The Stormwind Stockades was in more of an uproar than usual, the guards finding their ‘charges’ to be even more desperate than before in trying to escape. News of a disease spread like wildfire among the brigands and thieves, and many already had succumbed, fighting off phantom shadows in their cramped cells. The mentally afflicted were rounded up, dragged out of their cells forcibly, their feet rapping against the stone, the dirt, the grout. Some begged to be left in their cells, while others begged to be carried away to die. It was a circus of chaos.
A pair of eyes looked up from the iron grate the prisoners were dragged over, creeping to spy upon the prisoners above her. Rats scurried out between the prison bars in her trap door, finding freedom. She was so quiet, most of the Guard had forgotten about her, forgotten to feed her, forgotten that she was there as the months went by. Long had they forgotten her little rat-bodied presents, impaled upon sharp rocks or rubble. Yet, she was there, all the same.
A forgotten killer.
(Two days later)
The murderess curled at the back of her underground cell, all too used to the smell of rotting rat bodies, of urine. She spent the whole of the day there searching the darkness with her eyes, trying to track the flickering rats that slipped in along the walls. They were getting good at hiding in those flickers of shadow. A wiggling shade danced on a ledge of particularly sharp rock, and she dashed her hand out to capture the rat, only to scrape her hand hard against the stone. She drew back, huddling back into her corner, and gave a small whimper of pain as she licked at the smidgeon of blood on the back of her hand.
They would come back. They always came back.
(Two more days)
She twitched out of a dreamless sleep, feverish. Something had woken her. What was it? A constant, thrumming sound. No….thumps. A thumping against the wall she rested against. Shifting in the dank darkness, she put her ear to the wall the thump-thump-thumping sound came from.
From within the rock, the mortar, she could hear it, and it made her tremble.
A heartbeat…
(A week…)
Her eyes ached from sleeplessness, but she ignored it as she ignored the stinging pain of her bleeding fingertips. She had to have it in her hands, had to rip it out of the rocky cavity it was trapped in, as she had done with so many others. It would be a worthy sacrifice to the Voice, and yes, oh yes, how her brethren would take her back into their circle. She would have a window’s view of the world on fire! A glorious death!
Yet, no matter how much she scratched at the stone and dirt, she was no closer to the heartbeat trapped within.
Ignored were the snickering shadowy apparitions around her. They could not stop her from trying.
(A week and a half)
There was no sound above her. No sound below her. The heavy, monotonous heartbeat was all she could hear, filling her ears. She stared unblinking upon the ebon black, shriveled heart that floated in the middle of the dungeon, now sharing her prison. It was roughly half her size, and it’s flesh rippled with each pump. It was a masterpiece.
And now, the moment of truth. The heart began to shrivel, and then expand. And there, there in the very center of the black flesh, an eyelid opened. A milky film covered the great eye, staring out into nothing at first. The prisoner’s hands squeezed so tightly around her body, feeling the dirt caking the fingers, the sediment ground into her skin. Anticipation rose in her, seeing the milky eye begin to clear, the wild unearthly iris beginning to focus, to see.
The scream begin to rise in her throat, malevolent laughter filling her head in place of steady, droning heartbeat.
‘I SEEEEEEEEEEE YOOUUUUUU…..’
Anisse bolted for the trap door, her scream ripping through the first few halves of the Stockades. She’d clawed the rough wood until her fingernails cracked before she was dragged out of the pit by a surprised guard, and still, her screaming would not cease.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Shaddap!” the guard bellowed, and threw her in with the others that were suffering the same mental disturbance.
“The darknesss knows my naaaameeee…..knows my nammmmme…..” the prisoner wailed back in retort, over and over, in different increments of tone and pitch.
“Get the mage down here to transport these rats to Dalaran! Pronto! Got to contain whatever this is now….nngh….” the barking guard held his carton mask close to his face, staring at the young woman as she began to return to shrieking.
“Which one is that one! What’s her name?” another guard asked, trying to talk over her screaming. The larger guard ended her endless vocal tirade with a heavy kick to the head.
“Hell if I know?! Get them out of here!”
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A Patron of the Lamb #31
Gray. Bland. Dirt, black as black. The space was small, where the murderer was contained, and this is all she saw. It was almost like her former “home”, deep within the cellars of the Slaughtered Lamb. Except people were shooting uncomfortable glances at her through the prison bars--yes the circus freak. Everyone stare and get your gold’s worth.
Or perhaps, it was the little collection of rat bodies she’d had spread out in front of her, splayed open, tiny organs painstakingly removed. Her nails had grown stubby, her fingers raw in scratching out sharp pieces of sediment in the stone wall to practice on her little “friends”.
Days went by, Perhaps. How was she to know the turning of the day and night in this place? Time passed, she at least knew that, and the longer it passed, the less and less she was left with medical inquisitions, with crude remarks, or with threats. In time, no one cared enough to ask their questions, and she might be left with a meal a day. Some days, she was forgotten. There were more important things to deal with in the city of Stormwind than one piece of filth isolated from the rest of society. Anisse came to appreciate the silence. And when she could not bear the silence, there were always the terrified squeaks of rats to occupy her.
Yet, in all the days she had stared into the bland gray stone of the wall, the young prisoner that none would confront received a visitor.
The iron bars of the prison screeched across the dirty stone floor, and the captive flinched, curling up into her corner. After an exchange of whispers, a figure stepped in to the open prison door, and it was shut behind him slowly, again grating against the floor. The lamplight by wish he used to alleviate the darkness was blinding, and she cursed aloud as it shone down upon her.
“You look terrible,” came the soft voice of a male, and indeed, she did. Not that she cared what she looked like. But the smell of feces could choke most people in that prison.
“Die in a fire.” It was her only response, and one would wonder if it was directed to the dark figure, or the lamplight that so assaulted her senses. There was no magic she could hope to use to put out the light here, however, and her quiet voice did not back the threat--or insult. She peeked out of her loose hair, the dirty mahogany strands shielding her just a bit against the light’s full intensity.
“You know who I am, Anna?” The voice was too soft, too weak, but recognizable. All too recognizable.
“Yes. And you can leave now,” she said dully. A squeak rang off in the dark as a rat was caught in one of her traps--one that a passing nurse had initially left, taking pity upon the prisoner. Anna scrambled to it immediately. They were always best to operate on while still warm.
“Then…then you know I can’t do that,” the man’s voice seemed to take on a pitying turn, but she did not respond, much too concentrated on whatever she might be doing in the corner of her prison. He swallowed hard in the awkward silence, hearing the sound of scraping, of flesh being torn into. “…Anna. What the hell…”
The body of the rat slid out into the light of the lamp, its tiny intestines pulled out, and wrapped around its head like a funeral shroud. He could hear the spiteful grin in the sound of his sister’s voice: “I’ve been practicing. Quicker now, isn’t it, brother?”
“S--stop it. Anna…”
“I bet I could eviscerate a human in all of five minutes now, depending on what it is I wanted. What do you th--”
Quintin bolted forth from his chair and kicked away the damn rat, and smashed the rest of her “collection” into the stony floor, ruining them. His amber eyes were on the young woman as she slammed herself against the prison wall, silenced. But he was already angry.
“Do you know what I had to do to keep you alive in here, Anna?! What…what you did to that family..? Took up the rest of the Handhour fortune, paying off their heartache. Hhh…” He slammed his hand against the prison bar, staring out through them now. “Not that anything could pay off murder. Seems there’s mercy for crazy people in the world after all.” He glanced back at Anisse painfully. “I gave up everything to keep you safe. And you’re in here killing rats. So much for saving our family name, eh? Mother would be so proud.
A soft scoffing sound came from the woman in the corner, but otherwise she was silent. Quintin’s hands came then, jostling her as he dragged her up to her feet. He shook his young sister violently, forcing her to look upon the miserable man she had turned him into. Indeed, he had not eaten in days, his breath sour with whiskey.
“We…we can make this right, Anna. I can fix this, make you all…better again. Let me help you, please!” Despite her small protests, her wriggles, Quintin pawed at her face, trying to brush the mess of dark, tangled hair away from her so he could look fully upon her. Somewhere, here, there was his sister, right?! “Remember the stables? The gardens? We can rebuild it all, and I’ll take care of you, Anna, like I used to. Just let me--”
With all the strength she had left in her, Anisse raked her red fingers across his face, trying to drive him away, push. He’d let go of her finally, letting her drop back into the dark corner that had become her friend. Her legs dragged up against herself, she rocked in place, staring at nothing but the inky blackness around her.
Wordless, her brother left her there again, with a slam of the prison door. Once again, Anisse was abandoned like a well-used rag doll.
Once again, alone.
Or perhaps, it was the little collection of rat bodies she’d had spread out in front of her, splayed open, tiny organs painstakingly removed. Her nails had grown stubby, her fingers raw in scratching out sharp pieces of sediment in the stone wall to practice on her little “friends”.
Days went by, Perhaps. How was she to know the turning of the day and night in this place? Time passed, she at least knew that, and the longer it passed, the less and less she was left with medical inquisitions, with crude remarks, or with threats. In time, no one cared enough to ask their questions, and she might be left with a meal a day. Some days, she was forgotten. There were more important things to deal with in the city of Stormwind than one piece of filth isolated from the rest of society. Anisse came to appreciate the silence. And when she could not bear the silence, there were always the terrified squeaks of rats to occupy her.
Yet, in all the days she had stared into the bland gray stone of the wall, the young prisoner that none would confront received a visitor.
The iron bars of the prison screeched across the dirty stone floor, and the captive flinched, curling up into her corner. After an exchange of whispers, a figure stepped in to the open prison door, and it was shut behind him slowly, again grating against the floor. The lamplight by wish he used to alleviate the darkness was blinding, and she cursed aloud as it shone down upon her.
“You look terrible,” came the soft voice of a male, and indeed, she did. Not that she cared what she looked like. But the smell of feces could choke most people in that prison.
“Die in a fire.” It was her only response, and one would wonder if it was directed to the dark figure, or the lamplight that so assaulted her senses. There was no magic she could hope to use to put out the light here, however, and her quiet voice did not back the threat--or insult. She peeked out of her loose hair, the dirty mahogany strands shielding her just a bit against the light’s full intensity.
“You know who I am, Anna?” The voice was too soft, too weak, but recognizable. All too recognizable.
“Yes. And you can leave now,” she said dully. A squeak rang off in the dark as a rat was caught in one of her traps--one that a passing nurse had initially left, taking pity upon the prisoner. Anna scrambled to it immediately. They were always best to operate on while still warm.
“Then…then you know I can’t do that,” the man’s voice seemed to take on a pitying turn, but she did not respond, much too concentrated on whatever she might be doing in the corner of her prison. He swallowed hard in the awkward silence, hearing the sound of scraping, of flesh being torn into. “…Anna. What the hell…”
The body of the rat slid out into the light of the lamp, its tiny intestines pulled out, and wrapped around its head like a funeral shroud. He could hear the spiteful grin in the sound of his sister’s voice: “I’ve been practicing. Quicker now, isn’t it, brother?”
“S--stop it. Anna…”
“I bet I could eviscerate a human in all of five minutes now, depending on what it is I wanted. What do you th--”
Quintin bolted forth from his chair and kicked away the damn rat, and smashed the rest of her “collection” into the stony floor, ruining them. His amber eyes were on the young woman as she slammed herself against the prison wall, silenced. But he was already angry.
“Do you know what I had to do to keep you alive in here, Anna?! What…what you did to that family..? Took up the rest of the Handhour fortune, paying off their heartache. Hhh…” He slammed his hand against the prison bar, staring out through them now. “Not that anything could pay off murder. Seems there’s mercy for crazy people in the world after all.” He glanced back at Anisse painfully. “I gave up everything to keep you safe. And you’re in here killing rats. So much for saving our family name, eh? Mother would be so proud.
A soft scoffing sound came from the woman in the corner, but otherwise she was silent. Quintin’s hands came then, jostling her as he dragged her up to her feet. He shook his young sister violently, forcing her to look upon the miserable man she had turned him into. Indeed, he had not eaten in days, his breath sour with whiskey.
“We…we can make this right, Anna. I can fix this, make you all…better again. Let me help you, please!” Despite her small protests, her wriggles, Quintin pawed at her face, trying to brush the mess of dark, tangled hair away from her so he could look fully upon her. Somewhere, here, there was his sister, right?! “Remember the stables? The gardens? We can rebuild it all, and I’ll take care of you, Anna, like I used to. Just let me--”
With all the strength she had left in her, Anisse raked her red fingers across his face, trying to drive him away, push. He’d let go of her finally, letting her drop back into the dark corner that had become her friend. Her legs dragged up against herself, she rocked in place, staring at nothing but the inky blackness around her.
Wordless, her brother left her there again, with a slam of the prison door. Once again, Anisse was abandoned like a well-used rag doll.
Once again, alone.
A Patron of the Lamb #30
The collection was marvelous.
Even in the darkness of the catacombs, the ‘elf ‘ could appreciate the way the torchlight glinted off her collection of jars. Everyday birthed a new contributer to her supply since the sailor ship had come to rest at the port near the orcish city, and with every kill her skill with the scalpel had increased tenfold. Indeed, by now she could cut into a chest cavity and relieve it of a heart in all of ten minutes, regardless of the creature. Far from the catacombs of the Lamb, she’d found a new place to stash her little treasures until the ship would be homeward bound.
The fact that dead bodies were delivered to the little crypt almost every hour kept her scalpel very happy.
The Undead One had called it the “dumping” site, as far as Anisse had learned. This Undercity had become far more interesting than the elven captial of fornication she’d been wandering before. But ah, Eversong. It seemed to also breed plenty of victims for her to practice upon, and most civilians were too concerned with their mating rituals to care for what had happened to nameless bodies left to the Scourge outside of their shining city. Still, the crypt offered less of a need to be so mobile, and it gave her a chance to witness the use of the Undead’s dark magic: necromancy. The winged spirits exacted the use of it in mesmorizing form, resurrecting lines and lines of the fallen just outside of the graveyard gates…
Free to take what she needed from the “failures”, extra earnings were spent in procuring more glass jars. They tinked against the crypt’s stoney ground as she lined them before the row of filled vessels. Casting a final, small smile to her collection in the corner, she rose, seeming to separate from the shadows, so long had she been sitting there in the dark. The newest bodies were heaped over in the torchlit crawspace, tossed on the stone floor like rag dolls. She drew the hood away from her face as she knelt down, and the make-shift ears that were sewn into the insides were pulled away as well, weighing down the hood as it hung.
The details of the corpses became apparent to her--one a male corpse, the other female. Though the female was in better condition, for some reason she could not explain, Anisse chose to open up the male first. She gazed for a time at the corpse’s face, the jaw ripped away to leave nothing but a lolling tongue.
“This will not hurt at all…” Anisse whispered in the dark to the corpse, parting the rags around the sunken chest. “But I’m sure you knew that, didn’t you?” The delicate blade slid against the weak, fragile skin, and barely had it cut through that the skin sunk into the chest, as if sucked into a sinkhole. A sigh left her as she parted dried viscera, seeming to fall apart like grains of sand. Was there even something worth salvaging inside? The chest rustled like a bag full of dried leaves as she searched, until she felt something hard brush against her fingers. The heart was black as she fished it from between the brittle ribcage, and hardened over, veiny muscle shriveled to nearly half the size it ought to be.
Raising the hardened heart to the torchlight to better see it, Anisse hardly realized that the female corpse was awakening, that her bony hand was skittering across the floor. Only when she felt the bony fingers wrap around her ankle, did she realize something was very wrong…
“Hhhhhhh…his….wkkt….” the awakened corpse rasped between full, cold lips. Alive. No, dead. Undead. How could she have not known?! Anisse thumped back onto her bottom, trying to kick her ankle out of the undead woman’s bony hands. The hand disconnected at the wrist in her struggle with the re-enlivened corpse. The shriveled, hard heart was dropped between the corpses in her surprise. Anisse sought to reach forward and claim it… until she began to notice the male shudder as well.
It seemed the corpses were not ‘duds’ after all.
“…..hh….how dare you….” The female shuddered up to a seated position, the sound of her rasping words and scraping fingers leaving a sharp echo throughout the crypt. She was now crawling over to the body of her dead, jawless husband, helping him to sit up off the stone floor. Both stared upon their violator with gleaming, angry eyes, the light of undeath filling them completely.
Shocked into silence, Anna sat completely still in the darkness, watching as the female’s fingers poised over the gaping hole in her mate’s chest. She was trying to shove the hardened heart back into place! Whatever apprehension she may have felt seemed to drip away as she watched the female try to thunk the heart back into it’s hole. Back into that rotting bag of dried flesh. She wouldn’t have it!
