It was morning by the time Anisse returned to Stormwind. She moved her cowl back just a bit to see the sun rise over the city, over the so-called Valley of Heroes. It had never been a place she’d taken too much time to observe in passing. Looking at the grand statues now, touched by the yellows and oranges of the brightening day, in truth she found the place fetching. She smirked slightly in thought, knowing how much her former comrades would have liked to bring the city down to nothing but rubbish, to have toppled the castle and erect their great obsidian shrines of worship in its place.
By all measures, she had betrayed the Twilights, and fled the hidden caves she once called home. It was in the insectlike eyes of the Abyss Child that she found her chains of devotion broken. The urgent sense of freeing the sacrifice had enveloped her, making her feel this…mercy. It was so strange, such a sudden influx of emotion that she hadn’t felt before in so long. Somewhere, she felt a lingering disgust with herself, having betrayed them so. Were they searching for her? The notion of creeping back to the underground cavern and baring her treachery before her brethren was strong.
Fortunately, the instinct of living was stronger.
Anisse pulled the cowl back over her forehead, covering her tangles of hair. Her scalp itched annoyingly, and she was due for a bath, having spent the night collecting her treasures. It had been hard dragging the body of the bandit to the wolf den, not exactly being the strongest of women, but she managed well enough. She was pleased however, and an extra bound could be spotted in her gait as she traveled through the Trade Quarter. The cowled figure even afforded a few twittering waves of her fingers to random passerby in greeting, though what they might have thought about that she couldn’t determine, as she saw most only from the waist down. Exception to that was a gnome with salmon pink hair, his mustache curling up as he grinned back cheerily, returning her wave.
Gnomes always seemed naturally excited and happy to Anisse, even when they were in coffins.
On down the winding pathway did she go, divided from the Mage Quarter, ends of her robes drifting over tufts of green grass as she sped forward. The obscenely large feet of a night elf moved off to the side of the grassy walkway, letting her pass. She could feel the elf’s eyes on the back of her covered head as she walked, the weighted satchel at her side swinging to and fro like a pendulum. Though it left small droplets of blood in the moist grass, Anisse knew the day’s comings and goings would trample it away.
Climbing up the walkway to the Slaughtered Lamb, Jarol Moor, proprietor, gave his hermit patron a strange look. Was she waving at him? Stopping to talk to him?
“What can I do for you, my dear?” he said cordially, though his eyebrow cocked up impossibly high at her. He’d really never seen her so cheery. He was further curious when the woman pulled back her hood, revealing a pair of amber eyes lined in kohl. A grin pulled at Jarol, for she was soft-faced, unbecoming of a warlock, even an apprentice. He’d definitely had seen lovelier women by comparison, scandalously gorgeous, in fact, like that Ursula Deline. This one wasn’t too bad to look at either, though.
“Another bowl of the usual, milady?” he crooned, ready to serve with wooden bowl and spoon. Anisse stopped him abruptly, and instead grabbed for a satchel, pulling it up to lie on the bar table. When she pulled out the wrapped, bloody packages, and set them gently before him, Jarol was simply at a loss.
“I have some lamb for you here. I do know how expensive it can be purchasing it from the market, so I took the liberty of bringing some myself.”
Jarol opened up the packages to find a few bloody masses of flesh, the paper stubbornly clinging to the slick organs. He could make out what looked like a liver, and a rope of intestine, while the other unwrapped packages seemed unrecognizable. They seemed clean however, and that was good enough for him.
“You’re most gracious, miss.” Jarol nodded to her in thanks, and rewrapped the packages, placing them into the ice box beneath the bar table.
“Do make sure to invite a few choice guests to the Slaughtered Lamb when you serve the meat.” Anisse held the cherished heart to her chest possessively, wrapped up inside the leather bag. Her eyes connected to Jarol’s with meaning. “I believe some honored paladins might enjoy the meal most of all.”
She liked to share her treasures.
Ah, but the most sacred treasure was hers alone. It sat locked in her arms as she traveled down below, until her feet scraped against the familiar stone of the crypts. Eyeing the crate where her empty jars sit, Anisse sighs, opening the lid tenderly. The succubus heart is the first to greet her with its crimson glow, the fire of it eternally left to burn inside the muscle. The empty jars surrounding it needed their life too. At one time, she’d collected them simply for magical purposes, and they were used as quickly as she gathered them. Now, the collection was more a ritual to her. The need to have them gnawed at her as hunger would to an emaciated child: there was simply no ignoring it.
Carefully lying her leather bag on the stone floor, she reached into its confines and pulled the mass of bloody flesh out. The heart trickled blood down between her fingers and ran down her arm as she held it up, admiring. Sliding the glass jar across the stone, she forced the organ into its opening with a sickening pop, and it drifted slowly in the clear concoction within, turning it a deep red. Anisse grinned, sighing contently.
Her collection had started. Anew.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #7
Red leather bandanas. Apparently, this was what Anisse’s missions were belittled to. It earned her enough wages to live off however, so this collecting was necessary. Completing these small favors also earned her some favor in return, which was sorely needed to get suspicious eyes off of her. The woman did spend too much time in the crypts beneath the Slaughtered Lamb, tending to her wooden garden of jars.
