Thumpirity-thump. Thumpirity-thump. The sound of the bartender’s fingers drumming upon the oak tabletop filled the Slaughtered Lamb. For a week he had watched the woman sit locked to her chair in the corner, never leaving the sanctity of her anonymous tomes behind. Now, she being the only patron of his tavern tonight, his fingers drummed harder, waiting for the figure to do something. Anything. He grinned wider and wider as he watched Anisse twitch in her seat, until, able to stand the rapping fingers no more, she abruptly stood from her chair and approached him.
“Would you kindly stop that?” the woman gritted out from between her teeth, her soft voice touched with darker intent. Like a true gentleman, he offered his devoted patron a hot bowl of lamb stew, knowing it would calm the spark of fire in the eyes he saw deep inside the shadowy cowl. The white-knuckled grip she held upon her precious tomes started to lessen, and he knew his victory was near.
“Sit down and eat and I might, Miss,” he winked at Anisse. He even added extra potatoes to the dish! With an exasperated sigh, the woman took the bowl, sliding a few silver coins over to Jarel in a brash manner, and then tramped her booted heels back to her table.
“Forgot your drink, dear.”
Broth spilled upon the woman’s table as she almost dropped the bowl. The look she now gave Mr. Moor made his smile grow wire tight, a giddiness flowing through him. Stirring her cold glass of tea with a spoon, the cubes inside tinked against the glass, sounding off like little hollow chimes. He was quick to slide the beverage to her hands, which he studied with a quick glance of his eyes. The small hands were dry, and pale, her nails slightly dirty. She was a nailbiter, from what he could tell of their shortness, for she certainly didn’t manicure them. Jarel seemed to pride himself on knowing his guests, especially ones who made a home of his tavern.
“I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction!”
“No, we’ve not,” was the simple answer from the hooded woman. He laughed as he took the spoon that she thrust back into his fingers.
“Well, you could tell me your name perhaps, yes? Yes!” He was much too cheerful to work in such a place.
“And why should I do that?”
Jarel was clever. He had to be to keep even the most suspicious customer coming back, at least for the stew. It was a stubborn streak Anisse had noticed first-hand.
“I tend to have a nice little repore with the Masters down below, milady. Imagine how nice it would be for me to compliment your studies to Sir Darkbinder, hmmm?” came the good-natured reply. Yes, much too cheery. “Of course, a name would do you well.” The man waved his hand around dimissively. “Telling him that the ‘lady in the dark robes is an absolute wonderful student’ seems to be rather…bland a description, doesn’t it, my dear? So a name to fit that pretty face would do you well! And I bet you’re a pretty one, beneath all that doom and gloom, yes?”
“…ngh…”
It was all she could come up with, the bartender’s lips moving too fast, his words overwhelming. Rarely did her brothers and sisters talk so much within the Cult. All their thoughts were transcribed by the Speaker, for he knew all that should be known, and no other words had been needed before. Idle chatter was as pointless as an Acolyte’s name, which now this odd, cheery man also asked for. She struggled with the name, as she hadn’t used it in so long, never having earned the right to be recognized by it. Her lips parted to speak it, to draw it out of the corridors of her memory, stacked alongside the foggy glimpses of a childhood she no longer needed.
“Anna…” she breathed out, and it felt good to say it.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #2
Jarel Moor, the owner and tender of the Slaughtered Lamb of Stormwind, was absolutely elated tonight. The tavern was brimming with company, and he happily passed the drinks along. He snickered to himself, knowing that the group probably had nowhere else to hold their little soiree, for the Lamb was usually among the last establishments in the city to receive such gatherings. Though the dwarf seemed to care less where he was as long as he had ale, the others, twelve of them, all showed their different levels of disapproval of his tavern. The night elves in the group especially amused him. He watched them sneer at the creaky boards and whisper to themselves in their native tongue, until at last, they wandered out of the Lamb and sat about in the grassy courtyard. Elves: predictable to the last.
The gold was still good.