There were better places for such hearts. And this one was hers!
Narrowing her amber eyes, Anna shot forward, propping herself on her knees to better propel herself. She snatched the shriveled heart from the hole it’d been shoved into, breaking a few of the brittle rib bones of the corpse in the same motion. It was hers!
“Mine! ITS MINE YOU LITTLE INGRATE! AUUGH!!!” The female’s raging screams followed Anisse out of the crypt as the deader tried to drag herself after, legs still not fully working. Darting away from the path, she spat out a quiet obscenity as she realized she’d left most of her collection with the undead couple, and probably could not re-collect it.
“Get her! GET HER! You wont get away with this!”
The small grin slipped up against the little grave robber’s face, adrenaline pumping. She stopped to wrap the shriveled heart into a piece of cloth before ripping back into her run through the dark wood.
The Deathguard would have quite the story to tell.
Even in the darkness of the catacombs, the ‘elf ‘ could appreciate the way the torchlight glinted off her collection of jars. Everyday birthed a new contributer to her supply since the sailor ship had come to rest at the port near the orcish city, and with every kill her skill with the scalpel had increased tenfold. Indeed, by now she could cut into a chest cavity and relieve it of a heart in all of ten minutes, regardless of the creature. Far from the catacombs of the Lamb, she’d found a new place to stash her little treasures until the ship would be homeward bound.
The fact that dead bodies were delivered to the little crypt almost every hour kept her scalpel very happy.
The Undead One had called it the “dumping” site, as far as Anisse had learned. This Undercity had become far more interesting than the elven captial of fornication she’d been wandering before. But ah, Eversong. It seemed to also breed plenty of victims for her to practice upon, and most civilians were too concerned with their mating rituals to care for what had happened to nameless bodies left to the Scourge outside of their shining city. Still, the crypt offered less of a need to be so mobile, and it gave her a chance to witness the use of the Undead’s dark magic: necromancy. The winged spirits exacted the use of it in mesmorizing form, resurrecting lines and lines of the fallen just outside of the graveyard gates…
Free to take what she needed from the “failures”, extra earnings were spent in procuring more glass jars. They tinked against the crypt’s stoney ground as she lined them before the row of filled vessels. Casting a final, small smile to her collection in the corner, she rose, seeming to separate from the shadows, so long had she been sitting there in the dark. The newest bodies were heaped over in the torchlit crawspace, tossed on the stone floor like rag dolls. She drew the hood away from her face as she knelt down, and the make-shift ears that were sewn into the insides were pulled away as well, weighing down the hood as it hung.
The details of the corpses became apparent to her--one a male corpse, the other female. Though the female was in better condition, for some reason she could not explain, Anisse chose to open up the male first. She gazed for a time at the corpse’s face, the jaw ripped away to leave nothing but a lolling tongue.
“This will not hurt at all…” Anisse whispered in the dark to the corpse, parting the rags around the sunken chest. “But I’m sure you knew that, didn’t you?” The delicate blade slid against the weak, fragile skin, and barely had it cut through that the skin sunk into the chest, as if sucked into a sinkhole. A sigh left her as she parted dried viscera, seeming to fall apart like grains of sand. Was there even something worth salvaging inside? The chest rustled like a bag full of dried leaves as she searched, until she felt something hard brush against her fingers. The heart was black as she fished it from between the brittle ribcage, and hardened over, veiny muscle shriveled to nearly half the size it ought to be.
Raising the hardened heart to the torchlight to better see it, Anisse hardly realized that the female corpse was awakening, that her bony hand was skittering across the floor. Only when she felt the bony fingers wrap around her ankle, did she realize something was very wrong…
“Hhhhhhh…his….wkkt….” the awakened corpse rasped between full, cold lips. Alive. No, dead. Undead. How could she have not known?! Anisse thumped back onto her bottom, trying to kick her ankle out of the undead woman’s bony hands. The hand disconnected at the wrist in her struggle with the re-enlivened corpse. The shriveled, hard heart was dropped between the corpses in her surprise. Anisse sought to reach forward and claim it… until she began to notice the male shudder as well.
It seemed the corpses were not ‘duds’ after all.
“…..hh….how dare you….” The female shuddered up to a seated position, the sound of her rasping words and scraping fingers leaving a sharp echo throughout the crypt. She was now crawling over to the body of her dead, jawless husband, helping him to sit up off the stone floor. Both stared upon their violator with gleaming, angry eyes, the light of undeath filling them completely.
Shocked into silence, Anna sat completely still in the darkness, watching as the female’s fingers poised over the gaping hole in her mate’s chest. She was trying to shove the hardened heart back into place! Whatever apprehension she may have felt seemed to drip away as she watched the female try to thunk the heart back into it’s hole. Back into that rotting bag of dried flesh. She wouldn’t have it!
There were better places for such hearts. And this one was hers!
Narrowing her amber eyes, Anna shot forward, propping herself on her knees to better propel herself. She snatched the shriveled heart from the hole it’d been shoved into, breaking a few of the brittle rib bones of the corpse in the same motion. It was hers!
“Mine! ITS MINE YOU LITTLE INGRATE! AUUGH!!!” The female’s raging screams followed Anisse out of the crypt as the deader tried to drag herself after, legs still not fully working. Darting away from the path, she spat out a quiet obscenity as she realized she’d left most of her collection with the undead couple, and probably could not re-collect it.
“Get her! GET HER! You wont get away with this!”
The small grin slipped up against the little grave robber’s face, adrenaline pumping. She stopped to wrap the shriveled heart into a piece of cloth before ripping back into her run through the dark wood.
The Deathguard would have quite the story to tell.
A Patron of the Lamb #29
Darkness. It collected below the deck of the ship, comforting in its obscurity, its quiet. The oil lamp on the bolted desk flickered in vain against the soft shadows that had overtaken the bunk hold, and the passenger’s shadow trembled on the wall as an effect. Sitting upon her assigned bed, Anisse slowly pulled the hood down from around her face, then rolled her head against the hold’s wall. She wondered how long the ship would sail before it reached its destination, if all ships followed the same path as the Captain’s. Gerty, the dwarf cook of the Seawolf’s ‘merchant’ ship, had secured passage for her on this particular vessel. Thinking that she couldn’t wait for the Captain to make his rounds, she had quickly boarded the small cargo ship.
Anything to get away from the city.
The rowdy sailors on deck made her trip a restless one, and Anisse found herself trying yet again to numb herself to the sounds of obnoxious laughter, of glass bottles smashing against the hull of the ship. She concentrated on the gentle rocking as it rode the waves, her arms relaxing as her body followed in motion. Her eyes slid over to the golden oil lamp, its fire flickering weakly. Images, flashes of memory played in her head, ringing around the lamp’s soft light. The stern face of the woman she once called mother danced in the fire, amber eyes like two points of the flame gleaming up at her. Anna rolled her head away from the oil lamp, trying to dissuade the images, but only more seemed to seep into her foggy mind.
The far off sound of gulls calling washed over her, riding the cold winds off the cliffsides. Raining. Always raining. Droplets hit the window pane hard as she pressed her small hands against it. The torchlight flickered at the stables beyond her reach. Just as it always rained, Quint and Mother always fought. Except now they did it outside. The muffled sounds of their yells was ended when Lady Handhour struck him, slapping the young man hard enough to make him veer back a bit. He’d really done it now. She quickly clamored away from the window as Mother shot back to the doors of the manor. The heavy oak doors slammed against the manor walls as she entered, making the windows shudder.
“Anna! Back to the study with you girl! NOW!” Her Mother’s voice trembled with an anger that was not directed at her, but it still sent her quickly to where she was ordered.
Anisse drew her knees up closer to her body, as if fighting to keep warm. Brother. Sister. Mother. The words seemed alien to her, though her memories seemed to reflect the fact that she had experienced them. The tumult of emotion these thoughts evoked made her stomach turn with unease. She stole the fire of the oil lamp, stole its life--punishment for provoking her. Again, she rocked with the ship as it sailed, trying to find comfort in the rolling waves. Trying to blot out everything in the sound of the ocean.
The sound of Quint‘s voice filtered in and out of her mind among the waves.
Sail…
Her heart felt sick and she hated him for it.
Sail…
It was easier to feel nothing at all...
Sail…
The glinting edge of her scalpel was her ‘affection‘.
In the early morning, just before twilight, Anisse emerged from the bunk hold. Her small boots crunched upon broken bottle pieces, the sailors laying around in inebriated heaps around her. The quiet rolls of enlivened shadow followed just behind, the void walker blanketing the deck in a dark fog. Looking over the railing of the vessel, she beckoned her demonic servant forward. The body of the dead sailor swirled around within the demon’s abyssal bulk, and in one soft order, he was released to the ocean. The calm that she’d retained from the kill filled her as the body sunk below the waves, a job well-done.
The drunkard’s fate was sealed when he’d mistakenly tried to climb into her bunk. And it was exactly what she needed. His heart floated gently in one of her jars below deck now, and none upon the ship were any wiser. By the time they would go looking for the sailor, she surmised that she would be long off the ship. Peering over the ocean, she noticed the sun began to paint the water orange where it began to rise. It would be time to eat soon for the crew.
Luckily, she’d came across very fresh meat for her meatpies. She certainly hoped they would be hungry.
Anything to get away from the city.
The rowdy sailors on deck made her trip a restless one, and Anisse found herself trying yet again to numb herself to the sounds of obnoxious laughter, of glass bottles smashing against the hull of the ship. She concentrated on the gentle rocking as it rode the waves, her arms relaxing as her body followed in motion. Her eyes slid over to the golden oil lamp, its fire flickering weakly. Images, flashes of memory played in her head, ringing around the lamp’s soft light. The stern face of the woman she once called mother danced in the fire, amber eyes like two points of the flame gleaming up at her. Anna rolled her head away from the oil lamp, trying to dissuade the images, but only more seemed to seep into her foggy mind.
The far off sound of gulls calling washed over her, riding the cold winds off the cliffsides. Raining. Always raining. Droplets hit the window pane hard as she pressed her small hands against it. The torchlight flickered at the stables beyond her reach. Just as it always rained, Quint and Mother always fought. Except now they did it outside. The muffled sounds of their yells was ended when Lady Handhour struck him, slapping the young man hard enough to make him veer back a bit. He’d really done it now. She quickly clamored away from the window as Mother shot back to the doors of the manor. The heavy oak doors slammed against the manor walls as she entered, making the windows shudder.
“Anna! Back to the study with you girl! NOW!” Her Mother’s voice trembled with an anger that was not directed at her, but it still sent her quickly to where she was ordered.
Anisse drew her knees up closer to her body, as if fighting to keep warm. Brother. Sister. Mother. The words seemed alien to her, though her memories seemed to reflect the fact that she had experienced them. The tumult of emotion these thoughts evoked made her stomach turn with unease. She stole the fire of the oil lamp, stole its life--punishment for provoking her. Again, she rocked with the ship as it sailed, trying to find comfort in the rolling waves. Trying to blot out everything in the sound of the ocean.
The sound of Quint‘s voice filtered in and out of her mind among the waves.
Sail…
Her heart felt sick and she hated him for it.
Sail…
It was easier to feel nothing at all...
Sail…
The glinting edge of her scalpel was her ‘affection‘.
In the early morning, just before twilight, Anisse emerged from the bunk hold. Her small boots crunched upon broken bottle pieces, the sailors laying around in inebriated heaps around her. The quiet rolls of enlivened shadow followed just behind, the void walker blanketing the deck in a dark fog. Looking over the railing of the vessel, she beckoned her demonic servant forward. The body of the dead sailor swirled around within the demon’s abyssal bulk, and in one soft order, he was released to the ocean. The calm that she’d retained from the kill filled her as the body sunk below the waves, a job well-done.
The drunkard’s fate was sealed when he’d mistakenly tried to climb into her bunk. And it was exactly what she needed. His heart floated gently in one of her jars below deck now, and none upon the ship were any wiser. By the time they would go looking for the sailor, she surmised that she would be long off the ship. Peering over the ocean, she noticed the sun began to paint the water orange where it began to rise. It would be time to eat soon for the crew.
Luckily, she’d came across very fresh meat for her meatpies. She certainly hoped they would be hungry.
A Patron of the Lamb #28
Spring rain pelted the cottage outside, the smells of Elwynn forest brought in through the dining room windows. Like the rest of the cottage, the dining table was quaint, but sturdy, large enough to seat the family comfortably, but not so large as to provide an obstacle to the furnace stove in the corner. It was dinnertime: well-used bowls and glasses poised before each chair. And like any family, parents and children were seated, ready to enjoy their meal.
If Laureth Adler could see through her blindfold, she would see that they apparently were having her husband’s heart for dinner. It rested in his empty wooden bowl, garnished by its own liquids. The smell of blood assaulted her senses--she was still recovering from hearing the death gurgles across from her, and it was getting too hard to breathe against the gag pulled tight against the corners of her mouth. She didn’t have to see the scalpel that had slid so carefully across his throat, or the gaping jigsaw puzzle that his chest had become underneath its linen shirt.
All of her unmasked senses told her she should be filled with dread.
Anisse stared down silently at Ms. Adler as the woman shuddered in her seat, no longer straining against her binds. She had never went after an entire family before, but the ease at which she was allowed inside their home had been surprising. The citizens of Elwynn Forest were far too hospitable for their own good. After the murders she’d committed in Goldshire, one would think a family would keep their guard up a bit tighter. It only secured their deaths in Anisse’s mind: lambs easy for the slaughter. Some were simply meant to be the sacrificed.
There was something far more intimate in meaning in the victims she had chosen than Anisse could care to admit, however. Her gaze rested on the young son of Ms. Adler, on the edge of manhood. He was rocking back and forth in his chair as far as the rope he was bound with would allow him. His teeth were bared upon the cloth gag in apprehension, the occasional whimper leaving him. The younger daughter sat across from him, her small face glistening with silent tears just beneath her blind. She trembled much like the mother, like a leaf. And there sat Mr. Adler, still in his chair. His neck gleamed in the oil lamp’s light, bloody as his chest. Father had a new necktie. A family.
If she could murder them, then she could drown out the chaos pouring into the crack of her mind. Back to beginnings. Back to what she knew.
As much as it pained her to, Anisse picked up the father’s heart within the bowl, and began to squeeze its excess into it. Blood. It was essential in all offerings, the life energy magic in itself. To a demon it was surely sacred.
To the Old One‘s, it was amusing.
The table creaked under Anisse’s weight as she knelt upon it, pushing other bowls, utencils and glasses out of the way. The whimpers and frightened panting seemed to rise all around the table, but it did not stop her from painting the blood from the bowl upon the smooth wood. The circle would have to be perfect if she hoped to gain the blessing of the Twilight’s Hammer again, if she hoped to earn the Voice again. Purpose, to close out all of these…distractions. The circle went unfinished by the time the last bit of blood had been used from the bowl, the heart a used sack of viscera. Another…
Again, the amazing symphony of fear collected around the table, started by the eldest son as he heard Anisse shuffle near him. Feet skittered, the pathetic attempt to get away from her fingers causing the boy to make the chair scoot back a few inches. His muffled pleads set off the strained, guttaral moan of despair from the mother. The boy’s death was quick, but the mother’s suffering in hearing his last breath only went on and on. It was almost a sigh of relief that rattled from the murderess’s lips, to hear the mother sob in such silence, feel the release of life slip from her son.
It felt good to make Mother feel something. Make her cry.
The oil lamp seemed to scream with each flicker of its golden light upon the walls, witness to the desecration of another body, witnessing what the mother and daughter could not. In silence, Laureth Adler mourned the death of her husband and her son, waiting for the moment when the murderer’s blade would be turned on her. Already the mother contemplated ways to save her young daughter. Surely the Light would be merciful? Surely the murderer would know something of mercy upon a child barely out of its fifth year?!
Suddenly, the cottage door crashed open, making all within the dining room twitch, panic. Scalpel in one hand, and the boy’s heart in the other, Anisse felt her heart skip a beat. She had been followed?! The shadow stretched over the light cast by the flickering oil lamp, her eyes fixed upon the figure that had entered. His frock coat in disarray, the Hunter stood in the doorway, his eyes taking in the scene at hand. Shuddering hands leveled their rifle at her, and slowly she slid herself off of the table she had been painting upon. What did she look like in her brother’s eyes? A child? A child painted in blood?
“…wh…what the hell, Anna…” he whispered out in that soft voice, on the fringe of a bellow. The rifle was cocked, ready, and yet he would not shoot. Of course he would not shoot. His eyes were weak, his nerves shot. The mother was wailing now, wailing so loud that one could wonder if she truly was gagged. The split second Quintin Handhour took to eye the surviving mother, Anisse stole away into the shadows of the room and escaped, wordless.