Very empty jars.
Anisse walked along with a heavy heart, drifting through the backwoods of Elwynn Forest. Her jars sat in that cold, stone room, with nothing to warm them. She relied on the collected succubus heart to do just that, actually, as she couldn’t figure out what in the Nether should actually be put into them. Luring random people into the Slaughtered Lamb’s basement seemed to be dangerous business, as many others used it. Being walked in on while she was eviscerating a corpse was not a plan of hers, and asking the bartender to attach a closing time to the Lamb might be something like asking the man to cut off his own arm for her sake.
After the messy business with the gnome captive, the Lamb seemed off-limits as a “work site”.
Flicking her fingers as she walked, she practiced summoning the magical fire to her fingertips again and again, watching the orange flames line her gloves. The fire burnt through the cotton little by little, tearing through the threads the longer she left it burning. It was an interesting spell, but she’d been careful learning too much at once. She wished to give special interest to each spell individually, learning its ins and outs before moving on to something new. At this rate, it may take a while for her to learn to summon her first demon, she knew. She spread the flames to her other set of fingers and smiled at the display. Somehow, the cultist felt she could do without a demon for a while longer…
A sharp pain suddenly hit Anisse in her right forearm, making her gasp. She peered down at her arm, which now sported a lengthy tear down the sleeve, the edge of sharp metal having gashed her arm. Pain! She gasped aloud and grasped her arm, the sick-sweet sting of pain something rather sacred for one who felt little. Turning fully around, she was met with a hard knock on the head, cracking her nose, while a harsh kick drew the air out from her lungs, and sent her backward, falling. Her eyes squeezed shut as more glorious pain raced down the bridge of her nose, feeling herself land upon the moist grass, her cowl sliding back off of her head. When her vision cleared, she found the bandit leering over her threateningly, his dagger weaving in his hand. His dark eyes squinted, scheming behind the red mask.
Where the Nether did he come from?
Coughing, Anisse looked up at her assailant. He was most assuredly used to begging, fear, or retaliation. From the blinking, she assumed he wasn’t used to seeing a victim smile. Did he not know the glory of pain? Quite frankly, he’d surprised her with the assault. The confusion was short-lived as the bandit’s eyes squinted again, angered by the woman’s smirk.
“I’ll cleave that smile from your face!” he snarled, and dove down upon her. The dagger plunged into Anisse’s belly, making her cry out with the intense wave of pain. Panting, Anisse was set upon the murderous bandit, who was now searching through her robes for valuables as she bled to death.
Was this how it was to end? Vandalized, perhaps violated by the bandit, by the look in his eyes, as she drew her last breath? Something about his invading eyes rubbed her the wrong way, and despite the pain burning in her insides, the woman obeyed the urge to rebuke him, and fight. The slender fingers emerged from her burnt away gloves to clutch to the bandit’s face, covering his eyes, nose and mouth. Before he could strike again with the dagger, her hand erupted in fire as it clutched to his face.
The scream that followed brought that wayward smile back to Anisse’s lips.
She could smell his burning flesh as his face burnt to the color of flaked charcoal, the fel magic having intensified the spell’s effect in increments. Falling upon the ground, his face smoked as he rolled, leaving the assailant blind and scarred. Ah, how he wept. Bits of red cloth were permanently seared into his face as well, and this sent a wave of pride through Anisse, making the pain of her own wound lessen. The spell had worked beautifully.
It could be her last breath spent admiring her work, after all.
Anisse closed her eyes, listening to the whimpering of her companion. There was no pain now, but his. Her breath began to halt, surely she was a mess by now, blood everywhere, her life feeding the grass. Then came the tingling sensation of…something? She opened her eyes to find a woman dressed in white, trimmed in violet. A light glow was around the healer’s hands, and it took only a mere flick of the mysterious fingers before she began to feel the wounds close.
“You may rise. You are safe.”
The woman had a deep, intense voice, her eyes the color of moonlight dancing upon water. Long ears swayed back from her head, leaving a crown of long, violet hair to fall down her back and shoulders. Even her very skin was a dusky violet. Anisse had seen such a creature before, some as old as the land itself. What things might they have seen in their long lives? She watched as the night elf bent to lower a hand, and it was taken silently, the cowl put back into place over her head.
“I am…much obliged.”
“Elune be with you,” was the simple and quick response. At once, the elf was engulfed in shadows, the aura lining her slender body. It startled Anisse at first, and then she couldn’t help but watch the female walk off on her own, following the pathway back to the city. What a small, strange encounter. She wondered, why in the depths of her heart, the elf had chosen to save her. There was a gratitude that filled Anisse, and even a soft spot for the one who would be her savior, the silent, tall one.
As the cowled woman turned her eyes upon the scarred bandit who had attacked her, what softness she felt went hard, and cold as ice. The man could hear her footfalls, hear the sound of the grass crushing under her approach. He shivered upon the ground, his head tossing all around, seeing nothing with his eyeballs seared to his sockets. A whimper sounded from him as he heard next the shift of the folds of a robe.
