung her first man, a thief stealing and selling off precious supplies during one of the worst winters Light's Hope had ever gone through.
"You're making a good choice," he said lowly, reaching out a cold hand to steady her hip. His voice was too soft for anyone but Mara to hear. His words and his smile betrayed him just as surely as he had betrayed the rest of the Argent Dawn when he faked his death. When he let the woman who loved him think that he was just another friend lost to the Scourge.
"You think we can be together, if I'm like you," she murmured with a gravity only displayed by those absolutely sure of something.
Calem's smile flickered, his lively eyes still so bright. "I've missed you."
"You missed what we were, together, " Mara replied, looking down at him. The fetid wind of the Plaguelands blow her long hair back from her face, where it blew his hair across his eyes.
There was a growing emotion in the death-priest's voice now, where before there had been only the cold reaches of frost. "We were never really together, Mara Balthasar. You were there and I was there, but were never together." There was pain in his voice, and bitterness. They could both taste it in the air. It was a familiar taste.
Without hesitation, Mara dropped the noose around her neck. The heavy rope laid rough against her bare collar bone. They watched each other in silence, as the heartbeats ticked by. Finally, with that calm air of finality and surety, Mara replied,
"I loved you as much as I could, Cal. But now I have something far more than love. Something that you taught me, here." She stepped to the edge of the chair, her eyes steady on the priest.
"What could you..." As his voice trailed off, Calem's eyes widened and the hurt was obvious, the despair consuming, the hope he nurtured laid bare. He still loved her, somewhere deep in the twisted wretchedness that his heart had become. These feelings were heresy, anathema, and everything he had sworn to give up when he took the markings of the Cult of the Damned, when he swore himself to the Lich King.
Mara Balthasar, however, had learned the lessons of the Scourge far better than her teacher.
"King and country," she said, and took a step.
The priest of the Cult of the Damned had to look away. It was too short of a drop to be quick. Calem did not look back for a long time.
Eventually, everything was still in the grove. The death-priest looked back to his pupil's body and the last of his hope died out with the fetid wind that had ceased blowing. Mara's deep green eyes were polluted with crimson, blood vessels burst in her death stare. Beyond this, her face was curiously peaceful. There was a serenity to her features Calem had never seen on her face in life. He sighed and drew himself together.
He and the body had places to be.
The Decree of the Scourge
Scribed by Our Majesty's Archlich, Kel'thuzad
Chapter 1
The roots of the Scourge are sewn in the folly of all races. Our rise to power is the product of the sins of those who mean our end. The so called 'heroes' of the land fall before us by resorting to a measure of our ideals to bring forth their envisioned victory. Their victory is a vehicle to the realization that without resorting to what they define as deplorability to achieve it, we would have overcome them instead. In both outcomes, win or lose, the Scourge invariably wins. When this is recognized, submission to our will is inevitable.
The Master, our Lich King, was born under this very doctrine.
To conquer is to corrupt. To corrupt is to take what it is to be righteous and hopeful, to be living, and invert it through any means in your arsenal. The attributes of the living all have synonyms with fatal flaws that are their undoing: hope is dogma, righteousness is zealotry, living is empathy. Recognize what makes that which lives desire to live, and turn it upon itself.
Knowing the most direct path of corruption is the pinnacle of wisdom. A simple weakening of the heart, dismemberment of vital organs, or direct disease will work for most. However the conquer of most is not the decree of the Master, but the conquer of all. It is foolish to spend excessive resources in warping the mind of a simple peasant where the common plague will suffice. But it is equally unwise to try the same plague against the seasoned and hearty. Reasoned study of any formidability will reveal useable weaknesses.
Her hands were steady as she knotted the rope. It was a knot she'd only tied once before, during a very long and cold winter in the Plaguelands. She'd worn the tabard of the Argent Dawn then, white sun on black sky. Her captain patiently taught her how to tie the tough rope, his thick, workworn hands warm on her's. Though she had only tied it that one time, Mara Balthasar never forgot how to knot a noose.
-
"You've never taken a meaningful life," Calem told her. Those workworn hands were still warm, but the rest of her captain had changed from when they'd tied the noose together. Her mentor now, he'd called himself. At first, Mara had called him many names, none of them his own, none of them so respectful. With her voice full of betrayal and disbelief, she'd cursed him for a traitor with every word she knew. Now she simply called him 'priest.'
"A meaningful life...?" She asked cautiously. Calem nodded, trailing his finger along the sharp details 'decorating' the bars of Mara's cage. The first time he had done that, she'd grabbed his hand and twisted it just so. The stump of his index finger was finally starting to heal. Now, she made no such grab for his hand, she only sat calmly in the middle of the cage. She would have stood, if possible, but the cage wasn't tall enough to allow it. The Scourge liked to take everything, even the ability to stand on one's own feet.
"You've killed men like any good soldier. But most of them, to be frank, were damned already. You've never taken-"
"An innocent life," Mara interrupted, eyes narrowed.
"An innocent life?" Calem laughed at his prisoner, slamming his palm hard enough against the bars that the entire cage shook dreadfully. "A innocent life? My dearest stupid girl, haven't you learned anything yet? There are no innocents, Mara. Children lie, steal, cheat and brutalize their peers. They only grow worse as they grow older. Even the holiest of holy men entertain dark and corrupt thoughts. There is no such thing as an innocent life for you to take. Let's call it, instead...a 'good life.' Does that make it more clear?"
Mara was silent, her green eyes deep. Calem watched her, looking past the mark her captivity had made on her. He saw a woman on the brink of something enormous. A smile touched his face, twisting his black markings of the Cult of the Damned.
"Who do you want me to kill?" She finally replied with a perfectly calm finality. Calem kept his smile, and in another life his heart would have broken in two with his former companion's lack of reticence.
"Yourself, Mara."
-
All of the tree's leaves had fallen long enough ago that they formed a rotting blanket at it's exposed, gnarled roots. There were many other trees like it in this small grove, but each other tree had creaking limbs that swung with hung corpses. This tree's boughs were empty, but not for much longer. Calem had brought out a chair that just barely looked like it survived a fire. Mara's bare feet were stained with soot and filled with splinters from the short time she had been standing on the chair. She tied the noose to the thick unyielding branch, with perfectly steady hands.
Calem watched from below, his dark eyes lively as a crow's, as if waiting for the first peck at her dead eyes.
Finally the rope was secure on the branch. Mara turned and ignored the protesting squeak of the burnt chair. Calem looked into her eyes with a strangely happy smile. It wasn't an expression that looked right on the death-priest's face, but when he had been her captain, before the pale skin and the twisted cult's black markings, that smile would have lifted Mara's heart through even the worst of times. That smile had gotten her through long nights with the dead hammering at the doors. That smile had kept her sane through the constant funeral rites, through the smell of her friends' bodies burning. That smile was better than the Light. That smile had made sure she tied the noose tight and hung her first man, a thief stealing and selling off precious supplies during one of the worst winters Light's Hope had ever gone through.
"You're making a good choice," he said lowly, reaching out a cold hand to steady her hip. His voice was too soft for anyone but Mara to hear. His words and his smile betrayed him just as surely as he had betrayed the rest of the Argent Dawn when he faked his death. When he let the woman who loved him think that he was just another friend lost to the Scourge.