Her scent was still thick in his nostrils, thick in the animal’s throat that begged to be released from inside of the Hunter. He did not follow. As Anisse escaped into the night, she tucked her arms into the loose sleeves of her robes, pathing as fast as she could along the road out to Lakeshire. He’d let her live, but Anisse was still checking her body for wounds. He could have ended it all there, but he did not.
Because he was her brother, and brothers protect their little sisters, no matter what little sinners they grow to become.
Anisse still denied this fact as she denied the tears that were welling up in her eyes.
If Laureth Adler could see through her blindfold, she would see that they apparently were having her husband’s heart for dinner. It rested in his empty wooden bowl, garnished by its own liquids. The smell of blood assaulted her senses--she was still recovering from hearing the death gurgles across from her, and it was getting too hard to breathe against the gag pulled tight against the corners of her mouth. She didn’t have to see the scalpel that had slid so carefully across his throat, or the gaping jigsaw puzzle that his chest had become underneath its linen shirt.
All of her unmasked senses told her she should be filled with dread.
Anisse stared down silently at Ms. Adler as the woman shuddered in her seat, no longer straining against her binds. She had never went after an entire family before, but the ease at which she was allowed inside their home had been surprising. The citizens of Elwynn Forest were far too hospitable for their own good. After the murders she’d committed in Goldshire, one would think a family would keep their guard up a bit tighter. It only secured their deaths in Anisse’s mind: lambs easy for the slaughter. Some were simply meant to be the sacrificed.
There was something far more intimate in meaning in the victims she had chosen than Anisse could care to admit, however. Her gaze rested on the young son of Ms. Adler, on the edge of manhood. He was rocking back and forth in his chair as far as the rope he was bound with would allow him. His teeth were bared upon the cloth gag in apprehension, the occasional whimper leaving him. The younger daughter sat across from him, her small face glistening with silent tears just beneath her blind. She trembled much like the mother, like a leaf. And there sat Mr. Adler, still in his chair. His neck gleamed in the oil lamp’s light, bloody as his chest. Father had a new necktie. A family.
If she could murder them, then she could drown out the chaos pouring into the crack of her mind. Back to beginnings. Back to what she knew.
As much as it pained her to, Anisse picked up the father’s heart within the bowl, and began to squeeze its excess into it. Blood. It was essential in all offerings, the life energy magic in itself. To a demon it was surely sacred.
To the Old One‘s, it was amusing.
The table creaked under Anisse’s weight as she knelt upon it, pushing other bowls, utencils and glasses out of the way. The whimpers and frightened panting seemed to rise all around the table, but it did not stop her from painting the blood from the bowl upon the smooth wood. The circle would have to be perfect if she hoped to gain the blessing of the Twilight’s Hammer again, if she hoped to earn the Voice again. Purpose, to close out all of these…distractions. The circle went unfinished by the time the last bit of blood had been used from the bowl, the heart a used sack of viscera. Another…
Again, the amazing symphony of fear collected around the table, started by the eldest son as he heard Anisse shuffle near him. Feet skittered, the pathetic attempt to get away from her fingers causing the boy to make the chair scoot back a few inches. His muffled pleads set off the strained, guttaral moan of despair from the mother. The boy’s death was quick, but the mother’s suffering in hearing his last breath only went on and on. It was almost a sigh of relief that rattled from the murderess’s lips, to hear the mother sob in such silence, feel the release of life slip from her son.
It felt good to make Mother feel something. Make her cry.
The oil lamp seemed to scream with each flicker of its golden light upon the walls, witness to the desecration of another body, witnessing what the mother and daughter could not. In silence, Laureth Adler mourned the death of her husband and her son, waiting for the moment when the murderer’s blade would be turned on her. Already the mother contemplated ways to save her young daughter. Surely the Light would be merciful? Surely the murderer would know something of mercy upon a child barely out of its fifth year?!
Suddenly, the cottage door crashed open, making all within the dining room twitch, panic. Scalpel in one hand, and the boy’s heart in the other, Anisse felt her heart skip a beat. She had been followed?! The shadow stretched over the light cast by the flickering oil lamp, her eyes fixed upon the figure that had entered. His frock coat in disarray, the Hunter stood in the doorway, his eyes taking in the scene at hand. Shuddering hands leveled their rifle at her, and slowly she slid herself off of the table she had been painting upon. What did she look like in her brother’s eyes? A child? A child painted in blood?
“…wh…what the hell, Anna…” he whispered out in that soft voice, on the fringe of a bellow. The rifle was cocked, ready, and yet he would not shoot. Of course he would not shoot. His eyes were weak, his nerves shot. The mother was wailing now, wailing so loud that one could wonder if she truly was gagged. The split second Quintin Handhour took to eye the surviving mother, Anisse stole away into the shadows of the room and escaped, wordless.
Her scent was still thick in his nostrils, thick in the animal’s throat that begged to be released from inside of the Hunter. He did not follow. As Anisse escaped into the night, she tucked her arms into the loose sleeves of her robes, pathing as fast as she could along the road out to Lakeshire. He’d let her live, but Anisse was still checking her body for wounds. He could have ended it all there, but he did not.
Because he was her brother, and brothers protect their little sisters, no matter what little sinners they grow to become.
Anisse still denied this fact as she denied the tears that were welling up in her eyes.
A Patron of the Lamb #27
For days he had followed her, or at least the scattered passing of time Anisse lived currently had indicated to her this. She would watch from alleyways as he would stop to ask local inkeep about her, sometimes complete strangers, staying just out of his sight. He never pressed his search too hard on any one person, dampening his own desperation with a taste of liquor. The bottle he would tip to his lips shined, holding the glare of street lights. It reminded Anisse of a glass jar under a peek of torch light in a dark, dank basement.
The ironic similarities made her shiver.
She was afraid of him, afraid he would look her way. Her dread spiked to a new high when he spotted her watching, and gave chase. No! Like a deer she bolted into the darkness of a stone forest, heavy boots spurning her on like a one-man calvary on the hunt. She hit the brick wall that blocked freedom too hard, the small form beneath layers of robes thrown back onto the dirty ground at her pursuer’s feet. Quickly, she scurried back to the brick, back against it. Her nails dug so hard into the brick that they cracked and split around her soft fingers.
“Anna! Anna…” His soft voice seemed to pound through her skull, ripping away at the cold peace of apathy. Memories seeped into the crack of her mind his voice created. A child’s loss. Hurt. Missing, yearning. Mother’s darling. His fingers were on her shoulders, trying to shake her, and his words were a jumble. What was he saying…?
Brother…
He was forcing her into his arms, whispering. Holding. Hugging. Comforting…
Comfort was for children.
“…..let. Go.” Her whisper grated under the spidery strings of her hair. His frock coat was hard, creaked against her, and she shoved to get out of the imprisonment of his arms. His soft amber eyes were a disease, trying to melt her defenses. She hated it him for it.
She was not the child he remembered her to be, but his denial would allow him no intelligence. Again his arms reached for her, stammering out the beginnings of reconciliation, of some foolhardy hope. Talk of family. Lips curled into a mad sneer as her mind folded into itself to heal what damage he had wrought. The sound of cold metal scraped through the darkness, and something quick sliced through the air. The man a child would have called brother stooped to his knees, wounded.
“Family? A union upon the blood and souls of lambs in offering. That is all family ever was to me, ‘brother‘.” She spat the last word out upon him, her voice cutting through the air like her own dagger. His blood dripped upon its curved edge as she stepped past him, sheathing it carefully, lovingly. “Let me alone,” she started, her whisper vicious with threat. “…or you will find your time upon this festering world shorter than the rest.”
Having ran into the alleyway a scared girl, Anisse meandered out of its darkness with the mind of a cultist.
With the need to make an offering.
The ironic similarities made her shiver.
She was afraid of him, afraid he would look her way. Her dread spiked to a new high when he spotted her watching, and gave chase. No! Like a deer she bolted into the darkness of a stone forest, heavy boots spurning her on like a one-man calvary on the hunt. She hit the brick wall that blocked freedom too hard, the small form beneath layers of robes thrown back onto the dirty ground at her pursuer’s feet. Quickly, she scurried back to the brick, back against it. Her nails dug so hard into the brick that they cracked and split around her soft fingers.
“Anna! Anna…” His soft voice seemed to pound through her skull, ripping away at the cold peace of apathy. Memories seeped into the crack of her mind his voice created. A child’s loss. Hurt. Missing, yearning. Mother’s darling. His fingers were on her shoulders, trying to shake her, and his words were a jumble. What was he saying…?
Brother…
He was forcing her into his arms, whispering. Holding. Hugging. Comforting…
Comfort was for children.
“…..let. Go.” Her whisper grated under the spidery strings of her hair. His frock coat was hard, creaked against her, and she shoved to get out of the imprisonment of his arms. His soft amber eyes were a disease, trying to melt her defenses. She hated it him for it.
She was not the child he remembered her to be, but his denial would allow him no intelligence. Again his arms reached for her, stammering out the beginnings of reconciliation, of some foolhardy hope. Talk of family. Lips curled into a mad sneer as her mind folded into itself to heal what damage he had wrought. The sound of cold metal scraped through the darkness, and something quick sliced through the air. The man a child would have called brother stooped to his knees, wounded.
“Family? A union upon the blood and souls of lambs in offering. That is all family ever was to me, ‘brother‘.” She spat the last word out upon him, her voice cutting through the air like her own dagger. His blood dripped upon its curved edge as she stepped past him, sheathing it carefully, lovingly. “Let me alone,” she started, her whisper vicious with threat. “…or you will find your time upon this festering world shorter than the rest.”
Having ran into the alleyway a scared girl, Anisse meandered out of its darkness with the mind of a cultist.
With the need to make an offering.
A Patron of the Lamb #26
The investigator straightened his tie for what seemed to be the tenth time since he’d arrived at the Slaughtered Lamb, Anisse noticed. The guard behind him seemed more clean-cut than him, but he seemed less dull, less jittery. The questions droned on for Jarel, but he kept his gentlemanly air in light of it all. He had called in the missing report for little Miss Lunita, after all. It was a smart move, Anisse thought, taking the suspicion off of the Lamb as quick as he could by alerting the guard to the gnome’s dissapearance.
The Lamb certainly did not need anymore suspicion or unwelcome rumors.
“And how would you describe these abductors, Mr. Moor? Anything about them that you can remember?” The investigator flicked his pencil nimbly around two of his fingers. The bartender rubbed at the gristle of his face, flicking a lock of hair before answering with a sigh.
“Well. The two were masked that came to the bar. Could have pinned them as warlocks, definitely, by the robes. Quite a bit distracting, those two. Didn’t quite get a good look at the ones that actually took poor Miss Lunita though. One minute she was here, then she gone! Always trying to help, that gnome. Couldn‘t have asked for a better waitress!”
Better waitress. Anisse’s face remained still as stone, emotionless, her eyes on her task. Her fingers flexed out what dismay she felt on the dough she was molding, however, crimping it hard to the edge of the pie foil. Apparently, she also had to act like an idiot and run off with complete strangers as well before she could get any sort of recognition. There was no crime here. It was a case of pure stupidity.
Not that Anisse could have a word edgewise. Jarel had forbidden her to say much of anything to the investigator besides, ‘would you like a drink?’ Anisse understood the bartender’s need to save his own skin, but to think that anyone would actually harm Lunita was…
…well, she might‘ve. Indeed, if the gnomess had continued to work at the Lamb consistently with Anisse, she might’ve been tempted to add her cotton candy heart to her collection. But that was entirely besides the point.
“Did the gnome have any enemies you might know of?” The investigator’s eyes flicked over to Anisse as she began to rock the blade of a kitchen knife over the cutting board, slicing up cooked pieces of meat. She was quick, methodical, her gaze never straying from the task. Liver of a boar. Perhaps. Anisse could hardly tell anymore what she was cutting up, or remember what she’d put in the icebox. It was best not to label what she’d hunted for the day.
The knife might stray if she thought too much on it. Or on Lunita.
“What? Enemies? She was a pleasant little thing, wasn’t she Miss Anna?”
“…sickeningly pleasant, of course.”
“Yes, yes. Why, we had people come into the Lamb just to speak to Lunita!”
The investigator finally tore his eyes away from the knife and the chopped meat when Anisse turned to toss it into the metal pot behind her. She’d left the kitchen knife propped, stabbed into the wooden bartop. The guard sniffed at the air as the stew broiled, and he shifted in hunger.
“Eyy.” Anisse paused mid-stir as the guard leaned on the countertop to smile at her. His helm came off and rolled across the bar before he stopped it with his large hands. “Can you give me a bowl of that? Got some coin in it for you.” The Investigator sighed as his partner sat down to eat. The pencil he held was now tapping into the tablet in his other hand.
“So, a possible kidnapping. Stalking, possibly beforehand. Hmm. Thank you for the report, Mister Jarel. Best question your…other patrons below.” The investigator’s face creased in discomfort as he looked down the torchlit ramp that lead to the lower levels of the Slaughtered Lamb. It was obvious he did not want to be down there. Anisse contained an amused smile as she observed the man‘s hesitation, ladling the stew into a wooden bowl. Yes, the guard was hungry, his large hands overwhelming the serving bowl as he took it to his lips. Who needed spoons? She watched with appreciation at his appetite, like an artist appreciating the live canvas he drew inspiration from. It was always good when someone could share in her work. Even if he was simply consuming it. By the time the partnered Investigator finally made it past the torch that lead to the basement, the guard was asking for seconds.
She gladly spun around to refill the wooden bowl, feeling all her apprehension about the Lunita incident slowly start to widdle away. She could chase after her “doggies” and Jarel would have one less on the dwindling payroll to worry about. The situation was not completely horrible. The gnome would not be missed, and Anisse could have what remained of her sanity back.
The barmaid was almost near humming in her optimism when she turned back around to serve the hungry guard. The sound of heavy boots clogged the entrance next, and her eyes were drawn irrevocably to the source. Muddy, unlaced leather boots. Stomping all over the tavern floorboards. Which she would have to clean after. Feeling her uplifting thoughts pitch back down into vexation, she sighed deeply as Jarel heartily greeted the newest patron.
“Evening, gent! What’ll it be?”
“A…a brandy. If you could, please. And…I was looking for someone…”
Anisse untangled the old mop from behind the counter from its bucket and shoved both into the sink a bit harshly, taking a glance at the one who’d created more work for her. She spied the sleeve of his leather frock coat, sporting a crack near the shoulder. The linen cuffs of his shirt sleeve was frayed around his rested hand. Dirty. The fingernails made her cringe, and she looked away, quick to pull the bucket from the sink.
“Oh?” Jarel chuckled as he pulled a dark bottle out of the icebox and set it near the dirty hand. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to be a little more specific!”
“Its….ahahaha…its more than a little silly, really. Possibly on the “Im going stark raving mad!” sort of silly, but I was told that maybe…”
There was a long silence in which the man did not finish his mumblings, the soft-spoken voice already hard enough to hear as it was. What was it already?! When Anisse looked up to ask exactly what the confused ponce was babbling about, she found that he was staring right at her from across the bartop. Staring. The sudden creak of his leather coat combined with his fumbling overtaking of the stool in front of her made Anisse nearly jump backward.
What the hell…? She glowered at the staring patron.
And as the soft amber eyes stared back at her in disbelief, she went stiff, her face slackened.
“…Anna…?!” The sound of his voice--the soft, hopeful whisper--it sent a shiver up the barmaid’s spine that weakened her limbs, her hands. The bucket crashed to the floor behind the bar, and Jarel bellowed a few colorful words in surprise, water sloshing everything.
“N…n-n…c…have to…go to…inventory lists…yes…”
At the threat of being unraveled in its conditioning, Anisse’s mind forced her body into action.
Overhelmed and unprepared, it took off with her body and ran from the Lamb as fast as it could.
The Lamb certainly did not need anymore suspicion or unwelcome rumors.
“And how would you describe these abductors, Mr. Moor? Anything about them that you can remember?” The investigator flicked his pencil nimbly around two of his fingers. The bartender rubbed at the gristle of his face, flicking a lock of hair before answering with a sigh.
“Well. The two were masked that came to the bar. Could have pinned them as warlocks, definitely, by the robes. Quite a bit distracting, those two. Didn’t quite get a good look at the ones that actually took poor Miss Lunita though. One minute she was here, then she gone! Always trying to help, that gnome. Couldn‘t have asked for a better waitress!”
Better waitress. Anisse’s face remained still as stone, emotionless, her eyes on her task. Her fingers flexed out what dismay she felt on the dough she was molding, however, crimping it hard to the edge of the pie foil. Apparently, she also had to act like an idiot and run off with complete strangers as well before she could get any sort of recognition. There was no crime here. It was a case of pure stupidity.