“You have something I want.”
The soft breath of words against his ear was replaced by the sound of his own blood-curdling scream.
None would come to help him now.
Very empty jars.
Anisse walked along with a heavy heart, drifting through the backwoods of Elwynn Forest. Her jars sat in that cold, stone room, with nothing to warm them. She relied on the collected succubus heart to do just that, actually, as she couldn’t figure out what in the Nether should actually be put into them. Luring random people into the Slaughtered Lamb’s basement seemed to be dangerous business, as many others used it. Being walked in on while she was eviscerating a corpse was not a plan of hers, and asking the bartender to attach a closing time to the Lamb might be something like asking the man to cut off his own arm for her sake.
After the messy business with the gnome captive, the Lamb seemed off-limits as a “work site”.
Flicking her fingers as she walked, she practiced summoning the magical fire to her fingertips again and again, watching the orange flames line her gloves. The fire burnt through the cotton little by little, tearing through the threads the longer she left it burning. It was an interesting spell, but she’d been careful learning too much at once. She wished to give special interest to each spell individually, learning its ins and outs before moving on to something new. At this rate, it may take a while for her to learn to summon her first demon, she knew. She spread the flames to her other set of fingers and smiled at the display. Somehow, the cultist felt she could do without a demon for a while longer…
A sharp pain suddenly hit Anisse in her right forearm, making her gasp. She peered down at her arm, which now sported a lengthy tear down the sleeve, the edge of sharp metal having gashed her arm. Pain! She gasped aloud and grasped her arm, the sick-sweet sting of pain something rather sacred for one who felt little. Turning fully around, she was met with a hard knock on the head, cracking her nose, while a harsh kick drew the air out from her lungs, and sent her backward, falling. Her eyes squeezed shut as more glorious pain raced down the bridge of her nose, feeling herself land upon the moist grass, her cowl sliding back off of her head. When her vision cleared, she found the bandit leering over her threateningly, his dagger weaving in his hand. His dark eyes squinted, scheming behind the red mask.
Where the Nether did he come from?
Coughing, Anisse looked up at her assailant. He was most assuredly used to begging, fear, or retaliation. From the blinking, she assumed he wasn’t used to seeing a victim smile. Did he not know the glory of pain? Quite frankly, he’d surprised her with the assault. The confusion was short-lived as the bandit’s eyes squinted again, angered by the woman’s smirk.
“I’ll cleave that smile from your face!” he snarled, and dove down upon her. The dagger plunged into Anisse’s belly, making her cry out with the intense wave of pain. Panting, Anisse was set upon the murderous bandit, who was now searching through her robes for valuables as she bled to death.
Was this how it was to end? Vandalized, perhaps violated by the bandit, by the look in his eyes, as she drew her last breath? Something about his invading eyes rubbed her the wrong way, and despite the pain burning in her insides, the woman obeyed the urge to rebuke him, and fight. The slender fingers emerged from her burnt away gloves to clutch to the bandit’s face, covering his eyes, nose and mouth. Before he could strike again with the dagger, her hand erupted in fire as it clutched to his face.
The scream that followed brought that wayward smile back to Anisse’s lips.
She could smell his burning flesh as his face burnt to the color of flaked charcoal, the fel magic having intensified the spell’s effect in increments. Falling upon the ground, his face smoked as he rolled, leaving the assailant blind and scarred. Ah, how he wept. Bits of red cloth were permanently seared into his face as well, and this sent a wave of pride through Anisse, making the pain of her own wound lessen. The spell had worked beautifully.
It could be her last breath spent admiring her work, after all.
Anisse closed her eyes, listening to the whimpering of her companion. There was no pain now, but his. Her breath began to halt, surely she was a mess by now, blood everywhere, her life feeding the grass. Then came the tingling sensation of…something? She opened her eyes to find a woman dressed in white, trimmed in violet. A light glow was around the healer’s hands, and it took only a mere flick of the mysterious fingers before she began to feel the wounds close.
“You may rise. You are safe.”
The woman had a deep, intense voice, her eyes the color of moonlight dancing upon water. Long ears swayed back from her head, leaving a crown of long, violet hair to fall down her back and shoulders. Even her very skin was a dusky violet. Anisse had seen such a creature before, some as old as the land itself. What things might they have seen in their long lives? She watched as the night elf bent to lower a hand, and it was taken silently, the cowl put back into place over her head.
“I am…much obliged.”
“Elune be with you,” was the simple and quick response. At once, the elf was engulfed in shadows, the aura lining her slender body. It startled Anisse at first, and then she couldn’t help but watch the female walk off on her own, following the pathway back to the city. What a small, strange encounter. She wondered, why in the depths of her heart, the elf had chosen to save her. There was a gratitude that filled Anisse, and even a soft spot for the one who would be her savior, the silent, tall one.