The Barkeeper’s more permanent patron was nowhere to be seen, however. Finding the crowd both irritating and disruptive, Anisse found the quiet below the Lamb to be what she needed. The bones of the catacombs were hardly as noisy, neither did they tend to drink themselves into idiotic stupors. Picking through her leather satchel, she sighed at what little she had within it. The last of the silver pieces she had were spent on the lamb stew specialty (she really did quite like the dish), and her quick abandonment of the Twilight camp hadn’t exactly left her time to pack anything important. She wondered where the Abyss Child might be by now, and how the creature was faring.
Her fingers swept against something smooth and hard, pocketed in the bottom of the satchel. Ah, an obsidian sliver, touched by the Old ones themselves. The obelisk it had been carved from stretched deep through far off deserts, touching the secrecies kept beneath the earth for so long, she was told. Some had heard the otherworldy voices whispering from the obelisks, and Anisse remembered how much she wished to hear them speak their secrets to her. For so many nights she had gripped so tightly to the ancient sliver to hear the voices become her will. Now…? What was it to her now?
Footsteps echoed down from the tavern and out onto the cellar steps, suddenly. Her thoughts cut off at the sound, Anisse quickly threw the sliver back into her satchel and stuffed it into a half-open coffin. Scrambling to her feet, she put her hands together in front of her, and turned her head low, acting as though she were just making her way up. The woman she passed smirked at her as she passed Anisse, and she caught the scent of cheap perfume, and felfire, the smallish demon skipping just behind her.
“Oh, right. I won’t need you anymore!” the warlock said with a laugh. At the snap of her fingers, the small, fiery demon disappeared before Anisse’s eyes. Was it so easy to control them? A snap of the fingers, they would appear, submitted completely to a warlock’s desires? As the warlock turned the corner, Anisse was helpless to follow, wishing to see more of what this Demon-tamer could do. She stayed a distance away, sliding along the wall as the warlock walked down, down into the bottom rooms, passing stacked coffins.
A circle was scrawled upon the floor, glowing magically, with what seemed to be etched runes in the midst of it. Such things were commonplace with the Twilight’s, and this warlock seemed to immediately know what to do. Anisse saw the warlock in plain view now, her cowl having hidden the face of most standing before her. Coppery curls of hair toppled down the young warlock’s back, as she almost skipped around the room, lighting candlesticks. Her red dress sloped down a voluptuous body, breasts peeking up out of the frothy corset she wore. It was apparent the woman was flashy, by the many rings she had, and the circlets of necklaces that rested upon her squeezed bosom.
“At last!” the warlock exclaimed under an excited exhale of breath. Her hands twitched upwards as she focused upon the circle, and Anisse held her breath as she felt the warlock’s spell begin to crackle in the air. “Come to me!”
Lights flickered around the catacombs, setting the room aglow with hues of violet. The warlock’s whispers were low and soft, with an edge of demand. Anisse could not understand the words, but she knew it was a calling, a summoning. Upon the pulsing circle, a creature appeared, akin to a woman, but with the hooves of a goat. A long tail protruded from the creature’s buttocks, leather clinging to the most private areas of the curving body. She was a wicked beauty, her horns sharp as the lash she snapped upon the cold stone. The warlock bounced up and down in her spot, absolutely stricken with…joy?
“Yes, yes! I did it! I did i---hkkk!” the celebration ended quickly as the whip came coiling around the rather ditzy warlock’s neck. The warlock’s eyes flitted to the dark figure, recognizing that she was standing there, watching. She tried to signal that she needed help, her fingers twitching at the leather coiled around her neck, but no help came, or was offered. Anisse watched in rapt fascination as the goat-woman kicked down the lady sorceress, letting her slam, belly first into the ground. She died silently, her neck broken with a tight pull of the whip.
…oops.
A grin split the demon’s face, a tongue slipping out from between her white, sharp teeth. The wicked thing knew Anisse had stayed the whole time watching, knew she was fascinated by the kill. The demon shimmered out of existence then, her grin burning into the mind. Was this a gift then, this kill? Anisse doubted it, and knew the body needed to go, lest she herself was accused of the “accident.” There were plenty of coffins lying about, unused. How convenient. Perhaps the organs could be harvested for a few spells.