Not that Anisse could have a word edgewise. Jarel had forbidden her to say much of anything to the investigator besides, ‘would you like a drink?’ Anisse understood the bartender’s need to save his own skin, but to think that anyone would actually harm Lunita was…
…well, she might‘ve. Indeed, if the gnomess had continued to work at the Lamb consistently with Anisse, she might’ve been tempted to add her cotton candy heart to her collection. But that was entirely besides the point.
“Did the gnome have any enemies you might know of?” The investigator’s eyes flicked over to Anisse as she began to rock the blade of a kitchen knife over the cutting board, slicing up cooked pieces of meat. She was quick, methodical, her gaze never straying from the task. Liver of a boar. Perhaps. Anisse could hardly tell anymore what she was cutting up, or remember what she’d put in the icebox. It was best not to label what she’d hunted for the day.
The knife might stray if she thought too much on it. Or on Lunita.
“What? Enemies? She was a pleasant little thing, wasn’t she Miss Anna?”
“…sickeningly pleasant, of course.”
“Yes, yes. Why, we had people come into the Lamb just to speak to Lunita!”
The investigator finally tore his eyes away from the knife and the chopped meat when Anisse turned to toss it into the metal pot behind her. She’d left the kitchen knife propped, stabbed into the wooden bartop. The guard sniffed at the air as the stew broiled, and he shifted in hunger.
“Eyy.” Anisse paused mid-stir as the guard leaned on the countertop to smile at her. His helm came off and rolled across the bar before he stopped it with his large hands. “Can you give me a bowl of that? Got some coin in it for you.” The Investigator sighed as his partner sat down to eat. The pencil he held was now tapping into the tablet in his other hand.
“So, a possible kidnapping. Stalking, possibly beforehand. Hmm. Thank you for the report, Mister Jarel. Best question your…other patrons below.” The investigator’s face creased in discomfort as he looked down the torchlit ramp that lead to the lower levels of the Slaughtered Lamb. It was obvious he did not want to be down there. Anisse contained an amused smile as she observed the man‘s hesitation, ladling the stew into a wooden bowl. Yes, the guard was hungry, his large hands overwhelming the serving bowl as he took it to his lips. Who needed spoons? She watched with appreciation at his appetite, like an artist appreciating the live canvas he drew inspiration from. It was always good when someone could share in her work. Even if he was simply consuming it. By the time the partnered Investigator finally made it past the torch that lead to the basement, the guard was asking for seconds.
She gladly spun around to refill the wooden bowl, feeling all her apprehension about the Lunita incident slowly start to widdle away. She could chase after her “doggies” and Jarel would have one less on the dwindling payroll to worry about. The situation was not completely horrible. The gnome would not be missed, and Anisse could have what remained of her sanity back.
The barmaid was almost near humming in her optimism when she turned back around to serve the hungry guard. The sound of heavy boots clogged the entrance next, and her eyes were drawn irrevocably to the source. Muddy, unlaced leather boots. Stomping all over the tavern floorboards. Which she would have to clean after. Feeling her uplifting thoughts pitch back down into vexation, she sighed deeply as Jarel heartily greeted the newest patron.
“Evening, gent! What’ll it be?”
“A…a brandy. If you could, please. And…I was looking for someone…”
Anisse untangled the old mop from behind the counter from its bucket and shoved both into the sink a bit harshly, taking a glance at the one who’d created more work for her. She spied the sleeve of his leather frock coat, sporting a crack near the shoulder. The linen cuffs of his shirt sleeve was frayed around his rested hand. Dirty. The fingernails made her cringe, and she looked away, quick to pull the bucket from the sink.
“Oh?” Jarel chuckled as he pulled a dark bottle out of the icebox and set it near the dirty hand. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to be a little more specific!”
“Its….ahahaha…its more than a little silly, really. Possibly on the “Im going stark raving mad!” sort of silly, but I was told that maybe…”
There was a long silence in which the man did not finish his mumblings, the soft-spoken voice already hard enough to hear as it was. What was it already?! When Anisse looked up to ask exactly what the confused ponce was babbling about, she found that he was staring right at her from across the bartop. Staring. The sudden creak of his leather coat combined with his fumbling overtaking of the stool in front of her made Anisse nearly jump backward.
What the hell…? She glowered at the staring patron.
And as the soft amber eyes stared back at her in disbelief, she went stiff, her face slackened.
“…Anna…?!” The sound of his voice--the soft, hopeful whisper--it sent a shiver up the barmaid’s spine that weakened her limbs, her hands. The bucket crashed to the floor behind the bar, and Jarel bellowed a few colorful words in surprise, water sloshing everything.
“N…n-n…c…have to…go to…inventory lists…yes…”
At the threat of being unraveled in its conditioning, Anisse’s mind forced her body into action.
Overhelmed and unprepared, it took off with her body and ran from the Lamb as fast as it could.
A Patron of the Lamb #25
The smell of fresh ocean air suffused the bowels of the ship, her cot creaking as the hull did with each gentle wave that was ridden. Someone had left the door to the bunk quarters open, and it irked Anisse slightly to hear the obnoxious laughing of the crew just outside. Drink, barter, gamble. Is that all they did upon the ship? She was sure there were other more lewd possibilities, but her mind wouldn’t dare go in that direction.
It wasn’t all terrible, she thought to herself. She twisted the cap closed upon her newest treasure, the pale green, robust heart floating idly in the concoction of the jar. The orc’s heart was larger than the others she’d had in her renewed collection, and the ‘donator’ had been harder to take down than she thought it would be. Even old orcs were seasoned brawlers, she found out, rubbing the side of her aching jaw, the bruising around her throat--he certainly didn’t go down without a fight. It might’ve been easier to take from the small ports the Captain attacked and sacked, but his rulings against killing and the chaos of the ransacking prevented her from action. It was idiotic, really.
Some lambs are born for the slaughter, after all.
Anisse stiffened as the ideal passed through her mind, a remnant of the Twilight Hammer she’d ran away from. The jar tinked against the little metal shelving she’d had the rest of the jars displayed upon, and she fixed it up with a strong piece of yarn to keep it from sliding off the shelf. What was she doing anyway? Where was the Purpose? Before it seemed so clear, to cull Azeroth. Level the playing field. Press the reset button. Destruction would birth a new land. A new world order.
No more war…
And now where was the Purpose? Fear had crept in to steal her will. But everywhere she looked there was only disease. Perversion. Even the elven city with its needless, suffocating wealth pushed its citizens into sloth and vulgarity despite the potential for magical enlightenment. The orc city had been interesting, at least. She’d never thought a culture basing its language upon grunts and nods could be so decorated in its simplicity. She ran a finger across the jar containing the orc heart. Perhaps that was why she wished for this one so direly, despite the beating taken. The courageous heart, with a will to help her own. If she stared hard enough, she could almost imagine it still beating behind the glass.
“Ship’s landed, girl,” Tia grinned at her from the darkness of the room’s doorway, just at the same time as the hull’s bell rang. “Get some fresh air, eh?”
It was not a bad suggestion, but when Anisse stepped outside to wince at the bright light of Booty Bay, she regretted it. Her head pulsed as the light assaulted her senses, but she bore through it at the whim of the smell of the ocean. Truth be told, she liked the smell, the gentle lapping of the waves at the legs of the dock. Eyes adjusting to the sight, she frowned when she realized how many small, green men decorated the large port. If they were as annoying as the Captain’s ‘buddy’, she was turning right back around to board the ship.
“Got it all right here, sweetie! Read all about it! Stormwind Gazette, Gnome Gnews, Orgrimmar Daily, Azerothian Ladies Digest(™)*! Take your pick! Only 1 gold a piece!“ Newspaper flashed Anisse in the face as one of the annoying goblins shoved them in front of her. She might’ve reacted by throttling the little goblin, but the newspapers caught her attention. Immediately she brought out the large pouch of gold the Captain had given her.
“Give me the Stormwind one…no not that one, the smaller paper with the headlines,” Anisse almost commanded. If it was possible that the paper boy’s eyes could get larger at the sight of the large satchel of gold, they did. The goblin licked his lips and smirked at her as she reached for the paper, jerking the paper away from her fingers. His meaty hand lay palm up in demand of more coin.
“That one’s gonna cost you extra, lady. Harder to get copies of that one. Not as…ya know. Big as the Gazette.” She of course, glowered at the goblin, but she could not deny his cunning enterprise, and gave him the extra coin for the paper.
‘MORE MURDERS! BODIES FOUND IN OLD TOWN MAKING OFFICIALS HEAD’S SPIN!’
The headlines made her face burn.
The photos printed underneath the headline then turned her blood cold. The markings upon the victim’s face were immediately recognizable, though the second victim did not seem so. A Twilight Hammer Cultist. Rounds and rounds of leather cord were wrapped around his neck, and at first she wagered that he died of strangulation.
The leather cords were necklaces.
The paper’s edges were crumpled tight in her hands, the longer she read on about the murder descriptions. Clearly it was a message sent to her. Her game-mate knew. Knew what she was. Apparently there was another murder earlier in the month she had missed since the ship had left Stormwind. Her stomach twisted, a cauldron of excitement, dissapointment and apprehension in one. She had missed so much. How she would have wished to feel the leather cord, pluck it from the dead cultist’s neck, to have what was hers again, but she was stuck on a dock with an insipid goblin waving papers in her face. How much could this player expose of her? How much could be used to their advantage?!
“Is that her? The new one? Haha, you know Wolf could do better.” The voices caught her off-guard, feminine. The Common tongue. The smell of cheap perfume caught her nose--the scent was outright clogging the air around her.
“Yeah he could be doing me!” A gaggle of giggles exploded behind her. Anisse twitched.
“No, no. He’s got an elf girl. Always with the elf girls, you know.” Another one spoke. “Mhmm. That one looks human. But didn’t she come off the ship?”
“Maybe he’s getting her on the side?” Their voices lowered to a murmur as she glanced backward at the stalking harpies. There was so much cleavage hanging, Anisse wondered why they bothered wearing anything at all.
“Mmmmaybe. She looks like a little rag doll though. I betcha there’s a nice little body under those robes to play with. Hehe, cute. Pretty hair.”
“…c’mon lets go talk to her…”
“Briza you sound like you want to do her!”
More giggling. It rung in Anisse’s ears, and she wanted to run. Far away.
“You know I would do anything for the right price, girls--hey where’s she going?”
The scorched newspaper was left behind in Anisse’s stead as she practically ran for the sanctity of the ship.
It wasn’t all terrible, she thought to herself. She twisted the cap closed upon her newest treasure, the pale green, robust heart floating idly in the concoction of the jar. The orc’s heart was larger than the others she’d had in her renewed collection, and the ‘donator’ had been harder to take down than she thought it would be. Even old orcs were seasoned brawlers, she found out, rubbing the side of her aching jaw, the bruising around her throat--he certainly didn’t go down without a fight. It might’ve been easier to take from the small ports the Captain attacked and sacked, but his rulings against killing and the chaos of the ransacking prevented her from action. It was idiotic, really.
Some lambs are born for the slaughter, after all.
Anisse stiffened as the ideal passed through her mind, a remnant of the Twilight Hammer she’d ran away from. The jar tinked against the little metal shelving she’d had the rest of the jars displayed upon, and she fixed it up with a strong piece of yarn to keep it from sliding off the shelf. What was she doing anyway? Where was the Purpose? Before it seemed so clear, to cull Azeroth. Level the playing field. Press the reset button. Destruction would birth a new land. A new world order.
No more war…
And now where was the Purpose? Fear had crept in to steal her will. But everywhere she looked there was only disease. Perversion. Even the elven city with its needless, suffocating wealth pushed its citizens into sloth and vulgarity despite the potential for magical enlightenment. The orc city had been interesting, at least. She’d never thought a culture basing its language upon grunts and nods could be so decorated in its simplicity. She ran a finger across the jar containing the orc heart. Perhaps that was why she wished for this one so direly, despite the beating taken. The courageous heart, with a will to help her own. If she stared hard enough, she could almost imagine it still beating behind the glass.
“Ship’s landed, girl,” Tia grinned at her from the darkness of the room’s doorway, just at the same time as the hull’s bell rang. “Get some fresh air, eh?”
It was not a bad suggestion, but when Anisse stepped outside to wince at the bright light of Booty Bay, she regretted it. Her head pulsed as the light assaulted her senses, but she bore through it at the whim of the smell of the ocean. Truth be told, she liked the smell, the gentle lapping of the waves at the legs of the dock. Eyes adjusting to the sight, she frowned when she realized how many small, green men decorated the large port. If they were as annoying as the Captain’s ‘buddy’, she was turning right back around to board the ship.
“Got it all right here, sweetie! Read all about it! Stormwind Gazette, Gnome Gnews, Orgrimmar Daily, Azerothian Ladies Digest(™)*! Take your pick! Only 1 gold a piece!“ Newspaper flashed Anisse in the face as one of the annoying goblins shoved them in front of her. She might’ve reacted by throttling the little goblin, but the newspapers caught her attention. Immediately she brought out the large pouch of gold the Captain had given her.
“Give me the Stormwind one…no not that one, the smaller paper with the headlines,” Anisse almost commanded. If it was possible that the paper boy’s eyes could get larger at the sight of the large satchel of gold, they did. The goblin licked his lips and smirked at her as she reached for the paper, jerking the paper away from her fingers. His meaty hand lay palm up in demand of more coin.
“That one’s gonna cost you extra, lady. Harder to get copies of that one. Not as…ya know. Big as the Gazette.” She of course, glowered at the goblin, but she could not deny his cunning enterprise, and gave him the extra coin for the paper.
‘MORE MURDERS! BODIES FOUND IN OLD TOWN MAKING OFFICIALS HEAD’S SPIN!’
The headlines made her face burn.
The photos printed underneath the headline then turned her blood cold. The markings upon the victim’s face were immediately recognizable, though the second victim did not seem so. A Twilight Hammer Cultist. Rounds and rounds of leather cord were wrapped around his neck, and at first she wagered that he died of strangulation.
The leather cords were necklaces.
The paper’s edges were crumpled tight in her hands, the longer she read on about the murder descriptions. Clearly it was a message sent to her. Her game-mate knew. Knew what she was. Apparently there was another murder earlier in the month she had missed since the ship had left Stormwind. Her stomach twisted, a cauldron of excitement, dissapointment and apprehension in one. She had missed so much. How she would have wished to feel the leather cord, pluck it from the dead cultist’s neck, to have what was hers again, but she was stuck on a dock with an insipid goblin waving papers in her face. How much could this player expose of her? How much could be used to their advantage?!
“Is that her? The new one? Haha, you know Wolf could do better.” The voices caught her off-guard, feminine. The Common tongue. The smell of cheap perfume caught her nose--the scent was outright clogging the air around her.
“Yeah he could be doing me!” A gaggle of giggles exploded behind her. Anisse twitched.
“No, no. He’s got an elf girl. Always with the elf girls, you know.” Another one spoke. “Mhmm. That one looks human. But didn’t she come off the ship?”
“Maybe he’s getting her on the side?” Their voices lowered to a murmur as she glanced backward at the stalking harpies. There was so much cleavage hanging, Anisse wondered why they bothered wearing anything at all.
“Mmmmaybe. She looks like a little rag doll though. I betcha there’s a nice little body under those robes to play with. Hehe, cute. Pretty hair.”
“…c’mon lets go talk to her…”
“Briza you sound like you want to do her!”
More giggling. It rung in Anisse’s ears, and she wanted to run. Far away.
“You know I would do anything for the right price, girls--hey where’s she going?”
The scorched newspaper was left behind in Anisse’s stead as she practically ran for the sanctity of the ship.
A Patron of the Lamb #24
The Sin’dorei ranger lurched around in the dirt, the last pleaded words dissolving into a rattle as life began to give out. Her eyes were frozen upon the cloaked figure in death. The one who had stood idly by as she was overwhelmed in the Dead Scar, watching as she was taken down by dozens of undead. Surely she had given her life for the stranger, a true protector of her kind--perhaps she could even forgive the fellow elf for a lack of courage. But to let her die here? Helplessly consumed by the swarms of Scourge? Condemned to become one of them? It was a fate worse than any death the Farstrider could imagine.
The dead began to crowd, their shadows falling over her prone body. She was still conscious! It was a nightmare of nightmares, too weak to even end her own life before they could tear her apart…
The sting of icy magic collected the attentions of the undead, freezing them in place, and then drawing them all away from the Farstrider’s broken body. She had enough strength in her to witness the downfall of all of the zombies. By no means perfection, of course, as the mage circled around and around in the Scar to widdle them down with fire and ice, taking the occasional rake of bony claws to ensure a blast here or there. When all was said and done, a relief slid through the dying elf as the cloaked figure stood over her.