"You think we can be together, if I'm like you," she murmured with a gravity only displayed by those absolutely sure of something.
Calem's smile flickered, his lively eyes still so bright. "I've missed you."
"You missed what we were, together, " Mara replied, looking down at him. The fetid wind of the Plaguelands blow her long hair back from her face, where it blew his hair across his eyes.
There was a growing emotion in the death-priest's voice now, where before there had been only the cold reaches of frost. "We were never really together, Mara Balthasar. You were there and I was there, but were never together." There was pain in his voice, and bitterness. They could both taste it in the air. It was a familiar taste.
Without hesitation, Mara dropped the noose around her neck. The heavy rope laid rough against her bare collar bone. They watched each other in silence, as the heartbeats ticked by. Finally, with that calm air of finality and surety, Mara replied,
"I loved you as much as I could, Cal. But now I have something far more than love. Something that you taught me, here." She stepped to the edge of the chair, her eyes steady on the priest.
"What could you..." As his voice trailed off, Calem's eyes widened and the hurt was obvious, the despair consuming, the hope he nurtured laid bare. He still loved her, somewhere deep in the twisted wretchedness that his heart had become. These feelings were heresy, anathema, and everything he had sworn to give up when he took the markings of the Cult of the Damned, when he swore himself to the Lich King.
Mara Balthasar, however, had learned the lessons of the Scourge far better than her teacher.
"King and country," she said, and took a step.
The priest of the Cult of the Damned had to look away. It was too short of a drop to be quick. Calem did not look back for a long time.
Eventually, everything was still in the grove. The death-priest looked back to his pupil's body and the last of his hope died out with the fetid wind that had ceased blowing. Mara's deep green eyes were polluted with crimson, blood vessels burst in her death stare. Beyond this, her face was curiously peaceful. There was a serenity to her features Calem had never seen on her face in life. He sighed and drew himself together.
He and the body had places to be.
The Decree of the Scourge
Scribed by Our Majesty's Archlich, Kel'thuzad
Chapter 1
The roots of the Scourge are sewn in the folly of all races. Our rise to power is the product of the sins of those who mean our end. The so called 'heroes' of the land fall before us by resorting to a measure of our ideals to bring forth their envisioned victory. Their victory is a vehicle to the realization that without resorting to what they define as deplorability to achieve it, we would have overcome them instead. In both outcomes, win or lose, the Scourge invariably wins. When this is recognized, submission to our will is inevitable.
The Master, our Lich King, was born under this very doctrine.
To conquer is to corrupt. To corrupt is to take what it is to be righteous and hopeful, to be living, and invert it through any means in your arsenal. The attributes of the living all have synonyms with fatal flaws that are their undoing: hope is dogma, righteousness is zealotry, living is empathy. Recognize what makes that which lives desire to live, and turn it upon itself.
Knowing the most direct path of corruption is the pinnacle of wisdom. A simple weakening of the heart, dismemberment of vital organs, or direct disease will work for most. However the conquer of most is not the decree of the Master, but the conquer of all. It is foolish to spend excessive resources in warping the mind of a simple peasant where the common plague will suffice. But it is equally unwise to try the same plague against the seasoned and hearty. Reasoned study of any formidability will reveal useable weaknesses.
Re: For Mara.
The kick to the ribs was an unpleasant way to wake.
Yva groaned, cracking an eye as the second kick struck her mid-section. It forced the air from her, and she began to hack and cough, once again feeling sick. She flipped onto her side, curling her legs in an effort to protect herself from her unknown assailant.
What is going on? Focus, Darrows. Focus.
Another kick, this time against her ragged forearms. The pain cleared the fog, and then the anger came, the song pummeling her brain.
Who is this?
Yva lifted her hand, a grin forming as the ice and shadows swam over her fingertips. She couldn’t see much from behind the veil of her hair, but she knew which direction the kicks were coming from. The icebolt flew and someone screamed. There was a thud as a body hit the wall.
“Ice and fire and wind,” she said aloud, gaining her feet. Her legs wobbled like a newborn colt, but her magic was back – it sang through her veins, and she knew she was better now, knew she wasn’t weakened as she'd been before. “Who dares?”
There was a whimper and a sob. Yva’s vision steadied, and she was able to see the tower floor, the sick she’d left earlier, the ritual circle smeared along the edges. She pulled her hair away from her face and squinted at the woman – no girl – trapped in her ice not fifteen feet away. It took a moment for the recognition to settle in; the upturned nose, the delicate cheekbones and pointed little chin. The similarities were all there, save for the eyes. They were now green, not the milky dead of before. Her skin was no longer the sickly pallor of death either. She was just pale, as pale as paper.
Yva was staring at the same face Zandok had forced upon her, but now . . . now it was whole, it was knowing, and it was angry.
“Gods,” she whispered, dropping her hand. “You're here. Truly here.”
The girl against the wall hissed, struggling within her icy confines. “Let me out of this, you bitch.”
“Excuse me?”
“YOU HEARD ME.”
Yva took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. She wrestled the song away, hobbling towards the bed to pull her robe over her head. “That's not very gracious. You were lichborn and now you're not. You're free. I'd expect you to . . . “
“FREE?” The girl's laughter was near maniacal, and Yva flinched as she watched her creation lunge at her from the ice curling around her middle. They locked eyes, and the girl reached down to her tattered skirts, hiking it up to her thigh.
There, as plain as could be, was a leg made of bone, the flesh rotted away from ankle to mid-thigh. “Free from what? I'm still the walking dead. At least before . . . at least I . . . “ The girl swallowed hard before bashing her head against the wall behind her. There was a sickening crack as blood – real blood, not the murky black blood of the scourge – began to drizzle down the stones. “At least I didn't know it before. Why did you do this you insidious bitch?”
Yva felt the bile rising in her throat. Zangdok's voice, his warning, echoed in her thoughts. She thought he was asking why she used her own blood out of some twisted concern for her well being, but a demon has no concern other than himself. The void asked because he knew a ritual giving life can only work with real life blood, not the tainted blood of Sylvanas's brood.
You freed her from one cruelty and thrust her into another one. You've made forsaken. How could you have not realized that you can't give life because you're far, far too dead.
“No, it's not possible.” Yva stamped her foot. “This was supposed to happen because the ritual was supposed to . . . “
“Supposed to? Well it fucking DIDN'T. IT FUCKING DIDN'T.”
“NO!” Yva screamed. Ice pooled at her feet, creeping across the tower to climb the walls, the bed legs, over the crates and tables. It spread on the girl too, swallowing her skin inch by inch. “This isn't possible.”
“It's possible,” the girl gasped. “And I don't want it. I don't want it and you need to end it.”
“Excuse me?"
“Kill me. I'd rather die. I won't be like this.” Her eyes bubbled with tears. “I'll kill you if you don't. I'll find a way.”
“I can't. You're forsaken. The forsaken don't die.”
“FIX ME!”
The girl slumped in her crystal prison, bashing her head against the wall and wailing. Yva lifted her hand, shadows threatening to destroy, but she knew it was no use. She'd kill her, but she'd rise again as they all did. She'd rise angrier, and uglier, and less normal than when she'd fallen the first time.
Unless. Unless that, of course.