Jarel would appreciate the service.
The gold was still good.
The Barkeeper’s more permanent patron was nowhere to be seen, however. Finding the crowd both irritating and disruptive, Anisse found the quiet below the Lamb to be what she needed. The bones of the catacombs were hardly as noisy, neither did they tend to drink themselves into idiotic stupors. Picking through her leather satchel, she sighed at what little she had within it. The last of the silver pieces she had were spent on the lamb stew specialty (she really did quite like the dish), and her quick abandonment of the Twilight camp hadn’t exactly left her time to pack anything important. She wondered where the Abyss Child might be by now, and how the creature was faring.
Her fingers swept against something smooth and hard, pocketed in the bottom of the satchel. Ah, an obsidian sliver, touched by the Old ones themselves. The obelisk it had been carved from stretched deep through far off deserts, touching the secrecies kept beneath the earth for so long, she was told. Some had heard the otherworldy voices whispering from the obelisks, and Anisse remembered how much she wished to hear them speak their secrets to her. For so many nights she had gripped so tightly to the ancient sliver to hear the voices become her will. Now…? What was it to her now?
Footsteps echoed down from the tavern and out onto the cellar steps, suddenly. Her thoughts cut off at the sound, Anisse quickly threw the sliver back into her satchel and stuffed it into a half-open coffin. Scrambling to her feet, she put her hands together in front of her, and turned her head low, acting as though she were just making her way up. The woman she passed smirked at her as she passed Anisse, and she caught the scent of cheap perfume, and felfire, the smallish demon skipping just behind her.
“Oh, right. I won’t need you anymore!” the warlock said with a laugh. At the snap of her fingers, the small, fiery demon disappeared before Anisse’s eyes. Was it so easy to control them? A snap of the fingers, they would appear, submitted completely to a warlock’s desires? As the warlock turned the corner, Anisse was helpless to follow, wishing to see more of what this Demon-tamer could do. She stayed a distance away, sliding along the wall as the warlock walked down, down into the bottom rooms, passing stacked coffins.
A circle was scrawled upon the floor, glowing magically, with what seemed to be etched runes in the midst of it. Such things were commonplace with the Twilight’s, and this warlock seemed to immediately know what to do. Anisse saw the warlock in plain view now, her cowl having hidden the face of most standing before her. Coppery curls of hair toppled down the young warlock’s back, as she almost skipped around the room, lighting candlesticks. Her red dress sloped down a voluptuous body, breasts peeking up out of the frothy corset she wore. It was apparent the woman was flashy, by the many rings she had, and the circlets of necklaces that rested upon her squeezed bosom.
“At last!” the warlock exclaimed under an excited exhale of breath. Her hands twitched upwards as she focused upon the circle, and Anisse held her breath as she felt the warlock’s spell begin to crackle in the air. “Come to me!”
Lights flickered around the catacombs, setting the room aglow with hues of violet. The warlock’s whispers were low and soft, with an edge of demand. Anisse could not understand the words, but she knew it was a calling, a summoning. Upon the pulsing circle, a creature appeared, akin to a woman, but with the hooves of a goat. A long tail protruded from the creature’s buttocks, leather clinging to the most private areas of the curving body. She was a wicked beauty, her horns sharp as the lash she snapped upon the cold stone. The warlock bounced up and down in her spot, absolutely stricken with…joy?
“Yes, yes! I did it! I did i---hkkk!” the celebration ended quickly as the whip came coiling around the rather ditzy warlock’s neck. The warlock’s eyes flitted to the dark figure, recognizing that she was standing there, watching. She tried to signal that she needed help, her fingers twitching at the leather coiled around her neck, but no help came, or was offered. Anisse watched in rapt fascination as the goat-woman kicked down the lady sorceress, letting her slam, belly first into the ground. She died silently, her neck broken with a tight pull of the whip.