“…th…than-k…you…” she managed to rasp out, feeling the comfort of fingers trace up the side of her face, following the line of her ear. A final, soothing farewell. She would not die alone.
The lips visible under the cowl curved into the smallest of smiles, replying in muddled Thalassian: “Thank you…”
She could process the heavy sting of a fine blade cutting around her left ear as her heart pumped its last.
(Late into the night, later that day)
Below deck, and away from the Captain and his cohorts, Anisse sat upon the cot she was assigned. Humming softly, she sunk the needle through and through her hood, stitching the edge of the blood elf’s ear she claimed to the inside of the fabric. Stuffing it with a long, slender twig she’d procured from her travels to keep it erect, she smiled at her work. It would be passable. Gathering the other ear into her lap, she rethreaded the needle with more twine.
One down, one to go.
“What you be doin’ down here, girl?” Tia’zula caught her off-guard, making the needle slip out of her grasp for a moment. She scowled faintly at the troll, the expression fading soon after she found it. The troll was…tolerable, in comparison to the other members of the crew. She sighed as she slid the needle through the skin, lining it up with the hood once more.
“Preparing.”
Anisse could feel the troll watching her in silence. And then a raspy cackle erupted from her throat. The young woman looked up at Tia, a frown on her face.
“You t’inkin’ dat gonna keep you safe in de city? Coupla elfy ears?”
“It is the best I can do. If the Captain believes I am to be confined to the ship, I’m afraid I have other plans. I do not believe humans are welcomed in the elven forests…” She hoped the elves were not as prone to worldly pleasures as most of the human patrons that stepped into the Lamb had been. After observing the Captain for so long though….Anisse had her doubts. Still, any place was better than the Lamb at this very moment. Making gold as part of the ship’s crew was far more favorable than spending two weeks as an unpaid barmaid.
She hoped the patrons would miss her meatpies as they choked on their ale.
“How ‘bout dis? I help you get ‘round de elf lan’s, you go ‘preparin’ t’ help in de soup kitchen? Captan order it.” Tia grinned as she watched the girl put the finished hood on. The attached ears wobbled a bit before she secured the cowl under her chin with a knot. Though the wood inserts scraped against the sides of her head, the ears would be passable with a bit more support. “You makin’ a cute elf, girl. I make it bettah.”
“Fine..” Anisse swept down her hood, and the ears slid back uselessly, hanging from the fabric. Her eyes drifted off to the long, flat crate that sat on her cot, and she knew the troll was eyeing it too.
“What in dere?”
The girl’s hands went to the tied collar at her throat. Inside, she was relieved to be away from Stormwind, away from the idiots, from the weak-hearted, from the arrogant.
From the thieves…
Yet, the “game” could not be over until it was over. When she had what was rightfully hers.
“…product. When we are in Booty Bay again, perhaps it can be shipped.”
“Can jus’ sell in Silvamoon, eh? Or dat Brill? Dey seem t’ like de pies.”
Anisse held back a chuckle, pursing her lips tight to swallow it as she lifted the flat crate. “Not pies. I will need to refrigerate it, however. There is an icebox in the soup kitchen, yes?”
“I t’ink so.” Tia made way for the young woman as she carried her crate to the end of the rows of cots. Her small boots clinked upon the metal rivets that secured the floorboards of the ship. “Where you be shippin’ it to?”
“The butcher shop.” Anisse said softly, glancing over her shoulder to the troll. “In Stormwind.”
The dead began to crowd, their shadows falling over her prone body. She was still conscious! It was a nightmare of nightmares, too weak to even end her own life before they could tear her apart…
The sting of icy magic collected the attentions of the undead, freezing them in place, and then drawing them all away from the Farstrider’s broken body. She had enough strength in her to witness the downfall of all of the zombies. By no means perfection, of course, as the mage circled around and around in the Scar to widdle them down with fire and ice, taking the occasional rake of bony claws to ensure a blast here or there. When all was said and done, a relief slid through the dying elf as the cloaked figure stood over her.
“…th…than-k…you…” she managed to rasp out, feeling the comfort of fingers trace up the side of her face, following the line of her ear. A final, soothing farewell. She would not die alone.
The lips visible under the cowl curved into the smallest of smiles, replying in muddled Thalassian: “Thank you…”
She could process the heavy sting of a fine blade cutting around her left ear as her heart pumped its last.
(Late into the night, later that day)
Below deck, and away from the Captain and his cohorts, Anisse sat upon the cot she was assigned. Humming softly, she sunk the needle through and through her hood, stitching the edge of the blood elf’s ear she claimed to the inside of the fabric. Stuffing it with a long, slender twig she’d procured from her travels to keep it erect, she smiled at her work. It would be passable. Gathering the other ear into her lap, she rethreaded the needle with more twine.
One down, one to go.
“What you be doin’ down here, girl?” Tia’zula caught her off-guard, making the needle slip out of her grasp for a moment. She scowled faintly at the troll, the expression fading soon after she found it. The troll was…tolerable, in comparison to the other members of the crew. She sighed as she slid the needle through the skin, lining it up with the hood once more.
“Preparing.”
Anisse could feel the troll watching her in silence. And then a raspy cackle erupted from her throat. The young woman looked up at Tia, a frown on her face.
“You t’inkin’ dat gonna keep you safe in de city? Coupla elfy ears?”
“It is the best I can do. If the Captain believes I am to be confined to the ship, I’m afraid I have other plans. I do not believe humans are welcomed in the elven forests…” She hoped the elves were not as prone to worldly pleasures as most of the human patrons that stepped into the Lamb had been. After observing the Captain for so long though….Anisse had her doubts. Still, any place was better than the Lamb at this very moment. Making gold as part of the ship’s crew was far more favorable than spending two weeks as an unpaid barmaid.
She hoped the patrons would miss her meatpies as they choked on their ale.
“How ‘bout dis? I help you get ‘round de elf lan’s, you go ‘preparin’ t’ help in de soup kitchen? Captan order it.” Tia grinned as she watched the girl put the finished hood on. The attached ears wobbled a bit before she secured the cowl under her chin with a knot. Though the wood inserts scraped against the sides of her head, the ears would be passable with a bit more support. “You makin’ a cute elf, girl. I make it bettah.”
“Fine..” Anisse swept down her hood, and the ears slid back uselessly, hanging from the fabric. Her eyes drifted off to the long, flat crate that sat on her cot, and she knew the troll was eyeing it too.
“What in dere?”
The girl’s hands went to the tied collar at her throat. Inside, she was relieved to be away from Stormwind, away from the idiots, from the weak-hearted, from the arrogant.
From the thieves…
Yet, the “game” could not be over until it was over. When she had what was rightfully hers.
“…product. When we are in Booty Bay again, perhaps it can be shipped.”
“Can jus’ sell in Silvamoon, eh? Or dat Brill? Dey seem t’ like de pies.”
Anisse held back a chuckle, pursing her lips tight to swallow it as she lifted the flat crate. “Not pies. I will need to refrigerate it, however. There is an icebox in the soup kitchen, yes?”
“I t’ink so.” Tia made way for the young woman as she carried her crate to the end of the rows of cots. Her small boots clinked upon the metal rivets that secured the floorboards of the ship. “Where you be shippin’ it to?”
“The butcher shop.” Anisse said softly, glancing over her shoulder to the troll. “In Stormwind.”
A Patron of the Lamb #23
It was back to work. But not at the Slaughtered Lamb. Oh no. The tavern could go without her presence for a small while, and Anisse could certainly use a break from the humiliating position as barmaid.
There were things that needed doing.
She did not wait for the cellars to stop spinning from the scrying spell, even, or the insidious whispers from her contact with the Abyss to subside. She wanted what was hers. Her obsession with the pendant had surpassed to a point that she’d almost forgotten about it. Almost. The mocking, taunting voice that slid out of the scrying bowl with its black and white vision irked her. A dog, he called her. A dog on a leash. No, she did not need the pendant.
She wanted it because he had it. He was a thief.
Anisse stumbled out of the Slaughtered Lamb, pacing. Where would she go? What would she do? What could she do? Fingers curled into messy strands of mahogany hair, pulling them loose from her ponytail--yanking. The knowledge that he had such an integral piece of her in the pendant steeped her paranoia until she was a mad, twitching mess. Nevermind that he insulted her.
Stained glass. Books. Shelves. A faceted figure in black and white. An absurd, gentleman’s voice. That is all she had of her pursuer--a minute of collected images and sound.
A surgeon’s bag of tools…the scalpel had been his to begin with. Perhaps there was more to this than she had initially thought?
…she didn’t want to think. She wanted the pendant back.
The images drifting through her mind, her feet led her to the Royal Stormwind Library. A kindly old librarian greeted her with trembling, age-spotted hands. Brittle bones. This one would do, a meaningful sacrifice. She hated to be so ostentatious with the kill, but she needed her pursuer’s attention.
“What can I do for you, my girl?” The old librarian murmured, vision dulled. Not quite the librarian if she could not even see correctly. Anisse wondered how organized the Library really was under the old woman’s direction. Perhaps the culling of this one would pave the way for a more competent book keeper. Anisse smiled as kindly as she could to the old one, softening her rigid voice. She was innocence personified now.
“Perhaps you can help me look for an old transcript, madame?”
“…transcripts? Ahh! That would be in the vaults below! Come, come, I’ll show you. Oh, you sound like a sweet little thing, you do! Remind me of my granddaughter, Lilah. I bet you’re just lovely too! Oh blast these eyes of mine…”
Anisse followed silently, eyeing the heavy door to the lore vaults.
A dog, was she? She would show him a dog…
There were things that needed doing.
She did not wait for the cellars to stop spinning from the scrying spell, even, or the insidious whispers from her contact with the Abyss to subside. She wanted what was hers. Her obsession with the pendant had surpassed to a point that she’d almost forgotten about it. Almost. The mocking, taunting voice that slid out of the scrying bowl with its black and white vision irked her. A dog, he called her. A dog on a leash. No, she did not need the pendant.
She wanted it because he had it. He was a thief.
Anisse stumbled out of the Slaughtered Lamb, pacing. Where would she go? What would she do? What could she do? Fingers curled into messy strands of mahogany hair, pulling them loose from her ponytail--yanking. The knowledge that he had such an integral piece of her in the pendant steeped her paranoia until she was a mad, twitching mess. Nevermind that he insulted her.
Stained glass. Books. Shelves. A faceted figure in black and white. An absurd, gentleman’s voice. That is all she had of her pursuer--a minute of collected images and sound.
A surgeon’s bag of tools…the scalpel had been his to begin with. Perhaps there was more to this than she had initially thought?
…she didn’t want to think. She wanted the pendant back.
The images drifting through her mind, her feet led her to the Royal Stormwind Library. A kindly old librarian greeted her with trembling, age-spotted hands. Brittle bones. This one would do, a meaningful sacrifice. She hated to be so ostentatious with the kill, but she needed her pursuer’s attention.
“What can I do for you, my girl?” The old librarian murmured, vision dulled. Not quite the librarian if she could not even see correctly. Anisse wondered how organized the Library really was under the old woman’s direction. Perhaps the culling of this one would pave the way for a more competent book keeper. Anisse smiled as kindly as she could to the old one, softening her rigid voice. She was innocence personified now.
“Perhaps you can help me look for an old transcript, madame?”
“…transcripts? Ahh! That would be in the vaults below! Come, come, I’ll show you. Oh, you sound like a sweet little thing, you do! Remind me of my granddaughter, Lilah. I bet you’re just lovely too! Oh blast these eyes of mine…”
Anisse followed silently, eyeing the heavy door to the lore vaults.
A dog, was she? She would show him a dog…
A Patron of the Lamb #22
The Cathedral bells rung out their hourly missive--the tenth hour that signaled freedom. Anisse threw her wet washrag with such a force that the metal basin behind the bar tinged painfully in reply when it received it. She threw her apron roughly at the bartender as well, in which Jarel baffled at, blinking up at her. He sighed dolefully at the girl and folded the apron neatly into its place behind the bar.
“Don’t you be angry with me now, Miss Anna. If you’d learn a little in the way of good manners, you might get to keep your tips today.”
Anisse tightened her fists at her side, grumbling out her words. “I was perfectly in line today, Mister Moor.” In her ruffled serving shirt and bright blue cotton skirt, she looked as intimidating as a rag doll. Terribly put-out, she folded her arms across her chest as she scowled at Jarel. The bartender stared back at her, and then threw his hands up, making her flinch a bit in his sudden movement.
“You made the new girl cry! Not to mention that you were unbelievably rude to most of our visitors.”
Anisse’s scowl deepened, her heated voice growing higher with each word she spat. “She was annoying, Mister Moor. I don’t think she was even paying attention on the inventory run! And a gnome, sir?! A gnome? She had to hang onto the bar counter just to see over it! A..and even normal people aren’t that stupidly happy! It’s disturbing!”
Silence fell over the remaining people in the tavern. Only two, but, still, the effect of her shouting was intense. She sneered at the people as they stared at her and Jarel, and they quickly looked away to finish their dinner. And snickered.
“And that man was harassing me, I just know it! He followed me and the insipid gnome after we wrapped up the inventory run,” Anisse growled out quietly now. “And you just let him sit there and….and talk to me!”
Jarel chuckled, rolling his eyes at his temperamental waitress. “Oh dear. The man was talking to you? Should I fine him for such an indiscretion?”
Anisse groaned out now. “He was waiting for me to get off my shift. I know it. He wouldn’t leave me alone! It’s…its distracting!” Her eyes narrowed at the bartender as she hissed at him, the amber color almost glowing in her anger. “I’m surprised you didn’t let him pay for the rest of my shift to take me to Lakeshire, like the other damned patron! They’re all absolutely daft!”
Jarel laughed a little louder at the girl now as she seethed on. “Should I have? Ahahaha, Miss Anna…he probably liked you. You are a cute little thing, after all. You ought to relax and just chat them up--its what’s expected of a barmaid. Don‘t you know that by now? That’s how you earn your tips! You don‘t have to sleep with them too, dear girl.”
“…hhh….” Silence flooded the barmaid, terribly unnerved. She might’ve twitched a few times as she skittered to the end of the bar.
“….you aren’t sleeping with our patrons, are you, Miss Anna?”
A fiery ball of ruined inventory lists streaked past Jarel’s head. The makeshift fireball smashed into the cabinets behind him, rattling wooden bowls on their shelves. Ashes flew all over, blanketing Jarel. He gave a helpless chuckle as he watched the girl storm down to the cellars, torchlight flickering after her. The bartender shifted quickly, clamping a metal pot over the fire burning behind him, snuffing it out. The remaining patrons took their leave of the Slaughtered Lamb, rather quickly.
“…good. We’re not…that type of establish..ment…” Jarel coughed out, wiping off papery ash from around his eyes.
Time passed beneath the floors of the Slaughtered Lamb, and Anisse’s churning irritation had passed with it. Even the warlocks quieted their chatter, their mocking laughter no longer flowing from the squeaking pipelines above her. Sometimes they had enlightening conversation on the subject of demonic magic which she drew from, but they melted into vain gossip too often.
She was restless, and the urge to kill whispered around in the folds of her mind. The scalpel tempted her, even from within the recesses of the surgeon’s bag, hidden away. Yet the sneering sounds of the felguard made that possible calm from killing all but drain away. How she hated the demon! She could imagine it now, the vicious demonspawn taking all her delight from her as it would take her kills, ruining the things which she held precious inside of each body. Like some inanely violent child, gleefully tearing up toys just to watch them break.
She wouldn’t give the bastard the chance. Not this time.
And so Anisse lay there on the floor of her dirty, ruined parlor, staring up at the threads of spidery webbing hanging from the stone ceiling. Perhaps counting each strand would lull her into the sleep she needed. As her mind slipped away from the musty smelling catacombs, questioning thoughts came to her--thoughts she hadn‘t considered in a long, long time. Was there more, perhaps, to this life than the Lamb, the impending deaths of others, collecting, and her studies? Was there anything more worth seeking…?
…the last time she had such a “revival”, she joined the Twilight’s Hammer. Look where that’s brought you now…
Sighing outwardly, she ignored the sound of ashy debree rustling as she turned on her side, accepting sleep from the stone cold catacomb floors.
Was there anything more worth her time in this world?
‘Not likely…’ Anisse breathed out sleepily to herself as she found a dreamless sleep.
“Don’t you be angry with me now, Miss Anna. If you’d learn a little in the way of good manners, you might get to keep your tips today.”