As the cowled woman turned her eyes upon the scarred bandit who had attacked her, what softness she felt went hard, and cold as ice. The man could hear her footfalls, hear the sound of the grass crushing under her approach. He shivered upon the ground, his head tossing all around, seeing nothing with his eyeballs seared to his sockets. A whimper sounded from him as he heard next the shift of the folds of a robe.
“You have something I want.”
The soft breath of words against his ear was replaced by the sound of his own blood-curdling scream.
None would come to help him now.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Patron of the Lamb #6
Another day at the Slaughtered Lamb closed as morning light touched the courtyard, lifting the veil of night from the entrance of the mysterious tavern. Chairs closed near the table and the bartender yawned, a wet rag held in his right hand. With a toss, the wet rag went into a bin behind him, splashing water in a spike over the cleaned wood. His boots loose and untied, Jarol Moor waltzed over to the back of his tavern, where his more permanent patrons stood down below. On down he walked through the twisting corridor, unlatching a torch on the way. It was abysmally chilly in the lower levels.
“Oy!” he called out, stretching his neck around the large bonfire in the center of the room. The warlock masters spread slightly, some nodding silently in greeting, some rolling their eyes instead. At least one was still stumbling hazily, an empty tankard attached to her hand. They must have had quite the drinking party the night through. Gakin the Darkbinder eyed the bartender from his corner, and a smile turned his lips beneath his thick black mustache.
“Did they leave?” was the question from the elder Master. All eyes were upon Jarol now.
“You chased them right out, sir. Didn’t even stay by to drink in some ale!” A laugh heaved from the bartender, the bonfire flickering.
“Ah well. Make sure to send a message to our contacts, Mr. Moor. Tell them our end of the bargain is completed. If the Cathedral wishes to send their dogs to fraternize with a spy, there is nothing more that can be done. They can take care of the matter, far as I’m concerned.”
“Really now? Haha, duly noted.”
“At least he took care of the damned succubus.” Gakin sighed deeply, straightening the tethers of his robes. “I’ll need the lower catacombs left alone for the next…hour perhaps, Mr. Moor.” His grin seemed like a sliver of ivory against his dark skin. “Put the inconvenience on our tab, as always.”
“I only live to serve, Gent,” Jarol chuckled, his eyes darting to the back of the den.
Down below a floor, where Jarol’s eyes could not see, the neonate warlock put a care into her task. The withered remains of the Game Master’s victims burned now, providing the deeper catacombs with an eerier light than usual. Anisse shook her head: what a waste! The organs in all of the bodies had been useless, with no point in salvaging anything. Having torn the wings off of the demon's corpse, she smiled as they lay up against a fresh coffin--such lovely leather wings they were.
A slip of her fingers, and fire leapt from the "cleaner's" hands, burning up the remains of the succubus. The creature's body contained a heart, which she now admired through bloodied glass. The heart was of a unique shape, and hot to the touch: it had sizzled when she put it into the jar's solution. It seemed to glow now, even through the jar and it's liquids, and an otherworldly heat even warming the glass itself. Such things should be put on display, Anisse thought, for all to see.
Unfortunately, such things weren’t meant for everyone’s eyes.
Opening one of the crates locked into the darkest area of the crypts, Anisse smiled upon her treasures: five large jars containing perfectly preserved human organs. Laying the newest addition into the nestled crate, she eyed the other glass jars and sighed contently. Cleaning up the catacombs all night had been worth it after all.
Then, Anisse noticed something off about the jars.
The glass was opaque, and she could no longer see the trophy organs behind the glass. Her lips twitching into a frown, she took a jar into her hands, and opened it slowly.
Dust.
The jar was filled with nothing…but dust.
Every bit of thick control she had over herself came crashing down as she spilled out the white, dried remains from the jar onto the crypt floor. Now the second, the third jar, all spilled out as white dust. By the fifth jar, Anisse was weeping steadily behind her cowl. All her work, her precious trophies, the beautiful pieces of flesh….gone. She took the succubus heart, and hugged its jar to her chest, rocking back and forth on the ground, trying to figure out what had happened. It had been the right measure of formaldehyde, hadn’t it? Teary eyes peered around the catacombs as she went over measurements in her mind. Then, something clicked, and her body froze in realization.
The paladin.
The whirring aura of his consecration spell purified all of her precious trophies.
In silence, Anisse rose up off the crypt floor, the useless remains like sand poured around her feet. Her small boots crushed through the jar’s mess as she walked through, looking straight up the steps that lead to the next level. There was a solution to all this, even without one to play the game with anymore.
Anisse would have to kill, and harvest on her own.
“Oy!” he called out, stretching his neck around the large bonfire in the center of the room. The warlock masters spread slightly, some nodding silently in greeting, some rolling their eyes instead. At least one was still stumbling hazily, an empty tankard attached to her hand. They must have had quite the drinking party the night through. Gakin the Darkbinder eyed the bartender from his corner, and a smile turned his lips beneath his thick black mustache.
“Did they leave?” was the question from the elder Master. All eyes were upon Jarol now.
“You chased them right out, sir. Didn’t even stay by to drink in some ale!” A laugh heaved from the bartender, the bonfire flickering.