“I can't,” she said to herself. “I can't do that again.”
You can. You simply won't.
Staring at the girl, watching her agonies, a tightness formed in Yva's gut. They were similar, weren't they. Young, short cropped hair. The skin was perfect, though that may have been Yva's own blood that had done that. But still . . .
There is one way to never rise.
“Blood hell, no.” She groaned, and the girl stopped pummeling herself to blink at her. Her face was now mottled, a river of snot drizzling from her nostrils.
“Please.”
You can't force this on her.
“But you could . . . could live. I could bring you to the Undercity and they could . . . would . . . “
“I won't be like that. I won't. I won't be some fucking slave rotter!”
Slave rotter.
Yva looked away and she began to hum, not just the first verse of her song, but the second and the third too, trying to smother the girl's shrieks from her ears, but it was no use.
Do it then. Not out of error like Her. Do it out of pity.
“You're sure. Absolutely sure,” she finally said.
The girl just nodded, her last 'please' simple and dignified.
Yva lifted her hand and closed her eyes, allowing her spell to spread. She fed magic into it, not feeling the cold as it encased everything in its grasp. As the ice climbed the girl's arms, as it slithered over her skin, as it forced its way into her ears, her mouth, down into her stomach through her windpipe, Yva refused to see. She would not watch the progression, because she'd seen it once before, and it was far too terrible to see a second time.
When the last of the magic was wrapped in the girl, on the girl, around the girl, Yva dropped to her knees with a pathetic whimper.
I'm sorry, Mirandella.
The ice shattered into a million tiny pieces, a gust wind blowing the door off the wall.
Yva groaned, cracking an eye as the second kick struck her mid-section. It forced the air from her, and she began to hack and cough, once again feeling sick. She flipped onto her side, curling her legs in an effort to protect herself from her unknown assailant.
What is going on? Focus, Darrows. Focus.
Another kick, this time against her ragged forearms. The pain cleared the fog, and then the anger came, the song pummeling her brain.
Who is this?
Yva lifted her hand, a grin forming as the ice and shadows swam over her fingertips. She couldn’t see much from behind the veil of her hair, but she knew which direction the kicks were coming from. The icebolt flew and someone screamed. There was a thud as a body hit the wall.
“Ice and fire and wind,” she said aloud, gaining her feet. Her legs wobbled like a newborn colt, but her magic was back – it sang through her veins, and she knew she was better now, knew she wasn’t weakened as she'd been before. “Who dares?”
There was a whimper and a sob. Yva’s vision steadied, and she was able to see the tower floor, the sick she’d left earlier, the ritual circle smeared along the edges. She pulled her hair away from her face and squinted at the woman – no girl – trapped in her ice not fifteen feet away. It took a moment for the recognition to settle in; the upturned nose, the delicate cheekbones and pointed little chin. The similarities were all there, save for the eyes. They were now green, not the milky dead of before. Her skin was no longer the sickly pallor of death either. She was just pale, as pale as paper.
Yva was staring at the same face Zandok had forced upon her, but now . . . now it was whole, it was knowing, and it was angry.
“Gods,” she whispered, dropping her hand. “You're here. Truly here.”
The girl against the wall hissed, struggling within her icy confines. “Let me out of this, you bitch.”
“Excuse me?”
“YOU HEARD ME.”
Yva took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. She wrestled the song away, hobbling towards the bed to pull her robe over her head. “That's not very gracious. You were lichborn and now you're not. You're free. I'd expect you to . . . “
“FREE?” The girl's laughter was near maniacal, and Yva flinched as she watched her creation lunge at her from the ice curling around her middle. They locked eyes, and the girl reached down to her tattered skirts, hiking it up to her thigh.
There, as plain as could be, was a leg made of bone, the flesh rotted away from ankle to mid-thigh. “Free from what? I'm still the walking dead. At least before . . . at least I . . . “ The girl swallowed hard before bashing her head against the wall behind her. There was a sickening crack as blood – real blood, not the murky black blood of the scourge – began to drizzle down the stones. “At least I didn't know it before. Why did you do this you insidious bitch?”
Yva felt the bile rising in her throat. Zangdok's voice, his warning, echoed in her thoughts. She thought he was asking why she used her own blood out of some twisted concern for her well being, but a demon has no concern other than himself. The void asked because he knew a ritual giving life can only work with real life blood, not the tainted blood of Sylvanas's brood.
You freed her from one cruelty and thrust her into another one. You've made forsaken. How could you have not realized that you can't give life because you're far, far too dead.
“No, it's not possible.” Yva stamped her foot. “This was supposed to happen because the ritual was supposed to . . . “
“Supposed to? Well it fucking DIDN'T. IT FUCKING DIDN'T.”
“NO!” Yva screamed. Ice pooled at her feet, creeping across the tower to climb the walls, the bed legs, over the crates and tables. It spread on the girl too, swallowing her skin inch by inch. “This isn't possible.”
“It's possible,” the girl gasped. “And I don't want it. I don't want it and you need to end it.”
“Excuse me?"
“Kill me. I'd rather die. I won't be like this.” Her eyes bubbled with tears. “I'll kill you if you don't. I'll find a way.”
“I can't. You're forsaken. The forsaken don't die.”
“FIX ME!”
The girl slumped in her crystal prison, bashing her head against the wall and wailing. Yva lifted her hand, shadows threatening to destroy, but she knew it was no use. She'd kill her, but she'd rise again as they all did. She'd rise angrier, and uglier, and less normal than when she'd fallen the first time.
Unless. Unless that, of course.
“I can't,” she said to herself. “I can't do that again.”
You can. You simply won't.
Staring at the girl, watching her agonies, a tightness formed in Yva's gut. They were similar, weren't they. Young, short cropped hair. The skin was perfect, though that may have been Yva's own blood that had done that. But still . . .
There is one way to never rise.
“Blood hell, no.” She groaned, and the girl stopped pummeling herself to blink at her. Her face was now mottled, a river of snot drizzling from her nostrils.
“Please.”
You can't force this on her.
“But you could . . . could live. I could bring you to the Undercity and they could . . . would . . . “
“I won't be like that. I won't. I won't be some fucking slave rotter!”
Slave rotter.
Yva looked away and she began to hum, not just the first verse of her song, but the second and the third too, trying to smother the girl's shrieks from her ears, but it was no use.
Do it then. Not out of error like Her. Do it out of pity.
“You're sure. Absolutely sure,” she finally said.
The girl just nodded, her last 'please' simple and dignified.
Yva lifted her hand and closed her eyes, allowing her spell to spread. She fed magic into it, not feeling the cold as it encased everything in its grasp. As the ice climbed the girl's arms, as it slithered over her skin, as it forced its way into her ears, her mouth, down into her stomach through her windpipe, Yva refused to see. She would not watch the progression, because she'd seen it once before, and it was far too terrible to see a second time.
When the last of the magic was wrapped in the girl, on the girl, around the girl, Yva dropped to her knees with a pathetic whimper.
I'm sorry, Mirandella.
The ice shattered into a million tiny pieces, a gust wind blowing the door off the wall.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
Re: For Mara.
Yva needed human blood.