…oops.
A grin split the demon’s face, a tongue slipping out from between her white, sharp teeth. The wicked thing knew Anisse had stayed the whole time watching, knew she was fascinated by the kill. The demon shimmered out of existence then, her grin burning into the mind. Was this a gift then, this kill? Anisse doubted it, and knew the body needed to go, lest she herself was accused of the “accident.” There were plenty of coffins lying about, unused. How convenient. Perhaps the organs could be harvested for a few spells.
Jarel would appreciate the service.
A Patron of the Lamb
The Slaughtered Lamb, sitting in a lonely corner of the Stormwind Magic Quarter, drew little in the way of favorable company, as many would know. Most that entered had something to hide, or were hunting, or were looking for some strange thrill. Those that stayed usually had all three in mind. The dark, old oak tables and chairs collected dusty spider webs, as the bartender, Jarel Moor, had grown tired of cleaning them. It hadn’t mattered really, as few ever decided to stay long, and the little spiders crawling along the floorboards added some macabre appeal.
It was all the kind of quiet that his current patron liked. The figure had visited the past few days, and rarely left her chair now, comfortable with the squeaky floorboards and the dismal lighting. Even the bitter aftertaste that locked in her throat from the smell of felfire became a comfort. The Warlocks below always made a spectacular show of killing rats. With her hood pulled up close around her head, and nothing beyond her hands shown beyond her black, loose robes, the woman guarded herself well, and with good reason.
Cultists, she knew, were not welcomed into the Alliance.
Not even a former cultist of the Twilight’s Hammer would garner such favor from the human city with the cult’s teachings still so fresh in her mind, she suspected. She doubted returning to the cultists was a viable plan, even. Releasing the Offering surely meant her death upon return, or capture. Where is it that she had faltered, she wondered to herself. The hood slipped down as she rubbed at her face, brewing over the frustration of it all. Where had it all gone wrong?
Through Chaos would return Order, she had believed. There was none on this world left to save, war-torn as it was. Even the old Dragons felt the need for absolution when woken from their deep sleep, knowing all must be remade. The Abyss Child certainly would have made a worthy sacrifice, bringing the reckoning closer. Everything had been prepared.
Then, the visions came, heavy with warning, straight from the Abyss Child. None would be spared, not even the Devoted. There had been no promises of reward, only an end, as Abyssal creatures danced in the fiery aftermath. In a moment of pure uncertainty, she released the sacrifice. Her stomach tumbled at this irrational, rampant feeling she had never felt before.
Fear…
Footsteps hit the wooden planks, and she twitched, quickly snatching the hood back up to cover herself. The dread came over her, wondering if they’d found her finally, to take her back. Once again, her stomach began to tumble, her body tightening in its chair. Had they recaptured the Abyss Child? Had her wrong been revealed?
“What’ll it be?” Jarol stated casually, pulling out the question with a tinge of boredom. She did her best to glance backward to look, trying to make the turn of her head as subtle as possible. Her foot slid in place, in case she might need to leave. Would it be wise to try to defend herself in the tavern, if it came to that? Her hand tightened on the bottom of her seat, tense.
“Piss off!” piped up the gnomish warlock as he walked right past the barkeeper, his imp bounding along behind him. His scratchy beard was perhaps as wound up as he was, from the look of the short one. She and the bartender watched as the ill-tempered gnome stormed to the back of the tavern, stomping his way down the path to the basement, the torchlight flickering as he passed. The former Cultist allowed herself to breathe, slumping back into her chair.
“No respect in these parts,” Jarel sighed dramatically, shaking his head. He smiled at her, as he caught her watching. It was a smug smile, the face of the secretive, hidden behind a friendly facade. She knew the smile well. Her mind wandered, musing on how many bodies he’d cleaned up in exchange for favors, how much she would have to pay him to keep her identity a secret, if he knew more of her than he let on.
Looking upon him, she wondered how many times his heart might beat after it was cut fresh, from his chest.