“Ah well. Make sure to send a message to our contacts, Mr. Moor. Tell them our end of the bargain is completed. If the Cathedral wishes to send their dogs to fraternize with a spy, there is nothing more that can be done. They can take care of the matter, far as I’m concerned.”
“Really now? Haha, duly noted.”
“At least he took care of the damned succubus.” Gakin sighed deeply, straightening the tethers of his robes. “I’ll need the lower catacombs left alone for the next…hour perhaps, Mr. Moor.” His grin seemed like a sliver of ivory against his dark skin. “Put the inconvenience on our tab, as always.”
“I only live to serve, Gent,” Jarol chuckled, his eyes darting to the back of the den.
Down below a floor, where Jarol’s eyes could not see, the neonate warlock put a care into her task. The withered remains of the Game Master’s victims burned now, providing the deeper catacombs with an eerier light than usual. Anisse shook her head: what a waste! The organs in all of the bodies had been useless, with no point in salvaging anything. Having torn the wings off of the demon's corpse, she smiled as they lay up against a fresh coffin--such lovely leather wings they were.
A slip of her fingers, and fire leapt from the "cleaner's" hands, burning up the remains of the succubus. The creature's body contained a heart, which she now admired through bloodied glass. The heart was of a unique shape, and hot to the touch: it had sizzled when she put it into the jar's solution. It seemed to glow now, even through the jar and it's liquids, and an otherworldly heat even warming the glass itself. Such things should be put on display, Anisse thought, for all to see.
Unfortunately, such things weren’t meant for everyone’s eyes.
Opening one of the crates locked into the darkest area of the crypts, Anisse smiled upon her treasures: five large jars containing perfectly preserved human organs. Laying the newest addition into the nestled crate, she eyed the other glass jars and sighed contently. Cleaning up the catacombs all night had been worth it after all.
Then, Anisse noticed something off about the jars.
The glass was opaque, and she could no longer see the trophy organs behind the glass. Her lips twitching into a frown, she took a jar into her hands, and opened it slowly.
Dust.
The jar was filled with nothing…but dust.
Every bit of thick control she had over herself came crashing down as she spilled out the white, dried remains from the jar onto the crypt floor. Now the second, the third jar, all spilled out as white dust. By the fifth jar, Anisse was weeping steadily behind her cowl. All her work, her precious trophies, the beautiful pieces of flesh….gone. She took the succubus heart, and hugged its jar to her chest, rocking back and forth on the ground, trying to figure out what had happened. It had been the right measure of formaldehyde, hadn’t it? Teary eyes peered around the catacombs as she went over measurements in her mind. Then, something clicked, and her body froze in realization.
The paladin.
The whirring aura of his consecration spell purified all of her precious trophies.
In silence, Anisse rose up off the crypt floor, the useless remains like sand poured around her feet. Her small boots crushed through the jar’s mess as she walked through, looking straight up the steps that lead to the next level. There was a solution to all this, even without one to play the game with anymore.
Anisse would have to kill, and harvest on her own.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #5
It was a game, she knew. Someone was toying with her, leading her down the twisting ramp below the Lamb, into the Demon’s Maw that was the warlock’s haven. Curious glances were directed her way as her vision adjusted, and she took a step nearer, uncertain. There was no sign of the flighty demon summoner, or her consort. It had buzzed at her nerves since she glimpsed the woman, hearing the summoner laugh and flirt along, knowing quite well that that woman couldn’t do much of anything along those lines. Not when most of her organs had been removed, and she had been stuffed inside of a wooden coffin. Undead, perhaps? No, that couldn’t be right. Anisse had heard stories of reanimated, shambling bodies, and they didn’t quite seem like a pretty sight.
Yet the lovely summoner had passed through, living, breathing, and with a mate, or something of the sort. What was she? Demon summoner? Sorcerer? Harlot? Perhaps a combination of the three? She shouldn’t have been alive! The mystery grabbed a hold of the former cultist, and wouldn’t let go. More playful, womanly giggles echoed down the basement of the Lamb, and Anisse sought out the sound on the other side of the bonfire. Staring down the darker corridor that lead further down into the catacombs, she imagined for a moment, those quiet rushes of voices spilling from an unseen mouth, pleading for release.
“Yes, they went down there,” came the deep, unsettling voice of Gakin the Darkbinder, startling Anisse. His dark skin stretched as he smiled thinly, tightly, his mustache tickling his upper lip. “Take care of that, will you? We don’t wish for any…trouble. Or a mess.”
Gakin’s thick, deep laugh followed her down into the womb of the catacombs. They were using her, of course. These were the trivial tasks she was used to, since arriving in the Lamb, the tasks everyone else was too “above” doing. In so many ways, she was reminded of her time among the Twilight’s. Never was she elevated to a higher standard, but she never complained, never envied those above her. Anisse knew where her place was, as she did now. Her place was to figure out the game, and how to play among the scurrying shadows in the dark.