It wasn’t that she needed to kill someone for the sport of it – that wasn’t at all satisfying anymore and she considered that a part of her past. Present murders served magical and scientific purposes, and this was no different. She needed a life for Mara’s ritual, and she had no idea where to get one from. Trying to fix her reputation with Stormwind had severely limited her capabilities. If someone found out that she’d plucked a random victim off the streets for her own schemes, they’d frown upon it and there would be needless annoyances later on.
Unless the person was so loathsome no one would miss them?
Of course. Perfect.
The problem with finding the reprehensible victim was that she was out of the loop. When she lived in Stormwind proper, it was easy to hear a name or a story about some ne’er-do-well or another, but she’d been in the Plaguelands and she’d heard no stories. She'd heard nothing but the scrape of Mara's chains on stone, Jak's pacing, and her own quiet hummings while she pondered the difficulties of their situation.
She needed help, then.
Bittertongue.
Only not Bittertongue, because he wasn’t answering his box and wasn't that just annoying. She needed him now, she needed a NAME now, not whenever he felt up for taking callers.
She growled in aggravation, summoning her dreadsteed to her and turning it towards the Pig and Whistle. There was only one other person she could think of to go to with this, and considering past relations, she wasn't sure he'd help her, but if Tarquin ap'Danwyrith didn't know the name of a man who needed to die, no one would. Unfortuately, he wasn't in his bar. In fact, he didn't seem to be anywhere even remotely useful to her, and she felt her ire rising, until – wonder of wonders – the blond man himself came walking around a corner, a black hat hiding his features from the late day sun.
He seemed to notice her just as she noticed him, and they stared at one another, their mouths adopting grim, tight smiles.
“I need a victim,” she said in greeting.
His expression turned to one of wariness and then curiosity as she told him everything she could without saying Mara's name, without calling her a deathknight. It took him just a minute to give her the name Corvin Willingham. A strange flicker behind his green eyes let her know what he thought of the man, and she knew she had her blood. It was just a matter of finding it.
“An, ah, do us a favor.”
She quirked a brow at the odd lilt in his voice.
“Leave a note. Gift fir Aumery Fane. Ay, you, em, ee, are, why – Eff, ay, en, ee. All thit's needed.”
“Consider it done,” she said.
They parted, and she could feel the weight of his stare on her back. He didn't trust her, didn't have any reason to trust her, but he wasn't so stupid he couldn't take advantage of an opportunity when it fell into his lap.
When it was all done, she'd try to tell him what she knew, but until then . . .
Until then she needed a dress.
It wasn’t that she needed to kill someone for the sport of it – that wasn’t at all satisfying anymore and she considered that a part of her past. Present murders served magical and scientific purposes, and this was no different. She needed a life for Mara’s ritual, and she had no idea where to get one from. Trying to fix her reputation with Stormwind had severely limited her capabilities. If someone found out that she’d plucked a random victim off the streets for her own schemes, they’d frown upon it and there would be needless annoyances later on.
Unless the person was so loathsome no one would miss them?
Of course. Perfect.
The problem with finding the reprehensible victim was that she was out of the loop. When she lived in Stormwind proper, it was easy to hear a name or a story about some ne’er-do-well or another, but she’d been in the Plaguelands and she’d heard no stories. She'd heard nothing but the scrape of Mara's chains on stone, Jak's pacing, and her own quiet hummings while she pondered the difficulties of their situation.
She needed help, then.
Bittertongue.
Only not Bittertongue, because he wasn’t answering his box and wasn't that just annoying. She needed him now, she needed a NAME now, not whenever he felt up for taking callers.
She growled in aggravation, summoning her dreadsteed to her and turning it towards the Pig and Whistle. There was only one other person she could think of to go to with this, and considering past relations, she wasn't sure he'd help her, but if Tarquin ap'Danwyrith didn't know the name of a man who needed to die, no one would. Unfortuately, he wasn't in his bar. In fact, he didn't seem to be anywhere even remotely useful to her, and she felt her ire rising, until – wonder of wonders – the blond man himself came walking around a corner, a black hat hiding his features from the late day sun.
He seemed to notice her just as she noticed him, and they stared at one another, their mouths adopting grim, tight smiles.
“I need a victim,” she said in greeting.
His expression turned to one of wariness and then curiosity as she told him everything she could without saying Mara's name, without calling her a deathknight. It took him just a minute to give her the name Corvin Willingham. A strange flicker behind his green eyes let her know what he thought of the man, and she knew she had her blood. It was just a matter of finding it.
“An, ah, do us a favor.”
She quirked a brow at the odd lilt in his voice.
“Leave a note. Gift fir Aumery Fane. Ay, you, em, ee, are, why – Eff, ay, en, ee. All thit's needed.”
“Consider it done,” she said.
They parted, and she could feel the weight of his stare on her back. He didn't trust her, didn't have any reason to trust her, but he wasn't so stupid he couldn't take advantage of an opportunity when it fell into his lap.
When it was all done, she'd try to tell him what she knew, but until then . . .
Until then she needed a dress.
Last edited by Yva on Thu Dec 18, 2008 11:02 am, edited 1 time in total.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
Threnn wrote:There was a man in the Dwarven District who paid good money for information on the goings-on at the docks. He liked to know who was coming, who was going, and what prizes might fill the bellies of the ships. He was curt but fair, and though he never told his people how he profited from their tidbits, he often tipped heavily when his labors bore fruit.
Corvin Willingham whistled as he strolled through the District towards Old Town, jingling his pockets, pleased by the sound his latest earnings made within. This would buy several nights' worth of drinks. Or one night's worth and a bit of peace, if he bought rounds for his companions. When his associates expressed doubt over his claims to well-off family in Darkshire, flashing coin usually shut them up a while longer. He did, after all, have a reputation to uphold.
The only thing that could make this night better, he thought, would be a good fuck. His pace picked up; he wasn't going to find any likely candidates around here - dwarven lasses weren't to his tastes. Aside from the obvious differences in height, they were too stocky, too solidly built. He liked his women delicate and fine-boned, liked the way their wrists felt in his grasp when they struggled.
He was sure to see several potentials on his way through Old Town, perhaps even this one coming towards him now.
The blonde woman hurried along the passageway between the Dwarven District and Old Town, hardly paying him any mind. She clutched a leather satchel to her chest. It was open at the top and she riffled through it, muttering under her breath in what sounded like Darnassian as she searched. Yes, it was indeed the longear tongue; for all the race's purported dignity, their sailors weren't above turning the air blue with cursewords. You picked those up quickly, working on the docks, and Corvin recognized several spilling off the woman's tongue.
As she drew even with him, he appraised her with the eye of a connoisseur. Pretty, certainly, but not for him. She was too sturdy, carrying herself with confidence and poise. This woman would be able to fight. And maybe win.
That would never do.
He inclined his head politely as they passed, not out of interest, but because that's what men of a certain breeding would simply do. She was too caught up in whatever documents she'd found to spare him a glance.
"Elune adore," she muttered, at least acknowledging his presence before she bustled on.
He'd already nearly dismissed her from his own thoughts when a sudden recollection made him whirl around and stare at her retreating back. Was that...? He skulked back along the passageway, peering around the corner in time to see her mount the steps to Judge Oläf's house. She paused beside a white-haired Kal'dorei before both of them moved further in and closed the door. Corvin recognized the elf even from the back. Oreweave's shop was on the way to the harbor; he'd often seen the elf through the windows as he passed by.
