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.
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