And how they scurried…
A thin, nasal giggle melted into a sigh, somewhere in the catacombs. Turning a corner, she found the scurrying players of the game. Anisse shifted against the wall, flattening herself against it on the stair as she watched. There across the hallway, the female stood with her ensnared suitor against the stony surface, her bosom almost spilling out of her bodice. Unintelligible whispers caressed the air around the male as the harlot leaned against him, making him shiver. The man seemed to be melting under the sorceress’s touch quickly. He sucked in a breath, an intense groan breaking the unearthly quiet of the catacombs. He was quite aroused.
This was a ritual Anisse did not understand, the act of mating. Nor did she ever wish to understand it, as it was never an act studied within her encampment. Nor were such things allowed for those within her rank. She understood intimacy, certainly. The mind melds between a cultist and that which he or she summoned were often intense and spiritual in a sense. Yet, a shared physical intimacy served as an unwanted distraction for all cultists, for the most devout Twilights knew where their attentions should be. Watching the pretense to the act now, Anisse suddenly felt thankful that she never was formally introduced to it.
It was enough to make her turn away, and start a walk back up the steps, despite the absurdity of the demon summoner being alive. Silently, she started the trek back up, when a choked gasp sliced through the stiff air. A deep sigh left her. Did she really have to look? She really didn’t want to see any of this personal business. Her head turned slowly, hesitantly, spying the lovers. Locked together in a passionate kiss, the two were entwined…with a stream of energies passing between their bodies. A magical transfer? Annise looked on more intently, fascinated. A change seemed to sift through the dead sorceress, the coppery curls dissolving into midnight black hair, great black horns driving upwards from her head. Ahh, it all made sense now—a glamour spell! The demon had taken on the form of the summoner it had killed those days ago.
Not that the armored man would notice, as he was busy convulsing against the wall, his eyelids flickering.
She wished to watch now, watch this kill, as she had watched the demon kill the woman she impersonated. How long would it take for the life to drain from his body? How strong was this creature? Already, his cheeks began to sallow, eyes rolling back into his head. It certainly would not be long now. Yet the entranced victim seemed to struggle within, summoning a heroic will to fight off the magic. Perhaps he could withstand this creature’s assault? Anisse watched, her heart thrumming in her chest.
For a reason unknown, the hooded figure scraped her boots upon the stone, and stepped out into the torch lit hallway.
The demon drew back from dark-armored male, leaving him slumped against the stony wall as Anisse made her presence known. The creature’s grin gleamed stark white in the darkness, spotting the onlooker. The alluring creature was speaking now, her voice drifting through the hallway to her ears in sultry, elegant tones. It was a tongue Anisse could not understand, yet this creature seemed to understand her actions more fully than she did herself. A thin, taloned finger pointed to her in the low, cold light, even as the demon began to disappear, melding into the dark. She was left standing, peering down at the incapacitated man, thick black hair resting over his eyes. Already, his head began to nod, his enchanted fog beginning to clear. It wouldn’t be long before he would be cognizant. Ah, the game. She understood it, as she looked down upon the victim, and at the coffins around her.
Now, would she play, or wouldn’t she?
Yet the lovely summoner had passed through, living, breathing, and with a mate, or something of the sort. What was she? Demon summoner? Sorcerer? Harlot? Perhaps a combination of the three? She shouldn’t have been alive! The mystery grabbed a hold of the former cultist, and wouldn’t let go. More playful, womanly giggles echoed down the basement of the Lamb, and Anisse sought out the sound on the other side of the bonfire. Staring down the darker corridor that lead further down into the catacombs, she imagined for a moment, those quiet rushes of voices spilling from an unseen mouth, pleading for release.
“Yes, they went down there,” came the deep, unsettling voice of Gakin the Darkbinder, startling Anisse. His dark skin stretched as he smiled thinly, tightly, his mustache tickling his upper lip. “Take care of that, will you? We don’t wish for any…trouble. Or a mess.”
Gakin’s thick, deep laugh followed her down into the womb of the catacombs. They were using her, of course. These were the trivial tasks she was used to, since arriving in the Lamb, the tasks everyone else was too “above” doing. In so many ways, she was reminded of her time among the Twilight’s. Never was she elevated to a higher standard, but she never complained, never envied those above her. Anisse knew where her place was, as she did now. Her place was to figure out the game, and how to play among the scurrying shadows in the dark.
And how they scurried…
A thin, nasal giggle melted into a sigh, somewhere in the catacombs. Turning a corner, she found the scurrying players of the game. Anisse shifted against the wall, flattening herself against it on the stair as she watched. There across the hallway, the female stood with her ensnared suitor against the stony surface, her bosom almost spilling out of her bodice. Unintelligible whispers caressed the air around the male as the harlot leaned against him, making him shiver. The man seemed to be melting under the sorceress’s touch quickly. He sucked in a breath, an intense groan breaking the unearthly quiet of the catacombs. He was quite aroused.