Word of the Drachmas trial had reached his ears, too. There were bets going on over when the Wildfire Riders would break the woman out of jail, how many noses would be broken in the process, how many arms, how many necks. So far, no one had been able to collect on any of them.
It all added up nicely. The tailor, Drachmas' judge's house, the woman's coarse use of the elven tongue. The blonde woman was Annalea al'Cair, just as Fane had described her to his associates. Corvin considered peering in the window, to see if the paladin was there as well -- Edour, the man whose name Fane sneered when he mentioned. He dismissed the thought, though, taking note of the dwarf standing just outside. It wouldn't do to be noticed.
Fane would be pleased enough to receive a report on the girl. Word had it that she spent much of her time these days in Valiance Keep. Even though it meant her sister was out of commission, there were far too many upstanding soldiers there to allow him to make a move. But if she were back in Stormwind for this trial, even for a few days...
Oh yes. Aumery Fane would be most interested to hear about this. Corvin didn't just whistle as he turned his steps back towards Old Town. He sang.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
Re: For Mara.
The dress was white and small and as wispy as a snowflake. Staring at herself, her black hair falling freely around her face, her eyes huge in that too pale face, she felt like a sacrifice. She looked vulnerable, just as ap’Danwyrith had said she should. That’s what Willingham’s tastes dictated, anyway. Tonight, Yva Darrows played the part of the victim. Her small stature, delicate hands, and pale blue eyes had never served her better.
Idiot man is in for a surprise. I might enjoy this one a bit too much.
She pulled her white cloak around her and scampered through the canals, leaving her dreadsteed and her relics behind. They weren’t needed this time. A thick fog had descended on the Stormwind docks, and her gaze flitted from tavern sign to tavern sign, searching for the Salty Sailor. The small, dark bar was tucked in between an armorer and a swordmaster’s anvil, and she shouldered her way inside, her hood around her face. She kept her eyes downcast as she found a table, and when the bar matron sidled up beside her, she barely whispered her request for tea and bread.
Five minutes for the first seadog to approach. She chatted him up, smiled and pulled her hood away, and he seemed to like what he saw. “Barnaby” settled down, turned his chair around, and tried to buy her a beer or four. She kept her voice quiet as she rejected his drink, eyes flicking among the other patrons. There were curious looks her way – she wasn't the type of girl this particular establishment got, or at least, they didn't think she was. A few times, when she met a man's eye, he'd wink and lift his mug at her.
It took an hour of idle Barnaby banter for a new patron to arrive.
Corvin Willingham was everything she'd expected – pale haired, watery eyed, with a handlebar mustache and a trim beard around his chin. He didn't notice her at first, and she had no idea who HE was until Barnaby moved in close and whispered “I'd be watchin' yer back 'round him, lass. He likes ladies yer type.” She quirked a brow and Barnaby took that as an invitation to lean in closer, his hot bourbon breath on her neck.
“Name's Willingham, an' he ain't good to his ladies. Better with ol' Barnaby here, aye?”
“I . . . “ Yva felt magic pulsing in her palms, ice threatening to cover her pale hands, but she fought it back by biting the side of her tongue. “Thank you, Barnaby. I . . . I really appreciate your concern.” He chuckled and she felt his warm, rubbery lips brush her neck as he pulled away.
I'll just kill the whole bar. Who would care? Scumbags and ne'er-do-wells and . . .NO. FOCUS. FOCUS. OH GODS HE'S SNIFFING YOU.
She began to hum her old familiar song, trying to keep her temper in check. Barnaby prattled on, twisting the whiskers on his chin as he regaled her with some sea venture or another, but her focus was on Corvin. He'd taken a chair in the corner, and had promptly pinched the fat waitress's bottom as she served him his drinks. She didn't seem to mind it, nor did she seem to mind when he shoved some silver down the front of her blouse.
Classy.
She sipped the last of her tea and finally Corvin noticed her. When their eyes met she immediately looked down, finding something interesting to examine in the bottom of her cup. She could feel his stare, though. It was like a weight pressing upon her. Just as Tarquin had predicted, the petite simpering miss was his type.
She waited just a while longer before looking up at Barnaby with a small, sad smile.
“Thank you very much for the company, Barnaby. I really should be going, though.”
“Lass! Yer breakin' me heart. Did ye want me to 'company ye home? Or if ye like, me rooms are just 'round the . . . “
“No, that's quite all right. My apartment is in the Mage District. It's not a long walk.” She raised her voice, making sure Corvin could hear her over the tavern's din. Once again she flicked him a glance, lowering her eyes when their looks met.
As she stood to go, Barnaby was there, still offering to take her home, still helping her into her cloak, and she was more emphatic now in her no. “It's not going to happen tonight, Barnaby.” He seemed taken aback by the slight shift in her voice, the way her true disposition began to eek out with just those few words, and he backed away, again pawing at his gray whiskers.
“Right lass, right. Be on yer way then. Be careful.”
“I will be,” she said, and she hustled to the door, keeping her head low.
As soon as her shoes touched Stormwind cobblestone, her walk turned to a near crawl. If she'd done well, Corvin would be leaving soon and would catch up with her by the time she reached the canals.
Come on then, do it right.
She was off by a quarter mile.
She'd just turned the corner, wasn't even OUT of the harbor area when she heard some jaunty whistling from behind. She hadn't heard the man's voice inside the tavern so she had no idea if it was him, but a quick glance over her shoulder, beneath one of Stormwind's massive gas lanterns, and she could make out the murky blond hues of his chin-length hair.
Her lips twisted into a smile.
She pulled a handkerchief from the inside of her cloak and dropped it, gasping loudly as it flitted down the street. Fortune was with her; a strong gust of wind blew it towards Corvin, making it dance around his feet. She chased it until they were a few feet apart, and then she fidgeted, twisting her hands like she'd seen the awkward young girls do around squires they fancied.
“Sir, would you mind?”
“Course I wouldn't, my dear. I don't think I've seen you around?” He swooped forward and retrieved the handkerchief, not truly offering it to her – more holding it hostage in his palm.
“Oh. I suppose you haven't.”
She stared at his hand, not making much of a move toward him.
“I'm new to town, you see”
“Lucky Stormwind then, to get such a beauty. Where's home?” He watched her lift her hand towards his, and he slowly extended the handkerchief. As her fingers neared him, he reached out with his thumb, sliding it over the back of her wrist.
She winced and pulled away.
He smiled.
“You're as cold as a winter's gale! You should be getting home.”
“I, yes. I'm a bit chilled. I was going home. But my handkerchief, Sir?”
“Right, right.” This time he offered it true, and she nabbed it, muttering a thank you and hurrying down the street. He kept his stride with hers, and she cast what she hoped looked like furtive glances to her right every few feet. She attempted to put some distance there, but he followed her, keeping his shoulder mashed against hers.
At the canals she stopped, whimpering quietly . “C-can I help you? I can find my way home.”
“I'd not be a gentleman if I didn't see you home safely, and Corvin Willingham of Darkshire proper is nothing if not a gentleman. Respected folks, the Willinghams, always looking out for the lovelies of this world.” His grin, which was meant to be charming, showed a piece of spinach lodged between his front two teeth.