Anisse tightened her fists at her side, grumbling out her words. “I was perfectly in line today, Mister Moor.” In her ruffled serving shirt and bright blue cotton skirt, she looked as intimidating as a rag doll. Terribly put-out, she folded her arms across her chest as she scowled at Jarel. The bartender stared back at her, and then threw his hands up, making her flinch a bit in his sudden movement.
“You made the new girl cry! Not to mention that you were unbelievably rude to most of our visitors.”
Anisse’s scowl deepened, her heated voice growing higher with each word she spat. “She was annoying, Mister Moor. I don’t think she was even paying attention on the inventory run! And a gnome, sir?! A gnome? She had to hang onto the bar counter just to see over it! A..and even normal people aren’t that stupidly happy! It’s disturbing!”
Silence fell over the remaining people in the tavern. Only two, but, still, the effect of her shouting was intense. She sneered at the people as they stared at her and Jarel, and they quickly looked away to finish their dinner. And snickered.
“And that man was harassing me, I just know it! He followed me and the insipid gnome after we wrapped up the inventory run,” Anisse growled out quietly now. “And you just let him sit there and….and talk to me!”
Jarel chuckled, rolling his eyes at his temperamental waitress. “Oh dear. The man was talking to you? Should I fine him for such an indiscretion?”
Anisse groaned out now. “He was waiting for me to get off my shift. I know it. He wouldn’t leave me alone! It’s…its distracting!” Her eyes narrowed at the bartender as she hissed at him, the amber color almost glowing in her anger. “I’m surprised you didn’t let him pay for the rest of my shift to take me to Lakeshire, like the other damned patron! They’re all absolutely daft!”
Jarel laughed a little louder at the girl now as she seethed on. “Should I have? Ahahaha, Miss Anna…he probably liked you. You are a cute little thing, after all. You ought to relax and just chat them up--its what’s expected of a barmaid. Don‘t you know that by now? That’s how you earn your tips! You don‘t have to sleep with them too, dear girl.”
“…hhh….” Silence flooded the barmaid, terribly unnerved. She might’ve twitched a few times as she skittered to the end of the bar.
“….you aren’t sleeping with our patrons, are you, Miss Anna?”
A fiery ball of ruined inventory lists streaked past Jarel’s head. The makeshift fireball smashed into the cabinets behind him, rattling wooden bowls on their shelves. Ashes flew all over, blanketing Jarel. He gave a helpless chuckle as he watched the girl storm down to the cellars, torchlight flickering after her. The bartender shifted quickly, clamping a metal pot over the fire burning behind him, snuffing it out. The remaining patrons took their leave of the Slaughtered Lamb, rather quickly.
“…good. We’re not…that type of establish..ment…” Jarel coughed out, wiping off papery ash from around his eyes.
Time passed beneath the floors of the Slaughtered Lamb, and Anisse’s churning irritation had passed with it. Even the warlocks quieted their chatter, their mocking laughter no longer flowing from the squeaking pipelines above her. Sometimes they had enlightening conversation on the subject of demonic magic which she drew from, but they melted into vain gossip too often.
She was restless, and the urge to kill whispered around in the folds of her mind. The scalpel tempted her, even from within the recesses of the surgeon’s bag, hidden away. Yet the sneering sounds of the felguard made that possible calm from killing all but drain away. How she hated the demon! She could imagine it now, the vicious demonspawn taking all her delight from her as it would take her kills, ruining the things which she held precious inside of each body. Like some inanely violent child, gleefully tearing up toys just to watch them break.
She wouldn’t give the bastard the chance. Not this time.
And so Anisse lay there on the floor of her dirty, ruined parlor, staring up at the threads of spidery webbing hanging from the stone ceiling. Perhaps counting each strand would lull her into the sleep she needed. As her mind slipped away from the musty smelling catacombs, questioning thoughts came to her--thoughts she hadn‘t considered in a long, long time. Was there more, perhaps, to this life than the Lamb, the impending deaths of others, collecting, and her studies? Was there anything more worth seeking…?
…the last time she had such a “revival”, she joined the Twilight’s Hammer. Look where that’s brought you now…
Sighing outwardly, she ignored the sound of ashy debree rustling as she turned on her side, accepting sleep from the stone cold catacomb floors.
Was there anything more worth her time in this world?
‘Not likely…’ Anisse breathed out sleepily to herself as she found a dreamless sleep.
A Patron of the Lamb #22
(...and mild language! Haha, okay, sort of. This takes place after some creepy secret santa gift exchange rp. In a butcher shop, no less.)
Nearly sundown over Westfall’s dry fields, and a scream broke out over the wheat-colored grass. Dust clouds swirled as the oversized boar tore at the grass with its rough hooves, squealing in high-pitched fever in dumb, unexplainable agony. The torment only ended when the axe blade cleaved through its head, halving the small brain it contained. Twitching its last upon the grass, the demon spat upon the lesser creature, towering formidably over the corpse…and its mistress.
“It is done, weakling.” The felguard muttered out disdainfully to the petite human. No doubt he thought of doing the same to her as he had done to the pig. Instead, his eyes dropped to the gouge wounds in her side. “How pitiful you are. This beast’s tusks can hardly scratch my own body, and you limp like a diseased flesh bag.” The demon sneered, his thick fingers curling around his axe tightly. “Allow me to help put you out of your misery.”
Anisse kept her scathing gaze on the demon. Of the imp and the void walker, she hated this new one the most, some queer embodiment of unfathomable rage and violence. They seemed to exist to test her reign over her own emotion, to tempt it out, and lose control. The imp was a coward, but a greedy coward, and more than once had the thing argued its own sense into her. The void walker simply made her hate the world. Perhaps more than the Twilight Hammer could have--it made her hate herself, her own actions.
But this creature, this muscle-bound demonic lout: it was the worst of them all.
It could look down on her, where its belittling words would make the most impact.
Anisse sauntered up to the demon, paying no mind to the wounds in her side, and the felguard locked eyes with her, this young mortal girl who would not be intimidated. Her small, slender hands pressed upon the metal of his axe head as it trembled with a violent desire to use. It could destroy her. Violate her small body and then rip it to shreds, add color to this bleak world with her entrails.
But the felguard would not dare move, staring into those cold, amber eyes.
“I have already taken your heart once, demon,” Anisse said very plainly. “How did it feel, waiting in agony for the magics of your world to repair what I did to you?” The warlock pressed up onto her toes, her slender hand lain upon the area where his small, beating heart pumped beneath. Her lips whispered with intention, soft, and biting with truth.
“I will gladly do it again before banishing you to the Netherworld, if you do not remain silent.”
The felguard’s eyes gleamed an enraged red, unphased by the threat. “Shove it up your hole, miserable little bi--”
The demon found it hard to speak his words with his lips sliced off. Shocked by the pain, the demon dropped its axe as a six-inch scalpel was driven through it’s eyeball, and pulled back out. The bloody eye now sat upon Anisse’s blade like a pickled, large olive. She whispered in demonic quickly as the felguard toppled to its knees, groaning in agony, and the hulking lump went stiff as the spell took hold. It sat, all of it’s body phased out of existence…except for its head. Raging in tongues unknown to its mistress, Anisse came closer, slowly pulling the impaled eyeball off of her renewed scalpel.
The thing just had to spoil her good mood, didn’t it? Winter’s Veil had not been too disappointing. She’d been lead to a butcher shop teeming with jars of gifts, and then let down with a written threat. Her benefactor was a confusing one, to be certain. The scalpel tasted more and more demonic face flesh as she thought on this, deaf to the felguard’s snarling screams. Is that what this little “game” boiled down to? A hunt? A promise to end her life? She sighed, prying the other eyeball out of the demon’s face, and slipping it onto her scalpel as well. She could not really say she was surprised, but she was disappointed. There were many in her lifetime that had wished to end her existence, after all. The hunt was always the same, in the end, with the same players.
They would die. Or they would move on to more “interesting sport.”
And nothing would be learned.
Anisse looked upon the bloody mess of the felguard’s face, and sighed, finally banishing the demon completely. This one would take time to be broken, and she was unsatisfied with her lack of focus during the breaking. Tying the demon’s torn eye-stalks together, she looked over the horizon. The sun had disappeared, and a chilled wind took over the sun scorched plains. She winced as she began to feel the sting of the gouging marks in her side, taken from the hulking boar. At least she was calm--the demon hadn’t gotten to her. She looked down at the pair of demonic eyeballs and smiled, wiggling them in her fingers, considering. It wasn’t a terrible day, and she had enough gold for a good bed.
The jars within her satchel clinked together as she limped, slowly, back to a place she could heal. The distinct, large eyeballs were left hanging off the branch of a dead tree.
And she cared not who found them first.
Nearly sundown over Westfall’s dry fields, and a scream broke out over the wheat-colored grass. Dust clouds swirled as the oversized boar tore at the grass with its rough hooves, squealing in high-pitched fever in dumb, unexplainable agony. The torment only ended when the axe blade cleaved through its head, halving the small brain it contained. Twitching its last upon the grass, the demon spat upon the lesser creature, towering formidably over the corpse…and its mistress.
“It is done, weakling.” The felguard muttered out disdainfully to the petite human. No doubt he thought of doing the same to her as he had done to the pig. Instead, his eyes dropped to the gouge wounds in her side. “How pitiful you are. This beast’s tusks can hardly scratch my own body, and you limp like a diseased flesh bag.” The demon sneered, his thick fingers curling around his axe tightly. “Allow me to help put you out of your misery.”
Anisse kept her scathing gaze on the demon. Of the imp and the void walker, she hated this new one the most, some queer embodiment of unfathomable rage and violence. They seemed to exist to test her reign over her own emotion, to tempt it out, and lose control. The imp was a coward, but a greedy coward, and more than once had the thing argued its own sense into her. The void walker simply made her hate the world. Perhaps more than the Twilight Hammer could have--it made her hate herself, her own actions.
But this creature, this muscle-bound demonic lout: it was the worst of them all.
It could look down on her, where its belittling words would make the most impact.
Anisse sauntered up to the demon, paying no mind to the wounds in her side, and the felguard locked eyes with her, this young mortal girl who would not be intimidated. Her small, slender hands pressed upon the metal of his axe head as it trembled with a violent desire to use. It could destroy her. Violate her small body and then rip it to shreds, add color to this bleak world with her entrails.
But the felguard would not dare move, staring into those cold, amber eyes.
“I have already taken your heart once, demon,” Anisse said very plainly. “How did it feel, waiting in agony for the magics of your world to repair what I did to you?” The warlock pressed up onto her toes, her slender hand lain upon the area where his small, beating heart pumped beneath. Her lips whispered with intention, soft, and biting with truth.
“I will gladly do it again before banishing you to the Netherworld, if you do not remain silent.”
The felguard’s eyes gleamed an enraged red, unphased by the threat. “Shove it up your hole, miserable little bi--”
The demon found it hard to speak his words with his lips sliced off. Shocked by the pain, the demon dropped its axe as a six-inch scalpel was driven through it’s eyeball, and pulled back out. The bloody eye now sat upon Anisse’s blade like a pickled, large olive. She whispered in demonic quickly as the felguard toppled to its knees, groaning in agony, and the hulking lump went stiff as the spell took hold. It sat, all of it’s body phased out of existence…except for its head. Raging in tongues unknown to its mistress, Anisse came closer, slowly pulling the impaled eyeball off of her renewed scalpel.
The thing just had to spoil her good mood, didn’t it? Winter’s Veil had not been too disappointing. She’d been lead to a butcher shop teeming with jars of gifts, and then let down with a written threat. Her benefactor was a confusing one, to be certain. The scalpel tasted more and more demonic face flesh as she thought on this, deaf to the felguard’s snarling screams. Is that what this little “game” boiled down to? A hunt? A promise to end her life? She sighed, prying the other eyeball out of the demon’s face, and slipping it onto her scalpel as well. She could not really say she was surprised, but she was disappointed. There were many in her lifetime that had wished to end her existence, after all. The hunt was always the same, in the end, with the same players.
They would die. Or they would move on to more “interesting sport.”
And nothing would be learned.
Anisse looked upon the bloody mess of the felguard’s face, and sighed, finally banishing the demon completely. This one would take time to be broken, and she was unsatisfied with her lack of focus during the breaking. Tying the demon’s torn eye-stalks together, she looked over the horizon. The sun had disappeared, and a chilled wind took over the sun scorched plains. She winced as she began to feel the sting of the gouging marks in her side, taken from the hulking boar. At least she was calm--the demon hadn’t gotten to her. She looked down at the pair of demonic eyeballs and smiled, wiggling them in her fingers, considering. It wasn’t a terrible day, and she had enough gold for a good bed.
The jars within her satchel clinked together as she limped, slowly, back to a place she could heal. The distinct, large eyeballs were left hanging off the branch of a dead tree.
And she cared not who found them first.
A Patron of the Lamb #21
The Defias Hideout had seen fewer newcomers throughout the day than it was used to, and that was clearly because of the bloody mess left just a few feet in front of the mine’s entrance. Someone was in a celebratory mood and eager to share the season’s spirit, from the look of the barren tree, now laced with bright décor.
Unfortunately, no one was as eager to admire the work that had been put into it.
The fleshy garlands had been dried out by now under the harsh sun, and already were attracting Fleshrippers overhead, giving the homeless and the vagrant even less reason to approach the mines. The three under the tree, nameless “gifters”, were seated, bound to the sun-bleached trunk. No one would miss the three--the Decorator had made sure of that, but an almost loving attention was spent in hanging their innards all over the barren branches in grosteque display.
And, ohh, at the top, did the bundle of hearts shine. How the Decorator would be displeased to see the carrion bird try to lift off with the bundle, tearing chunks out of the fleshy “star”. Yet, like many of her new neighbors, Anisse had become homeless, for even Jarel didn’t have the gold to keep from charging her for room and board at the Slaughtered Lamb. She most certainly wasn’t going to pay for a corner of burnt up commodities in the cellars, so home, at least for now, was deep in the mines, shared with numerous other unwanted.
Despite her lot in life, Anisse was in good spirits, even with the news that she might be replaced as a waitress. Perhaps later she could concentrate on life’s little irritations, but these offerings had meaning, and she was proud that the kills did not go wasted. What was more, was that she’d been gifted another heart! In the mail, no less! She eyed the basilisk heart inside of its jar and smiled dotingly upon it in the weak light of her corner. Dried out, but whole. Greatfather Winter worked in mysterious ways.
And of course, somewhere in the burnt surgeon’s bag was the other jar, housing the other gifted heart…the other that urged a response from her.
Anisse never imagined she’d grow so excited at the thought of someone appreciating her work, but she was, and she hoped with all of her being that her Winter’s Veil tree would be appreciated too.
If the birds didn’t “appreciate” it completely first.
Unfortunately, no one was as eager to admire the work that had been put into it.
The fleshy garlands had been dried out by now under the harsh sun, and already were attracting Fleshrippers overhead, giving the homeless and the vagrant even less reason to approach the mines. The three under the tree, nameless “gifters”, were seated, bound to the sun-bleached trunk. No one would miss the three--the Decorator had made sure of that, but an almost loving attention was spent in hanging their innards all over the barren branches in grosteque display.
And, ohh, at the top, did the bundle of hearts shine. How the Decorator would be displeased to see the carrion bird try to lift off with the bundle, tearing chunks out of the fleshy “star”. Yet, like many of her new neighbors, Anisse had become homeless, for even Jarel didn’t have the gold to keep from charging her for room and board at the Slaughtered Lamb. She most certainly wasn’t going to pay for a corner of burnt up commodities in the cellars, so home, at least for now, was deep in the mines, shared with numerous other unwanted.
Despite her lot in life, Anisse was in good spirits, even with the news that she might be replaced as a waitress. Perhaps later she could concentrate on life’s little irritations, but these offerings had meaning, and she was proud that the kills did not go wasted. What was more, was that she’d been gifted another heart! In the mail, no less! She eyed the basilisk heart inside of its jar and smiled dotingly upon it in the weak light of her corner. Dried out, but whole. Greatfather Winter worked in mysterious ways.
And of course, somewhere in the burnt surgeon’s bag was the other jar, housing the other gifted heart…the other that urged a response from her.
Anisse never imagined she’d grow so excited at the thought of someone appreciating her work, but she was, and she hoped with all of her being that her Winter’s Veil tree would be appreciated too.
If the birds didn’t “appreciate” it completely first.
A Patron of the Lamb #20
It was the worst day ever recorded in the definition of “worst days” for the barmaid of the Slaughtered Lamb. Particularly horrible days seemed to visit upon Anisse regularly, and whether this was because of her habitual disagreeable nature toward the world and its people, or just plain bad luck, it just couldn’t be decided. Perhaps, in fact, it was a combination of the two blended together, but the day had grown to its crescendo in things that could go wrong.