This was a ritual Anisse did not understand, the act of mating. Nor did she ever wish to understand it, as it was never an act studied within her encampment. Nor were such things allowed for those within her rank. She understood intimacy, certainly. The mind melds between a cultist and that which he or she summoned were often intense and spiritual in a sense. Yet, a shared physical intimacy served as an unwanted distraction for all cultists, for the most devout Twilights knew where their attentions should be. Watching the pretense to the act now, Anisse suddenly felt thankful that she never was formally introduced to it.
It was enough to make her turn away, and start a walk back up the steps, despite the absurdity of the demon summoner being alive. Silently, she started the trek back up, when a choked gasp sliced through the stiff air. A deep sigh left her. Did she really have to look? She really didn’t want to see any of this personal business. Her head turned slowly, hesitantly, spying the lovers. Locked together in a passionate kiss, the two were entwined…with a stream of energies passing between their bodies. A magical transfer? Annise looked on more intently, fascinated. A change seemed to sift through the dead sorceress, the coppery curls dissolving into midnight black hair, great black horns driving upwards from her head. Ahh, it all made sense now—a glamour spell! The demon had taken on the form of the summoner it had killed those days ago.
Not that the armored man would notice, as he was busy convulsing against the wall, his eyelids flickering.
She wished to watch now, watch this kill, as she had watched the demon kill the woman she impersonated. How long would it take for the life to drain from his body? How strong was this creature? Already, his cheeks began to sallow, eyes rolling back into his head. It certainly would not be long now. Yet the entranced victim seemed to struggle within, summoning a heroic will to fight off the magic. Perhaps he could withstand this creature’s assault? Anisse watched, her heart thrumming in her chest.
For a reason unknown, the hooded figure scraped her boots upon the stone, and stepped out into the torch lit hallway.
The demon drew back from dark-armored male, leaving him slumped against the stony wall as Anisse made her presence known. The creature’s grin gleamed stark white in the darkness, spotting the onlooker. The alluring creature was speaking now, her voice drifting through the hallway to her ears in sultry, elegant tones. It was a tongue Anisse could not understand, yet this creature seemed to understand her actions more fully than she did herself. A thin, taloned finger pointed to her in the low, cold light, even as the demon began to disappear, melding into the dark. She was left standing, peering down at the incapacitated man, thick black hair resting over his eyes. Already, his head began to nod, his enchanted fog beginning to clear. It wouldn’t be long before he would be cognizant. Ah, the game. She understood it, as she looked down upon the victim, and at the coffins around her.
Now, would she play, or wouldn’t she?
A Patron of the Lamb #4
“You will not find what you are searching for here, my child.”
The gentle voice of the old man was forced, insincere. Scratchy gray eyebrows furrowed deeply in a creased face, his lips trying not to curl into a sneer. Did these “priests” not teach the manipulation of shadow energies? Perhaps it was her wording of the question. Or perhaps the old bishop’s unwillingness to help came from something…deeper. His wall of faith was tall and strong, like the opulent walls of his place of worship. She could see that he never dared to look beyond it, from the impatient breath he drew. The longer Anisse stood there, staring at him from behind her shadowy cowl, the more she could feel his mask of humility crack, little by little. Amusing little man.
No, she would not find what she was looking for here.
Anisse passed like a phantom back down the sloping steps, eager to get away from the grand Cathedral of Light. If the gold spent to beautify its arching walls might be put instead to the rest of the city, she thought Stormwind might have been in better shape. She was used to far less accomadating situations in any case, like the “grandeur” of a small tent and blankets. Still, the feeling of the cold ground of the catacombs in the Slaughtered Lamb was more comforting than the rented out rooms and their beds. She slowly climbed up the ramp to the tavern and entered, nodding toward Jarel once.
“Ah. Another bowl of stew?” The bartender was already preparing a bowl, a spoon. Anisse waved him off quickly, and the wooden bowl and spoon disappeared beneath the countertop. She slid into her wooden chair, her back turned to the rest of the empty tavern, the book slipping from her arms and opening onto the table. She’d at last passed through the chapters that made her feel like an idiot child intending on writing an essay on the demonic arts. Diagrams and the descriptions of basic spells filled the current chapter, and she was pleased. Somewhat. She would have to put these spells to the test. Feeling the surge of magic through her fingertips would teach her more than these words could ever say. There would be no reagent gathering for this “imp”? She let herself relax in her chair, hearing the wood creak lightly as she moved, finding the ragged tome interesting finally.
Then came the sound of obnoxious, whispery giggling.
Anisse glanced behind her as the giggling grew louder, also accompanied by the creak of heavy armor. Her head rose enough to spot the two that had entered, the male in his dark plate, a woman tucked against him. There was an aura of cold about the tall male, as if his armor was stung with a sheet of thin ice. Jarel was quick to offer them services, and Anisse was quick to get back to her reading. Flattening the pages of her book, the hooded woman sighed, blotting out the sound of their conversation as best she could. Focusing on a spell listing, she ran her finger under its description. Corruption: Inflicts a curse of shadow energy onto the proposed target, corrupting the body and eating away at its life forces for an allotted amount of time. The spell is best used in conjuction with fear, or while the target is focused upon a de—
The table rattled as the armored man took a seat, the woman he came in with still hooked to his side. At her table. Anisse didn’t bother to look up and acknowledge the stranger, but she could tell his icy glance was upon her.