“I . . . yes, thank you, but Mister Barnaby offered too, and I promise I'm fine. Thank you though..”
The smile faded. “No need to be ungrateful about it.”
“P-pardon?” Yva shivered, which wasn't as feigned as it should have been. The ugliness in his eyes was beginning to manifest, and revulsion swirled in her gut.
“I'm just trying to do you a good turn and you're just being difficult.”
“I am?”
He reached for her then, his hand snatching at hers, and she felt his warm fingers wrap around her wrist, manacling her. She jerked away, trying to play the distressed maiden, and his grip got tighter.
“SIR. I will scream, and . . . let me go. OFFICER POMEROY!” Her voice echoed into the night, but there was no one to hear her, not for miles.
“Scream, who will hear you, little bitch? There was an ugly grunt as he began to back into an alley between the wall and one of the business sides. Yva thrashed, keeping her ice and magics at bay, waiting . . . waiting. In her head the song reached a crescendo as her temper flared cold
Helpless girls, how many have you taken. How many will be saved. Good choice, Tarquin ap'Danwyrith. I owe you a boon
By the time he'd found the stack of crates, he was holding her off of the ground, her small feet kicking. One hand pinned her wrists behind her back, one hand was over her mouth, preventing her from screaming. She bit down on his palm and he roughly pushed her forward, onto her stomach, her face mashed against splinter ridden boards. When he pulled at her cloak, beginning to paw at her clothes with a long string of curses, she let the personae of the simpering miss go.
The air around her dropped by ten degrees, and then she began to laugh.
He stopped molesting her for just a moment, long enough to reach forward to smack the crown of her head. “You think this is funny? Getting fucked over a crate? Huh?”
“You won't be fucking me or anyone else tonight,” she said, turning her head over her shoulder to smile at him. Ice swam up her body, encasing her whole person in a protective block, and he was forced away from her, forced to stop touching her by the barrier of cold no man, beast, or magic could penetrate.
“You stupid whore.”
“Shut up.”
Beneath his feet the ground began to rumble, the cobblestones splintering apart as a pillar of smoke rose from the sweltering depths. The gray haze began to thrum, its shape solidifying second by awful second. First there were horns, then breasts, then a tail and two well shaped legs that ended in dainty hooves.
“Mmmmmmistressssssssss,” Cattania rasped, a reptilian hiss to her words. “I've been waiting for your call.”
“Hold him, and hold him well.”
The succubus rolled her head towards her mark, a small pink tongue dashing out between her pointed fangs. There was a subtle shift of magic, a new warmth on the air, and Corvin Willingham felt his jaw go slack, he felt his hands unclench. His will was sucked away by the manufactured love shining bright in the succubus's eyes.
His trousers dropped to the ground with a jingle, the keys and coins from his pockets rolling off into the shadows.
“And so he was enthralled,” Yva said, dropping her ice magics. She ordered the succubus to tie the man with the leather cord of her whips When she was done, his feet were attached to his wrists, much like a sow ripe for the slaughter. He remained as docile as a pup under the demoness's seductions, though, never once complaining as she cut the circulation to his hands.
A dreadsteed was called, a portal was made, and the unlikely threesome found their way to a tower in the middle of the Plaguelands.
At arrival, Corvin was tied, feet up, and hanged from the rafters, the blood of his body rushing to his face and turning his ruddy skin purple.
“Now then,” Yva said, patting Cattania on the shoulder. “Do be a love and drop the enchantment. I want him conscious for what I'm going to do to him.”
Idiot man is in for a surprise. I might enjoy this one a bit too much.
She pulled her white cloak around her and scampered through the canals, leaving her dreadsteed and her relics behind. They weren’t needed this time. A thick fog had descended on the Stormwind docks, and her gaze flitted from tavern sign to tavern sign, searching for the Salty Sailor. The small, dark bar was tucked in between an armorer and a swordmaster’s anvil, and she shouldered her way inside, her hood around her face. She kept her eyes downcast as she found a table, and when the bar matron sidled up beside her, she barely whispered her request for tea and bread.
Five minutes for the first seadog to approach. She chatted him up, smiled and pulled her hood away, and he seemed to like what he saw. “Barnaby” settled down, turned his chair around, and tried to buy her a beer or four. She kept her voice quiet as she rejected his drink, eyes flicking among the other patrons. There were curious looks her way – she wasn't the type of girl this particular establishment got, or at least, they didn't think she was. A few times, when she met a man's eye, he'd wink and lift his mug at her.
It took an hour of idle Barnaby banter for a new patron to arrive.
Corvin Willingham was everything she'd expected – pale haired, watery eyed, with a handlebar mustache and a trim beard around his chin. He didn't notice her at first, and she had no idea who HE was until Barnaby moved in close and whispered “I'd be watchin' yer back 'round him, lass. He likes ladies yer type.” She quirked a brow and Barnaby took that as an invitation to lean in closer, his hot bourbon breath on her neck.
“Name's Willingham, an' he ain't good to his ladies. Better with ol' Barnaby here, aye?”
“I . . . “ Yva felt magic pulsing in her palms, ice threatening to cover her pale hands, but she fought it back by biting the side of her tongue. “Thank you, Barnaby. I . . . I really appreciate your concern.” He chuckled and she felt his warm, rubbery lips brush her neck as he pulled away.
I'll just kill the whole bar. Who would care? Scumbags and ne'er-do-wells and . . .NO. FOCUS. FOCUS. OH GODS HE'S SNIFFING YOU.
She began to hum her old familiar song, trying to keep her temper in check. Barnaby prattled on, twisting the whiskers on his chin as he regaled her with some sea venture or another, but her focus was on Corvin. He'd taken a chair in the corner, and had promptly pinched the fat waitress's bottom as she served him his drinks. She didn't seem to mind it, nor did she seem to mind when he shoved some silver down the front of her blouse.
Classy.
She sipped the last of her tea and finally Corvin noticed her. When their eyes met she immediately looked down, finding something interesting to examine in the bottom of her cup. She could feel his stare, though. It was like a weight pressing upon her. Just as Tarquin had predicted, the petite simpering miss was his type.
She waited just a while longer before looking up at Barnaby with a small, sad smile.
“Thank you very much for the company, Barnaby. I really should be going, though.”
“Lass! Yer breakin' me heart. Did ye want me to 'company ye home? Or if ye like, me rooms are just 'round the . . . “
“No, that's quite all right. My apartment is in the Mage District. It's not a long walk.” She raised her voice, making sure Corvin could hear her over the tavern's din. Once again she flicked him a glance, lowering her eyes when their looks met.
As she stood to go, Barnaby was there, still offering to take her home, still helping her into her cloak, and she was more emphatic now in her no. “It's not going to happen tonight, Barnaby.” He seemed taken aback by the slight shift in her voice, the way her true disposition began to eek out with just those few words, and he backed away, again pawing at his gray whiskers.
“Right lass, right. Be on yer way then. Be careful.”
“I will be,” she said, and she hustled to the door, keeping her head low.
As soon as her shoes touched Stormwind cobblestone, her walk turned to a near crawl. If she'd done well, Corvin would be leaving soon and would catch up with her by the time she reached the canals.
Come on then, do it right.
She was off by a quarter mile.