The tattered remains of her bed hung in ashy strings against the metal bed frame, the mattress having burnt down to wiry metal coils. Still, she managed to lay sprawled upon the uncomfortable frame, feeling the coils dent in to her back. She sighed, trying to find sleep. Of course she could not. Everything was in ruin around her. The crates that once served as walls to her parlor room were in disarray, some outright smashed in her efforts to put out the fire that had overtaken her home. The chest that contained her treasures still sat, askew of its usual spot, the kept hearts having been boiled in their own chemical concoctions because of the disaster. The rank odor of burning flesh could not be rid of, even with the lid closed. It hurt to see her precious work undone, and despite it all, she could not stop staring at the mahogany chest now burnt black.
What tore at her mind the most was that she could not remember how the fire started.
In fact, her head would begin to burn at the slightest will to try to remember what had happened before the moment she’d waken up to see the Captain’s face above her, trying to haul her out of the Slaughtered Lamb’s cellar lest she burn as well. She would have scalded her hands gladly in order to save the treasure chest if Captain Wolf had let her, but like most wolves, he had been irritatingly stubborn and had a grip that would let go for nothing. Despite her weariness, she again tried to put her thoughts together, piecing the events in the order that they happened over the course of the terrible day.
Anisse groaned at the thought of the obscenely large man that payed off Jarel to take her fishing in Lakeshire earlier in the day, and she let go of his name as easily as she had avoided his hidden intentions. What did stick was the incessant feeling of being drenched in water, long after she’d fallen in the lake. There were the violent wolf-men that had completely wrecked the jovial bartender’s mood with their idiotic fighting. At least the chunk of wood torn out of the doorway had been appropriately reimbursed, which was more than Anisse could say for her parlor room. It would take time, gold, and possibly a few gently used furniture pieces for the space to feel like home again.
The coils of the ruined mattress creaked as she turned on her side, trying to ignore the pain of their digging into her body. Had she burned down the room? And why? The Captain certainly thought that’s what had happened, and a sour backtaste developed at the back of her throat as she began to see it as the only explanation. She hadn’t known what she was thinking, dragging him with her in order to restock the Lamb’s supply of meat, but the little animals of the forest provided little comfort with their offering, their hearts meager contributions to the beginnings of her collection. Her gaze slid up to the ruined vanity, where the iced container sat, housing the fresh organs. A sigh, and she rose off the remains of the bed, the buzzing, stinging pain of her head denying her sleep.
There were new jars to be filled, after all.
Jarel’s voice sounded as if it were slow, and muddled, calling to her from underwater, his nags lost to her in her lack of sleep as she climbed up to the tavern. There was only one concern she had at the moment, and answering his questions was not one of them. Perhaps the matter of the cellar could be explained later. A wayward candle, or a misfired spell by one of the neonate warlocks….there were many excuses to use. It was near daylight, the dark skies over Stormwind already touched with yellows at the horizon.
Her feet were walking of their own volition, restless, though her mind had not made up where to go. The soft boots she wore were drawing her eyes, hardly making a sound through the even softer grass. Not that she was trying to be sneaky--she was not exactly skilled at such things, but the simplicity of the fact that she could walk so quietly was admittedly, surprising. When she finally pulled herself out of those idle thoughts, she’d realized she was walking around the entire perimeter of the Mage Quarter, around and around. How many circuits had she made until just now?
Shaking her mind free of her dazed fog, Anisse stopped herself right before the Blue Recluse tavern, considering walking in to look at their own menu, in realization that she’d never done so before. Her gaze swept over the dining tables decorating the entrance of the tavern, and then her feet came to a stop as she noticed a figure sitting on one of the chairs, his features shadowed by the overhanging trees. He was staring at her. She knew it. Wordless, but staring at her expectantly, as so many patrons of the Lamb would do. As if she were to know what drink was wanted, what meal he wanted, that demeaning stare that questioned her faculties and her dependability as a waitress.
It was driving her mad.
“Stop looking at me like that! I don’t even work here…!” she growled out in a whisper, coming around the ramp to confront the figure. He had already been served by the look of things, even! “….stop staring at me…”
The corpse had no eyes to stare at her with.
Anisse grew unnervingly quiet when she realized his eyeballs were actually impaled upon an exposed rib, the torso opened down to the pelvis. It was an immaculately clean corpse, drained of blood, and relieved of all its inner organs. The sightless head hung low upon the chest, not staring as she thought it had been. Not at her, at least.
It seemed to be staring at the heart within its own cavity, only hanging by a thread of viscera.
Just as she thought she was hallucinating, her eyes connected to the serving plate before the seated body. There lay the rest of his organs, artfully poised to deliver a message:
YOUR TURN
A shiver ran up her spine of both dread and excitement, her fingers trembling with anticipation as she reached for the hanging heart and plucked it like fruit from a tree. Somehow, she knew this was all for her.
Someone was waiting for her to play.
The tattered remains of her bed hung in ashy strings against the metal bed frame, the mattress having burnt down to wiry metal coils. Still, she managed to lay sprawled upon the uncomfortable frame, feeling the coils dent in to her back. She sighed, trying to find sleep. Of course she could not. Everything was in ruin around her. The crates that once served as walls to her parlor room were in disarray, some outright smashed in her efforts to put out the fire that had overtaken her home. The chest that contained her treasures still sat, askew of its usual spot, the kept hearts having been boiled in their own chemical concoctions because of the disaster. The rank odor of burning flesh could not be rid of, even with the lid closed. It hurt to see her precious work undone, and despite it all, she could not stop staring at the mahogany chest now burnt black.
What tore at her mind the most was that she could not remember how the fire started.
In fact, her head would begin to burn at the slightest will to try to remember what had happened before the moment she’d waken up to see the Captain’s face above her, trying to haul her out of the Slaughtered Lamb’s cellar lest she burn as well. She would have scalded her hands gladly in order to save the treasure chest if Captain Wolf had let her, but like most wolves, he had been irritatingly stubborn and had a grip that would let go for nothing. Despite her weariness, she again tried to put her thoughts together, piecing the events in the order that they happened over the course of the terrible day.
Anisse groaned at the thought of the obscenely large man that payed off Jarel to take her fishing in Lakeshire earlier in the day, and she let go of his name as easily as she had avoided his hidden intentions. What did stick was the incessant feeling of being drenched in water, long after she’d fallen in the lake. There were the violent wolf-men that had completely wrecked the jovial bartender’s mood with their idiotic fighting. At least the chunk of wood torn out of the doorway had been appropriately reimbursed, which was more than Anisse could say for her parlor room. It would take time, gold, and possibly a few gently used furniture pieces for the space to feel like home again.
The coils of the ruined mattress creaked as she turned on her side, trying to ignore the pain of their digging into her body. Had she burned down the room? And why? The Captain certainly thought that’s what had happened, and a sour backtaste developed at the back of her throat as she began to see it as the only explanation. She hadn’t known what she was thinking, dragging him with her in order to restock the Lamb’s supply of meat, but the little animals of the forest provided little comfort with their offering, their hearts meager contributions to the beginnings of her collection. Her gaze slid up to the ruined vanity, where the iced container sat, housing the fresh organs. A sigh, and she rose off the remains of the bed, the buzzing, stinging pain of her head denying her sleep.
There were new jars to be filled, after all.
Jarel’s voice sounded as if it were slow, and muddled, calling to her from underwater, his nags lost to her in her lack of sleep as she climbed up to the tavern. There was only one concern she had at the moment, and answering his questions was not one of them. Perhaps the matter of the cellar could be explained later. A wayward candle, or a misfired spell by one of the neonate warlocks….there were many excuses to use. It was near daylight, the dark skies over Stormwind already touched with yellows at the horizon.
Her feet were walking of their own volition, restless, though her mind had not made up where to go. The soft boots she wore were drawing her eyes, hardly making a sound through the even softer grass. Not that she was trying to be sneaky--she was not exactly skilled at such things, but the simplicity of the fact that she could walk so quietly was admittedly, surprising. When she finally pulled herself out of those idle thoughts, she’d realized she was walking around the entire perimeter of the Mage Quarter, around and around. How many circuits had she made until just now?
Shaking her mind free of her dazed fog, Anisse stopped herself right before the Blue Recluse tavern, considering walking in to look at their own menu, in realization that she’d never done so before. Her gaze swept over the dining tables decorating the entrance of the tavern, and then her feet came to a stop as she noticed a figure sitting on one of the chairs, his features shadowed by the overhanging trees. He was staring at her. She knew it. Wordless, but staring at her expectantly, as so many patrons of the Lamb would do. As if she were to know what drink was wanted, what meal he wanted, that demeaning stare that questioned her faculties and her dependability as a waitress.
It was driving her mad.
“Stop looking at me like that! I don’t even work here…!” she growled out in a whisper, coming around the ramp to confront the figure. He had already been served by the look of things, even! “….stop staring at me…”
The corpse had no eyes to stare at her with.
Anisse grew unnervingly quiet when she realized his eyeballs were actually impaled upon an exposed rib, the torso opened down to the pelvis. It was an immaculately clean corpse, drained of blood, and relieved of all its inner organs. The sightless head hung low upon the chest, not staring as she thought it had been. Not at her, at least.
It seemed to be staring at the heart within its own cavity, only hanging by a thread of viscera.
Just as she thought she was hallucinating, her eyes connected to the serving plate before the seated body. There lay the rest of his organs, artfully poised to deliver a message:
YOUR TURN
A shiver ran up her spine of both dread and excitement, her fingers trembling with anticipation as she reached for the hanging heart and plucked it like fruit from a tree. Somehow, she knew this was all for her.
Someone was waiting for her to play.
A Patron of the Lamb #19
“Pain? That is ‘batha’, yes?” Anisse guided the ritual blade down the wound, reopening it slowly. She watched as the back that wore the wound shivered under the pain, and the anticipation of the pain to come, for there were nine more scabbed gashes to be reopened.
‘B--baothah!…’ the elf stabbed into her mind, unable to speak the words. The accent, even in Anisse’s mind, was perfect. She gasped out as the blade cut down the low end of her back, widening the gash. Anisse smiled behind her “student”, and brushed the moist tendrils of hair at the back of the girl’s neck. She was drenched in her own sweat.
“You are taking this better than I thought you would. You’ve not screamed yet.” Anisse’s voice was soft, perhaps the closest to understanding and compassion she might come. The lesson between instructor and student, or torturer and tortured, was a bond. Still, she was unmerciful with the enactment. The dagger started again at the top of the next scabbed gash, giving the elf no time to prepare. This time the girl writhed, sobbing aloud, feeling the searing pain of the blade cut once again into her skin. It hurt the most when the blade tore against fresher skin next to the scabbed wound, Anna knew.
She knew because she’d endured this herself once before. And such a lesson could not be easily forgotten.
“Focus.” The urge in her words now was as sharp as the ritual blade she wielded, which now dragged down to the middle of her back. “’Baothah’--pain. And Goodbye? Or Farewell?”
‘Sh….shor-r-r-rel’aran,’ Rain stretched out the translation more than she had meant to, hissing out the words into Anisse’s mind as the cursed blade tore through fresh skin.
“Shore. Shorel? Shorelran?” Anisse repeated with all the calm of a priest at night mass. She sighed as she started at the tip of the third gash. “You are not focusing. That is the reason why you feel the pain so readily. How will you expect to defend yourself if you double-over at the edge of a dagger? There are worse pains, Rain, and you must be ready to feel them, ready to numb yourself to an infliction.” The elf girl only seemed to sob louder as the mess upon her back only grew bloodier. It was only the second day of Rain’s lesson, Anisse thought to herself. Perhaps she was being too impatient, when there was still the rest of the week to see how this one would progress.
Watching this girl writhe and shudder into sobs, however, Anisse drew in breath, quieting the urge to drive the blade into Rain’s back, and have at the heart on the other side. It would be easy, as she preferred her victims to be, and within the seclusion of the sound-warded parlor, there was no better place for such a kill. But…this was an agreement, and if Anisse did not honor such a word, what would that make her? Would she not herself be acting upon her own base instincts, her own desires, as she condemned the Captain’s loose ways for, or this girl’s desperate hunger for affection? There was room for improvement here.
And who was she to deny Rain’s chance for betterment?
Her jar could go empty for a few more days, Anna told herself. The lady mage and the scraggly farmer of Westfall fell, both wasted kills, unable to get what she had wanted. Just a few more days. She could find a new scalpel, easy as pie. No one could stop her collection if she was careful. Even if one was indeed, watching. Was someone watching…? She questioned it now. Surely the impending attacks upon the city by her former brethren had the power to compel even the most astute mind from her doings. Yes, there were more pressing matters, weren’t there? Perhaps, even, there were more choice stalking grounds outside of Elwynn Forest?
An unseen heart beat out there somewhere, just waiting to be collected.
‘Is it ov…over yet..?’ Anisse could hear the girl’s voiceless whisper offer itself to her, breaking her own train of thought. The ninth gash was cut open, and by now the elf was ready to fall over onto the carpet. The manacles shook with her shuddering, and they were tight--even subconsciously, Rain was trying to physically escape the pain, instead of using her mind as its own escape.
“It will not be over, Rain. “ She leaned in toward one of the elf’s long, slender ears, whispering. “It will never be over, until you let it be.”
The blade was drug down the final gash, and Anisse was rewarded with silence, no whimper made. Disappointment settled in when she realized the girl was only silent because she had blacked out from the pain.
No matter. The girl would come to crave the pain come the end of the week.
Standing over Rain, the saucer of water Anisse had filled was pushed gently toward the unconscious girl, just within reach of her while she was restrained. It was important for her to receive no luxury, as Anisse remembered thoroughly on her own harrowing lesson taught by the Twilights years ago. She would still need to survive, however, and water was a basic necessity for all creatures to live on. Though a week of this rigorous training was hardly comparable to the month’s worth of lessons she herself remembered so clearly, the week would serve to impact the girl in the way she wished. In a way, Anna was giving over a precious piece of knowledge in undertaking this instruction, and it felt good to finally share a part of herself that did not concern meatpies. She hoped too that the Captain learned from her example as well, those weeks ago. When the heart is weak, the mind cannot grow.
She’d nearly made it to the top of the winding ramp of the Lamb, before realizing she was there and that Jarel was speaking to her.
“Spending more time than usual down there, girl. Go on, get some sunshine, eh?” The bartender was stacking mugs up into pyramids out of sheer boredom. It seemed his customers all had somewhere else to be tonight. To say that might have something to do with a rather large dragon landing atop Stormwind would be an understatement. Somewhere in the depths of her heart, Anisse felt a dark pride, knowing that her people were responsible for the drake’s appearance.
“I think I might just do that.” Anisse stared on into the exit of the Lamb, feeling a few strands of hair brush her face, loose. Tightening the long black ribbon that now held her hair in place, she started outside, ready to see more of the chaos outside of the city gates.
The farmer’s ribbon was far more comfortable than a simple rubber band.
‘B--baothah!…’ the elf stabbed into her mind, unable to speak the words. The accent, even in Anisse’s mind, was perfect. She gasped out as the blade cut down the low end of her back, widening the gash. Anisse smiled behind her “student”, and brushed the moist tendrils of hair at the back of the girl’s neck. She was drenched in her own sweat.
“You are taking this better than I thought you would. You’ve not screamed yet.” Anisse’s voice was soft, perhaps the closest to understanding and compassion she might come. The lesson between instructor and student, or torturer and tortured, was a bond. Still, she was unmerciful with the enactment. The dagger started again at the top of the next scabbed gash, giving the elf no time to prepare. This time the girl writhed, sobbing aloud, feeling the searing pain of the blade cut once again into her skin. It hurt the most when the blade tore against fresher skin next to the scabbed wound, Anna knew.
She knew because she’d endured this herself once before. And such a lesson could not be easily forgotten.
“Focus.” The urge in her words now was as sharp as the ritual blade she wielded, which now dragged down to the middle of her back. “’Baothah’--pain. And Goodbye? Or Farewell?”
‘Sh….shor-r-r-rel’aran,’ Rain stretched out the translation more than she had meant to, hissing out the words into Anisse’s mind as the cursed blade tore through fresh skin.
“Shore. Shorel? Shorelran?” Anisse repeated with all the calm of a priest at night mass. She sighed as she started at the tip of the third gash. “You are not focusing. That is the reason why you feel the pain so readily. How will you expect to defend yourself if you double-over at the edge of a dagger? There are worse pains, Rain, and you must be ready to feel them, ready to numb yourself to an infliction.” The elf girl only seemed to sob louder as the mess upon her back only grew bloodier. It was only the second day of Rain’s lesson, Anisse thought to herself. Perhaps she was being too impatient, when there was still the rest of the week to see how this one would progress.