“I am looking for someone. Maybe you can help me?” the man started, a strange echo following his voice. It caught her attention, the disembodied sound. Yet, it still did not convince her to look upon him. A look would entail a welcome to sit.
“Doubtful,” Anisse spoke lowly, flipping another page of her tome with emphasis. Apparently he didn’t get the hint, for the man continued asking questions about nothing she knew about. He seemed convinced she knew the answers, or that he had known her from somewhere. After trite, one worded answers, Anisse excused herself from the table, letting out a deep sigh.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you. Go away,” she spoke hollowly, already irritated that she had to leave her seat. More whispering from the lewd woman clinging to his arm, and the table rattled again as they rose together. Finally, a prelude to peace and quiet. She glanced their way as the two moved to the back of the tavern, the woman’s skirts brushing the wooden floorboards as she sashayed alongside the armored man. Anisse glanced harder now as the two slipped down the twisting ramp that lead down the basement. The last of the woman’s coppery curls disappeared as the two went past her vision. She knew that woman.
Anisse had her heart in a jar downstairs.
The gentle voice of the old man was forced, insincere. Scratchy gray eyebrows furrowed deeply in a creased face, his lips trying not to curl into a sneer. Did these “priests” not teach the manipulation of shadow energies? Perhaps it was her wording of the question. Or perhaps the old bishop’s unwillingness to help came from something…deeper. His wall of faith was tall and strong, like the opulent walls of his place of worship. She could see that he never dared to look beyond it, from the impatient breath he drew. The longer Anisse stood there, staring at him from behind her shadowy cowl, the more she could feel his mask of humility crack, little by little. Amusing little man.
No, she would not find what she was looking for here.
Anisse passed like a phantom back down the sloping steps, eager to get away from the grand Cathedral of Light. If the gold spent to beautify its arching walls might be put instead to the rest of the city, she thought Stormwind might have been in better shape. She was used to far less accomadating situations in any case, like the “grandeur” of a small tent and blankets. Still, the feeling of the cold ground of the catacombs in the Slaughtered Lamb was more comforting than the rented out rooms and their beds. She slowly climbed up the ramp to the tavern and entered, nodding toward Jarel once.
“Ah. Another bowl of stew?” The bartender was already preparing a bowl, a spoon. Anisse waved him off quickly, and the wooden bowl and spoon disappeared beneath the countertop. She slid into her wooden chair, her back turned to the rest of the empty tavern, the book slipping from her arms and opening onto the table. She’d at last passed through the chapters that made her feel like an idiot child intending on writing an essay on the demonic arts. Diagrams and the descriptions of basic spells filled the current chapter, and she was pleased. Somewhat. She would have to put these spells to the test. Feeling the surge of magic through her fingertips would teach her more than these words could ever say. There would be no reagent gathering for this “imp”? She let herself relax in her chair, hearing the wood creak lightly as she moved, finding the ragged tome interesting finally.
Then came the sound of obnoxious, whispery giggling.
Anisse glanced behind her as the giggling grew louder, also accompanied by the creak of heavy armor. Her head rose enough to spot the two that had entered, the male in his dark plate, a woman tucked against him. There was an aura of cold about the tall male, as if his armor was stung with a sheet of thin ice. Jarel was quick to offer them services, and Anisse was quick to get back to her reading. Flattening the pages of her book, the hooded woman sighed, blotting out the sound of their conversation as best she could. Focusing on a spell listing, she ran her finger under its description. Corruption: Inflicts a curse of shadow energy onto the proposed target, corrupting the body and eating away at its life forces for an allotted amount of time. The spell is best used in conjuction with fear, or while the target is focused upon a de—
The table rattled as the armored man took a seat, the woman he came in with still hooked to his side. At her table. Anisse didn’t bother to look up and acknowledge the stranger, but she could tell his icy glance was upon her.
“I am looking for someone. Maybe you can help me?” the man started, a strange echo following his voice. It caught her attention, the disembodied sound. Yet, it still did not convince her to look upon him. A look would entail a welcome to sit.
“Doubtful,” Anisse spoke lowly, flipping another page of her tome with emphasis. Apparently he didn’t get the hint, for the man continued asking questions about nothing she knew about. He seemed convinced she knew the answers, or that he had known her from somewhere. After trite, one worded answers, Anisse excused herself from the table, letting out a deep sigh.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you. Go away,” she spoke hollowly, already irritated that she had to leave her seat. More whispering from the lewd woman clinging to his arm, and the table rattled again as they rose together. Finally, a prelude to peace and quiet. She glanced their way as the two moved to the back of the tavern, the woman’s skirts brushing the wooden floorboards as she sashayed alongside the armored man. Anisse glanced harder now as the two slipped down the twisting ramp that lead down the basement. The last of the woman’s coppery curls disappeared as the two went past her vision. She knew that woman.
Anisse had her heart in a jar downstairs.
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