She'd just turned the corner, wasn't even OUT of the harbor area when she heard some jaunty whistling from behind. She hadn't heard the man's voice inside the tavern so she had no idea if it was him, but a quick glance over her shoulder, beneath one of Stormwind's massive gas lanterns, and she could make out the murky blond hues of his chin-length hair.
Her lips twisted into a smile.
She pulled a handkerchief from the inside of her cloak and dropped it, gasping loudly as it flitted down the street. Fortune was with her; a strong gust of wind blew it towards Corvin, making it dance around his feet. She chased it until they were a few feet apart, and then she fidgeted, twisting her hands like she'd seen the awkward young girls do around squires they fancied.
“Sir, would you mind?”
“Course I wouldn't, my dear. I don't think I've seen you around?” He swooped forward and retrieved the handkerchief, not truly offering it to her – more holding it hostage in his palm.
“Oh. I suppose you haven't.”
She stared at his hand, not making much of a move toward him.
“I'm new to town, you see”
“Lucky Stormwind then, to get such a beauty. Where's home?” He watched her lift her hand towards his, and he slowly extended the handkerchief. As her fingers neared him, he reached out with his thumb, sliding it over the back of her wrist.
She winced and pulled away.
He smiled.
“You're as cold as a winter's gale! You should be getting home.”
“I, yes. I'm a bit chilled. I was going home. But my handkerchief, Sir?”
“Right, right.” This time he offered it true, and she nabbed it, muttering a thank you and hurrying down the street. He kept his stride with hers, and she cast what she hoped looked like furtive glances to her right every few feet. She attempted to put some distance there, but he followed her, keeping his shoulder mashed against hers.
At the canals she stopped, whimpering quietly . “C-can I help you? I can find my way home.”
“I'd not be a gentleman if I didn't see you home safely, and Corvin Willingham of Darkshire proper is nothing if not a gentleman. Respected folks, the Willinghams, always looking out for the lovelies of this world.” His grin, which was meant to be charming, showed a piece of spinach lodged between his front two teeth.
“I . . . yes, thank you, but Mister Barnaby offered too, and I promise I'm fine. Thank you though..”
The smile faded. “No need to be ungrateful about it.”
“P-pardon?” Yva shivered, which wasn't as feigned as it should have been. The ugliness in his eyes was beginning to manifest, and revulsion swirled in her gut.
“I'm just trying to do you a good turn and you're just being difficult.”
“I am?”
He reached for her then, his hand snatching at hers, and she felt his warm fingers wrap around her wrist, manacling her. She jerked away, trying to play the distressed maiden, and his grip got tighter.
“SIR. I will scream, and . . . let me go. OFFICER POMEROY!” Her voice echoed into the night, but there was no one to hear her, not for miles.
“Scream, who will hear you, little bitch? There was an ugly grunt as he began to back into an alley between the wall and one of the business sides. Yva thrashed, keeping her ice and magics at bay, waiting . . . waiting. In her head the song reached a crescendo as her temper flared cold
Helpless girls, how many have you taken. How many will be saved. Good choice, Tarquin ap'Danwyrith. I owe you a boon
By the time he'd found the stack of crates, he was holding her off of the ground, her small feet kicking. One hand pinned her wrists behind her back, one hand was over her mouth, preventing her from screaming. She bit down on his palm and he roughly pushed her forward, onto her stomach, her face mashed against splinter ridden boards. When he pulled at her cloak, beginning to paw at her clothes with a long string of curses, she let the personae of the simpering miss go.
The air around her dropped by ten degrees, and then she began to laugh.
He stopped molesting her for just a moment, long enough to reach forward to smack the crown of her head. “You think this is funny? Getting fucked over a crate? Huh?”
“You won't be fucking me or anyone else tonight,” she said, turning her head over her shoulder to smile at him. Ice swam up her body, encasing her whole person in a protective block, and he was forced away from her, forced to stop touching her by the barrier of cold no man, beast, or magic could penetrate.
“You stupid whore.”
“Shut up.”
Beneath his feet the ground began to rumble, the cobblestones splintering apart as a pillar of smoke rose from the sweltering depths. The gray haze began to thrum, its shape solidifying second by awful second. First there were horns, then breasts, then a tail and two well shaped legs that ended in dainty hooves.
“Mmmmmmistressssssssss,” Cattania rasped, a reptilian hiss to her words. “I've been waiting for your call.”
“Hold him, and hold him well.”
The succubus rolled her head towards her mark, a small pink tongue dashing out between her pointed fangs. There was a subtle shift of magic, a new warmth on the air, and Corvin Willingham felt his jaw go slack, he felt his hands unclench. His will was sucked away by the manufactured love shining bright in the succubus's eyes.
His trousers dropped to the ground with a jingle, the keys and coins from his pockets rolling off into the shadows.
“And so he was enthralled,” Yva said, dropping her ice magics. She ordered the succubus to tie the man with the leather cord of her whips When she was done, his feet were attached to his wrists, much like a sow ripe for the slaughter. He remained as docile as a pup under the demoness's seductions, though, never once complaining as she cut the circulation to his hands.
A dreadsteed was called, a portal was made, and the unlikely threesome found their way to a tower in the middle of the Plaguelands.
At arrival, Corvin was tied, feet up, and hanged from the rafters, the blood of his body rushing to his face and turning his ruddy skin purple.
“Now then,” Yva said, patting Cattania on the shoulder. “Do be a love and drop the enchantment. I want him conscious for what I'm going to do to him.”
Last edited by Yva on Fri Feb 06, 2009 8:55 am, edited 2 times in total.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
Re: For Mara.
The succubus abandoned her magic and Corvin Willingham dragged huge torrents of air into his lungs. He coughed, he sputtered, he glared and began to thrash.
“What the hell is this?!” He screamed then, swatting at Yva from across the room. She kept her back to him, humming as she pulled a jar out from underneath a stack of boxes. It was about hip height and the color of Stranglethorn clay.
“Cattania, move this beneath him.”
“Of course, Missstresssss.” The succubus stopped filing her nails long enough to do as she was told, purring in the thrashing man’s ear. “He is an angry one, isn’t he?”
“Stop playing with your dinner.”
“Dinner? What does that mean? What are you planning on doing? I’m an important man. DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”
Yva settled her hands on her hips with an exaggerated groan. “I don’t care who /you/ are. I think the more important question is do you know who I am?”
“No. I . . . look, lady. Let me down. I can pay.”
“The money of a would-be rapist, or satisfaction from conquering scourgedom. I’ll take . . . .” She pretended to mull it over. “The latter.”
He wriggled like a worm on a hook, and her smirk turned ugly. “I’ll kill you!”
The succubus wrapped her tail around Corvin’s neck, drizzling her fingers down his middle. His shirt was waving near his face, and she dug sharp nails into the meat of his belly, chuckling darkly at his whimper. “No darling, that’s not how this works. Misssssstressss kills you.”
“Hush, Cattania.”
“Yes, Lady.”
“I . . . “ He screamed for help again and again, until his throat was raw and his words were ragged. No one would hear him here except Yva, her pet, and the woman chained in the basement, and Yva sincerely doubted Mara was going to bat an eye over someone else’s agony.