“Another bowl of lamb stew,” she murmured, the request soft, but hollow. They were not the words she intended; her mind envisioned the still dripping heart in a bowl. Perhaps her best decision was to turn around in her chair, lest she have a more than a little mess on her hands. Slowly clearing her mind, she took a bite of the stew, and savored the medley of carrots, broth, and tender meat. She had to blend in, somehow. There were possibilities here, and she already had a knack for summoning otherworldly denizens. Though the intricacies of demons were unfamiliar to her, how much different could they be from an Abyssal?
Anisse, would-be warlock, would soon find out.
It was all the kind of quiet that his current patron liked. The figure had visited the past few days, and rarely left her chair now, comfortable with the squeaky floorboards and the dismal lighting. Even the bitter aftertaste that locked in her throat from the smell of felfire became a comfort. The Warlocks below always made a spectacular show of killing rats. With her hood pulled up close around her head, and nothing beyond her hands shown beyond her black, loose robes, the woman guarded herself well, and with good reason.
Cultists, she knew, were not welcomed into the Alliance.
Not even a former cultist of the Twilight’s Hammer would garner such favor from the human city with the cult’s teachings still so fresh in her mind, she suspected. She doubted returning to the cultists was a viable plan, even. Releasing the Offering surely meant her death upon return, or capture. Where is it that she had faltered, she wondered to herself. The hood slipped down as she rubbed at her face, brewing over the frustration of it all. Where had it all gone wrong?
Through Chaos would return Order, she had believed. There was none on this world left to save, war-torn as it was. Even the old Dragons felt the need for absolution when woken from their deep sleep, knowing all must be remade. The Abyss Child certainly would have made a worthy sacrifice, bringing the reckoning closer. Everything had been prepared.
Then, the visions came, heavy with warning, straight from the Abyss Child. None would be spared, not even the Devoted. There had been no promises of reward, only an end, as Abyssal creatures danced in the fiery aftermath. In a moment of pure uncertainty, she released the sacrifice. Her stomach tumbled at this irrational, rampant feeling she had never felt before.
Fear…
Footsteps hit the wooden planks, and she twitched, quickly snatching the hood back up to cover herself. The dread came over her, wondering if they’d found her finally, to take her back. Once again, her stomach began to tumble, her body tightening in its chair. Had they recaptured the Abyss Child? Had her wrong been revealed?
“What’ll it be?” Jarol stated casually, pulling out the question with a tinge of boredom. She did her best to glance backward to look, trying to make the turn of her head as subtle as possible. Her foot slid in place, in case she might need to leave. Would it be wise to try to defend herself in the tavern, if it came to that? Her hand tightened on the bottom of her seat, tense.
“Piss off!” piped up the gnomish warlock as he walked right past the barkeeper, his imp bounding along behind him. His scratchy beard was perhaps as wound up as he was, from the look of the short one. She and the bartender watched as the ill-tempered gnome stormed to the back of the tavern, stomping his way down the path to the basement, the torchlight flickering as he passed. The former Cultist allowed herself to breathe, slumping back into her chair.
“No respect in these parts,” Jarel sighed dramatically, shaking his head. He smiled at her, as he caught her watching. It was a smug smile, the face of the secretive, hidden behind a friendly facade. She knew the smile well. Her mind wandered, musing on how many bodies he’d cleaned up in exchange for favors, how much she would have to pay him to keep her identity a secret, if he knew more of her than he let on.
Looking upon him, she wondered how many times his heart might beat after it was cut fresh, from his chest.
“Another bowl of lamb stew,” she murmured, the request soft, but hollow. They were not the words she intended; her mind envisioned the still dripping heart in a bowl. Perhaps her best decision was to turn around in her chair, lest she have a more than a little mess on her hands. Slowly clearing her mind, she took a bite of the stew, and savored the medley of carrots, broth, and tender meat. She had to blend in, somehow. There were possibilities here, and she already had a knack for summoning otherworldly denizens. Though the intricacies of demons were unfamiliar to her, how much different could they be from an Abyssal?
Anisse, would-be warlock, would soon find out.
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