Yva grabbed her dagger from the bookshelf by the door, humming as she wiped it on her white skirt. “So Corvin Willingham of Darkshire, tell me why I get to send your body to Armury Fane.”
“F-Fane? He’s a mate of mine. Good chap. I . . . “
“Someone hated him – and you by extension – enough to hand you over to *me*. Tsk tsk.”
His eyes blinked owlishly from his near purple face. “Who are you? I just thought you were some girl . . . “
“Every woman is some girl at some point in her life. Earlier I was what you wanted me to be. Now? I’m back to being Yva Darrows.”
She watched his face scrunch as he tried to remember her, tried to make the connection that would identify that too familiar name. It was the same every time: first there was confusion, then there was recognition, and then . . . then there was horror.
“Aren’t you that woman that . . . “
“Yes.”
“Everlook.”
“Yes.”
“Good Light, you’re going to kill me.”
“Yes. I am.”
There was silence as she approached him, kissing her fingers and then brushing them across his forehead in the blessing of the light. She never flinched, not even when she pulled her dagger across his neck and bled him into the jar.
*****
It took a long time for the corpse to drain.
When it was done, Cattania moved the jar back into the corner, sealing the top of it with wax and a lid. It wouldn’t be used quite yet, the ritual wasn’t ready, and so it would be stored until its time to shine.
Yva sounded weary as she ordered Corvin’s body cut down. She’d changed out of her white dress, had found instead some old slacks and a shirt. Gloves covered her hands to her elbows. The saw was a solid weight in her palms.
Another box was procured, this time a fine lacquered chest appropriate for holding blankets and clothes. They lined it with blue linen cloth, careful to over pad the corners. It wouldn’t do for critters to find her gift.
The body was dismembered at the joints through hard labor and sheer force of will. Yva’s arms were tired, sweat stuck her clothes to her body, but she persisted until the feet were separated from the lower legs, the lower legs from the thighs. The groin, the chest, the arms and hands and head were all taken apart. She was meticulous in her deconstruction of the man who’d hurt so many.
For all that it was an arduous process, she never thought to stop. Once begun, the mission must be completed.
Each part was enchanted with a freezing spell to keep everything free of odor and the unpleasantness of decomposition. The skin was pale and almost perfect – no blood was left to mar it. Cattania whistled as she wrapped the pieces in brown butcher’s paper and twine. Everything was stacked in a neat pile, and then covered with an additional layer of linen.
The demoness was outright cheery as she penned the note. Yva was precise in her dictation. Tarquin’s message would be delivered and there would be no mistakes.
Yva eyed the now closed box, a smile playing about her mouth. By this time tomorrow, Mister Fane would have his present. He’d be opening the chest, he’d be removing the linen, and then he’d be forced to deal with the consequences of his actions. She almost wished she knew what the man had done to ire the boss of the Wildfire Riders.
She had to hope she'd get to do this again.
“What the hell is this?!” He screamed then, swatting at Yva from across the room. She kept her back to him, humming as she pulled a jar out from underneath a stack of boxes. It was about hip height and the color of Stranglethorn clay.
“Cattania, move this beneath him.”
“Of course, Missstresssss.” The succubus stopped filing her nails long enough to do as she was told, purring in the thrashing man’s ear. “He is an angry one, isn’t he?”
“Stop playing with your dinner.”
“Dinner? What does that mean? What are you planning on doing? I’m an important man. DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”
Yva settled her hands on her hips with an exaggerated groan. “I don’t care who /you/ are. I think the more important question is do you know who I am?”
“No. I . . . look, lady. Let me down. I can pay.”
“The money of a would-be rapist, or satisfaction from conquering scourgedom. I’ll take . . . .” She pretended to mull it over. “The latter.”
He wriggled like a worm on a hook, and her smirk turned ugly. “I’ll kill you!”
The succubus wrapped her tail around Corvin’s neck, drizzling her fingers down his middle. His shirt was waving near his face, and she dug sharp nails into the meat of his belly, chuckling darkly at his whimper. “No darling, that’s not how this works. Misssssstressss kills you.”
“Hush, Cattania.”
“Yes, Lady.”
“I . . . “ He screamed for help again and again, until his throat was raw and his words were ragged. No one would hear him here except Yva, her pet, and the woman chained in the basement, and Yva sincerely doubted Mara was going to bat an eye over someone else’s agony.
Yva grabbed her dagger from the bookshelf by the door, humming as she wiped it on her white skirt. “So Corvin Willingham of Darkshire, tell me why I get to send your body to Armury Fane.”
“F-Fane? He’s a mate of mine. Good chap. I . . . “
“Someone hated him – and you by extension – enough to hand you over to *me*. Tsk tsk.”
His eyes blinked owlishly from his near purple face. “Who are you? I just thought you were some girl . . . “
“Every woman is some girl at some point in her life. Earlier I was what you wanted me to be. Now? I’m back to being Yva Darrows.”
She watched his face scrunch as he tried to remember her, tried to make the connection that would identify that too familiar name. It was the same every time: first there was confusion, then there was recognition, and then . . . then there was horror.
“Aren’t you that woman that . . . “
“Yes.”
“Everlook.”
“Yes.”
“Good Light, you’re going to kill me.”
“Yes. I am.”
There was silence as she approached him, kissing her fingers and then brushing them across his forehead in the blessing of the light. She never flinched, not even when she pulled her dagger across his neck and bled him into the jar.
*****
It took a long time for the corpse to drain.
When it was done, Cattania moved the jar back into the corner, sealing the top of it with wax and a lid. It wouldn’t be used quite yet, the ritual wasn’t ready, and so it would be stored until its time to shine.
Yva sounded weary as she ordered Corvin’s body cut down. She’d changed out of her white dress, had found instead some old slacks and a shirt. Gloves covered her hands to her elbows. The saw was a solid weight in her palms.
Another box was procured, this time a fine lacquered chest appropriate for holding blankets and clothes. They lined it with blue linen cloth, careful to over pad the corners. It wouldn’t do for critters to find her gift.
The body was dismembered at the joints through hard labor and sheer force of will. Yva’s arms were tired, sweat stuck her clothes to her body, but she persisted until the feet were separated from the lower legs, the lower legs from the thighs. The groin, the chest, the arms and hands and head were all taken apart. She was meticulous in her deconstruction of the man who’d hurt so many.
For all that it was an arduous process, she never thought to stop. Once begun, the mission must be completed.
Each part was enchanted with a freezing spell to keep everything free of odor and the unpleasantness of decomposition. The skin was pale and almost perfect – no blood was left to mar it. Cattania whistled as she wrapped the pieces in brown butcher’s paper and twine. Everything was stacked in a neat pile, and then covered with an additional layer of linen.
The demoness was outright cheery as she penned the note. Yva was precise in her dictation. Tarquin’s message would be delivered and there would be no mistakes.
Yva eyed the now closed box, a smile playing about her mouth. By this time tomorrow, Mister Fane would have his present. He’d be opening the chest, he’d be removing the linen, and then he’d be forced to deal with the consequences of his actions. She almost wished she knew what the man had done to ire the boss of the Wildfire Riders.
She had to hope she'd get to do this again.
Last edited by Yva on Fri Feb 06, 2009 9:03 am, edited 2 times in total.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
Re: For Mara.
((Reserved))