Watching this girl writhe and shudder into sobs, however, Anisse drew in breath, quieting the urge to drive the blade into Rain’s back, and have at the heart on the other side. It would be easy, as she preferred her victims to be, and within the seclusion of the sound-warded parlor, there was no better place for such a kill. But…this was an agreement, and if Anisse did not honor such a word, what would that make her? Would she not herself be acting upon her own base instincts, her own desires, as she condemned the Captain’s loose ways for, or this girl’s desperate hunger for affection? There was room for improvement here.
And who was she to deny Rain’s chance for betterment?
Her jar could go empty for a few more days, Anna told herself. The lady mage and the scraggly farmer of Westfall fell, both wasted kills, unable to get what she had wanted. Just a few more days. She could find a new scalpel, easy as pie. No one could stop her collection if she was careful. Even if one was indeed, watching. Was someone watching…? She questioned it now. Surely the impending attacks upon the city by her former brethren had the power to compel even the most astute mind from her doings. Yes, there were more pressing matters, weren’t there? Perhaps, even, there were more choice stalking grounds outside of Elwynn Forest?
An unseen heart beat out there somewhere, just waiting to be collected.
‘Is it ov…over yet..?’ Anisse could hear the girl’s voiceless whisper offer itself to her, breaking her own train of thought. The ninth gash was cut open, and by now the elf was ready to fall over onto the carpet. The manacles shook with her shuddering, and they were tight--even subconsciously, Rain was trying to physically escape the pain, instead of using her mind as its own escape.
“It will not be over, Rain. “ She leaned in toward one of the elf’s long, slender ears, whispering. “It will never be over, until you let it be.”
The blade was drug down the final gash, and Anisse was rewarded with silence, no whimper made. Disappointment settled in when she realized the girl was only silent because she had blacked out from the pain.
No matter. The girl would come to crave the pain come the end of the week.
Standing over Rain, the saucer of water Anisse had filled was pushed gently toward the unconscious girl, just within reach of her while she was restrained. It was important for her to receive no luxury, as Anisse remembered thoroughly on her own harrowing lesson taught by the Twilights years ago. She would still need to survive, however, and water was a basic necessity for all creatures to live on. Though a week of this rigorous training was hardly comparable to the month’s worth of lessons she herself remembered so clearly, the week would serve to impact the girl in the way she wished. In a way, Anna was giving over a precious piece of knowledge in undertaking this instruction, and it felt good to finally share a part of herself that did not concern meatpies. She hoped too that the Captain learned from her example as well, those weeks ago. When the heart is weak, the mind cannot grow.
She’d nearly made it to the top of the winding ramp of the Lamb, before realizing she was there and that Jarel was speaking to her.
“Spending more time than usual down there, girl. Go on, get some sunshine, eh?” The bartender was stacking mugs up into pyramids out of sheer boredom. It seemed his customers all had somewhere else to be tonight. To say that might have something to do with a rather large dragon landing atop Stormwind would be an understatement. Somewhere in the depths of her heart, Anisse felt a dark pride, knowing that her people were responsible for the drake’s appearance.
“I think I might just do that.” Anisse stared on into the exit of the Lamb, feeling a few strands of hair brush her face, loose. Tightening the long black ribbon that now held her hair in place, she started outside, ready to see more of the chaos outside of the city gates.
The farmer’s ribbon was far more comfortable than a simple rubber band.
A Patron of the Lamb #18
((Bit of a prologue: After months of searching for her dead son, Patrick Teller, Lady Teller has discovered her searching has come to an end. Agreeing to meet the anonymous contact that has viable information about the lost mage apprentice, she hurries to an empty lookout tower near SI:7 in Stormwind.
Meanwhile, Anisse grows more apprehensive between the cultist attacks, these missing fliers depicting the boy she'd murdered months ago, and now a stalker of sorts. Something's gotta give...))
Lady Teller rushed over to the secretive district that housed SI:7 and the roguish sort. It'd been a place she'd avoided time and time again, and not because of the uncouth citizens of the so-called Old-Town. Love affairs had been a weakness in her youth, ever the romantic as she was, and she'd fallen for a dangerous, svelte assassin who always seemed to know exactly what to say to make her heart go aflutter. Still, romance had no place in her studies, and when her apprenticeship took her away from Stormwind, she began to visit the old tower less and less, until what affection that settled in her heart trickled away with the years like so much arcane dust. Looking at the old abandoned tower now, the aging mage felt the palpitations of her heart flutter once more, as they did when she was just a foolish girl.
...the nights that were had in that tower were absolutely scandalous...
It was a suprise when the anonymous tip-off lead her here, before the tower again, and Sorceress Teller counted every step she climbed to get to the top as she did when she was that lovestruck apprentice over twenty years ago. Her son Patrick had the same heart as she, eager for tales of romance and lovely women--he was a troublemaker as soon as he discovered that girls in fact, did not have rabies. A small amusement lifted the weight off her heavy heart, giving her the hope that perhaps he'd found a sweet thing to romance in the old tower, hiding his affair away from his tutors. She folded up the flier that had been left for her at the Mage Tower as she approached the top of the steps, turning the corner to find...
A slender figure robed in black. The cowl up, Lady Teller could feel her hope spread just a little more, reaching out...
"...patrick...?" she whispered ever so softly, so hopefully.
"I'm afraid not..." the voice answered her just as quietly. The voice made the Master mage sigh out, feeling her heart crack again. This one was not her son.
"H...were you the one that had information about my Patrick...?" The mage's question was more a plead now. Tears filled her already dry eyes, expecting the worst.
"I regret to inform you that he is dead, Lady Teller." The dark figure revealed herself, pulling the hood down to her shoulders. For such a young woman, her soft voice was too cold, too blunt and truthful, Lady Teller thought. Even the young mages ladies she took on as apprentices were always atwitter with thoughts of boys and rumor, the latest styles of dress. This one...seemed so estranged from that youthful world. The sadness of this added to the weight of sadness she felt for the truth of her son.
"I...I see. Perhaps you could take me to the body, my dear girl? I must see it.." She watched as the young girl approached, most likely to take her hand and offer words of comfort.
"I'm afraid that is not possible," was the answer instead. Lady Teller stared on into the pretty amber eyes of the girl. She was staring, unblinking back at her, with eyes of obssession, of madness--there was something very wrong here. "You see, he burned by fire. And such ashes are very hard to collect, in the end."
"...w...what?" The Mage stiffened up her tears and let out a few nervous, weak chuckles, hoping this was just some kind of...awkward game. Lady Teller was known to not be as uptight as some of the older master mages, but this was not some game, for the girl's cold, blank expression made such a sick game obsolete.
"I am sincerely sorry, but I simply have no body for you..." There was no apology in the sound of her voice, even as it went to a whisper. "But I could just not help myself, and it all happened so quickly. Do not worry, though, milady. He is put to good use."
The shine of a blade caught Lady Teller's eyes as it was pulled from the folds of the girl's cloak, and the mage prepared to retalliate immediately before the first strike could land. This girl did not know who she was dealing with. Bringing a focus to the front of the anger and sorrow she felt at her son's death, Lady Teller called upon the forces of magic to surrounding herself with an arcane shield...while blasting the girl with a freezing cold. Flexing her hand in front of the approaching girl, she narrowed her eyes.
Unfortunately nothing happened. The woman choked back a gasp as the magic again, refused to come to her will. She had no time to scream, or run, as the dagger was slid across her throat.
Anisse stared down at the body as it bled out on the floor of the watchtower, the pool of Lady Teller's blood forming at her feet. It glossed the bottoms of her small, black leather boots, and she paced back a few steps. The magical ward was flickering in her hands, its enchantment at its end---if she'd had waited any longer to end the life of Patrick Teller's mother, circumstances may have turned out much worse than they were. Her hands tightened on the hilt of her dagger, still kissed with the taste of the woman's blood, and Anisse's hands flinched, wanting to dig further into the body to collect her prizes.
Something stopped her, however, seeing Lady Teller's corn-colored hair spilled out over the floor, her blue eyes frozen open in a death stare. The smooth metal of the scalpel was missing from her hands. No ritual dagger could cut so cleanly through flesh to take what she needed. She'd grown spoiled by its delicate blade, and now it was lost. Like the pendant before it. Like her patience. Like her focus.
The scrawlings upon a dozen shadowy trees spiked through her mind, making her twitch.
'I.SAW.YOU. I.SAW.YOU. I.SAW.YOU....' A forest of taunts blanketed by the corpses of dead animals.
Snagging the remnants of her sanity before it threatened to scramble away, Anisse hurried on down the tower steps, leaving Sorceress Teller's dead body whole.
Meanwhile, Anisse grows more apprehensive between the cultist attacks, these missing fliers depicting the boy she'd murdered months ago, and now a stalker of sorts. Something's gotta give...))
Lady Teller rushed over to the secretive district that housed SI:7 and the roguish sort. It'd been a place she'd avoided time and time again, and not because of the uncouth citizens of the so-called Old-Town. Love affairs had been a weakness in her youth, ever the romantic as she was, and she'd fallen for a dangerous, svelte assassin who always seemed to know exactly what to say to make her heart go aflutter. Still, romance had no place in her studies, and when her apprenticeship took her away from Stormwind, she began to visit the old tower less and less, until what affection that settled in her heart trickled away with the years like so much arcane dust. Looking at the old abandoned tower now, the aging mage felt the palpitations of her heart flutter once more, as they did when she was just a foolish girl.
...the nights that were had in that tower were absolutely scandalous...
It was a suprise when the anonymous tip-off lead her here, before the tower again, and Sorceress Teller counted every step she climbed to get to the top as she did when she was that lovestruck apprentice over twenty years ago. Her son Patrick had the same heart as she, eager for tales of romance and lovely women--he was a troublemaker as soon as he discovered that girls in fact, did not have rabies. A small amusement lifted the weight off her heavy heart, giving her the hope that perhaps he'd found a sweet thing to romance in the old tower, hiding his affair away from his tutors. She folded up the flier that had been left for her at the Mage Tower as she approached the top of the steps, turning the corner to find...
A slender figure robed in black. The cowl up, Lady Teller could feel her hope spread just a little more, reaching out...
"...patrick...?" she whispered ever so softly, so hopefully.
"I'm afraid not..." the voice answered her just as quietly. The voice made the Master mage sigh out, feeling her heart crack again. This one was not her son.
"H...were you the one that had information about my Patrick...?" The mage's question was more a plead now. Tears filled her already dry eyes, expecting the worst.
"I regret to inform you that he is dead, Lady Teller." The dark figure revealed herself, pulling the hood down to her shoulders. For such a young woman, her soft voice was too cold, too blunt and truthful, Lady Teller thought. Even the young mages ladies she took on as apprentices were always atwitter with thoughts of boys and rumor, the latest styles of dress. This one...seemed so estranged from that youthful world. The sadness of this added to the weight of sadness she felt for the truth of her son.
"I...I see. Perhaps you could take me to the body, my dear girl? I must see it.." She watched as the young girl approached, most likely to take her hand and offer words of comfort.
"I'm afraid that is not possible," was the answer instead. Lady Teller stared on into the pretty amber eyes of the girl. She was staring, unblinking back at her, with eyes of obssession, of madness--there was something very wrong here. "You see, he burned by fire. And such ashes are very hard to collect, in the end."
"...w...what?" The Mage stiffened up her tears and let out a few nervous, weak chuckles, hoping this was just some kind of...awkward game. Lady Teller was known to not be as uptight as some of the older master mages, but this was not some game, for the girl's cold, blank expression made such a sick game obsolete.
"I am sincerely sorry, but I simply have no body for you..." There was no apology in the sound of her voice, even as it went to a whisper. "But I could just not help myself, and it all happened so quickly. Do not worry, though, milady. He is put to good use."
The shine of a blade caught Lady Teller's eyes as it was pulled from the folds of the girl's cloak, and the mage prepared to retalliate immediately before the first strike could land. This girl did not know who she was dealing with. Bringing a focus to the front of the anger and sorrow she felt at her son's death, Lady Teller called upon the forces of magic to surrounding herself with an arcane shield...while blasting the girl with a freezing cold. Flexing her hand in front of the approaching girl, she narrowed her eyes.
Unfortunately nothing happened. The woman choked back a gasp as the magic again, refused to come to her will. She had no time to scream, or run, as the dagger was slid across her throat.
Anisse stared down at the body as it bled out on the floor of the watchtower, the pool of Lady Teller's blood forming at her feet. It glossed the bottoms of her small, black leather boots, and she paced back a few steps. The magical ward was flickering in her hands, its enchantment at its end---if she'd had waited any longer to end the life of Patrick Teller's mother, circumstances may have turned out much worse than they were. Her hands tightened on the hilt of her dagger, still kissed with the taste of the woman's blood, and Anisse's hands flinched, wanting to dig further into the body to collect her prizes.
Something stopped her, however, seeing Lady Teller's corn-colored hair spilled out over the floor, her blue eyes frozen open in a death stare. The smooth metal of the scalpel was missing from her hands. No ritual dagger could cut so cleanly through flesh to take what she needed. She'd grown spoiled by its delicate blade, and now it was lost. Like the pendant before it. Like her patience. Like her focus.
The scrawlings upon a dozen shadowy trees spiked through her mind, making her twitch.
'I.SAW.YOU. I.SAW.YOU. I.SAW.YOU....' A forest of taunts blanketed by the corpses of dead animals.
Snagging the remnants of her sanity before it threatened to scramble away, Anisse hurried on down the tower steps, leaving Sorceress Teller's dead body whole.
A Patron of the Lamb #17
The attacks in Stormwind propelled the city into utter chaos, Twilight Hammer making their marks on the trees, on buildings, spreading their messages of fear to citizens. As raging elementals sent more and more to the Cathedral, many more felt imprisoned in their own homes by the ongoing terror.
Anisse never thought she would be one of them.
Hours turned into days of confinment inside of the Slaughtered Lamb. Strangely, the tavern was where others also found safety. While people widdled away their fears by drowning themselves in ale, Anisse only felt the anxiety grow in her as she served them hour by hour, knowing she would have to leave sometime. This fear was ridiculous. And the twitching need to collect was becoming unbearable.
The previous night's...altercations, did not make things better, but she made it out.
With another flash of the demon's fingers, fire raced out to smash the wolf in the flank. A howling whine broke through the forest as it toppled over onto its side, the fur singed black by repetitious attacks. It's legs were still paddling where it lay, twitching out the last vestiges of life upon the grass as Anisse approached. The imp's skills had been exhausted, and as it began to chatter meaninglessly in demonic she banished it with a twitch of her fingers, wanting no distraction. She had to work quickly, or the innards would grow cold.
She wanted the trophies hot in her hands.
Her fingers trembled as she dragged the blade along the stomach, not slicing through the fur and flesh as deeply as she meant to. Clenching her teeth, she growled at herself to cut, to focus, needing this now. The blade dove through the belly now much too hard, and she winced, knowing it had cut through something vital. Another mistake, as with the boar before this. What use were these kills if she could not get what she needed out of them? Her nerves were too fried to even perform this simple task.
Freeing the now ruined liver and bladder from the stomach cavity, she peeled back the fur to get to the heart. A heart. She did not yet own an intact wolf's heart. At least she could manage to take this and jar it. Pressing apart the bloody rib bones to get to the protected heart, Anisse sighed out softly, caressing the muscle with her fingertips. It was lovely. Taking a moment to free the surgical scalpel from the leather bag, she felt the smooth metal of the instrument between her fingers before edging it along the webs of flesh that held the muscle in place.
The sight of Manoc's face gleamed in her mind, blood trickling from the bullet wound between his eyes.
Her fingers flinched, causing the scalpel's blade to slice the heart, making it bleed out. Ruined! Her fingers curled tight around that scalpel, infuriated. More than this, she was stricken by her fellow Twilight's death, the fresh memory of it driving her to do something about it. All impulses directed her to report back to her base, to join in on the chaos erupting about the city. She might've been at Manoc's side now, rejoicing in the glory of infiltrating the fool's defenses.
Manoc would have killed her last night, given the chance.
His chance was taken by a pair of gloved hands and a carefully aimed gun...a pistol? Anisse couldn't quite remember. By all accounts, she should be in gratitude toward the theatrically dressed gunsman that saved her life. In all reality, she felt a slump deep within her, denied a death that in the Twilight's eyes she had surely deserved. The tumult of emotion toward the debacle made her sick, and now she was denied the relief of a slick, warm, perfected heart.
Everything...was turned on its head...
She finally started to feel the stinging pain of the scalpel blade as it dug into her palm, so tightly was she squeezing it. Hands trembling, she threw everything she could back into the black leather bag and took off, leaving the trail of dead animals at its end. Perhaps another night, she could reign in her thoughts enough to attain what was needed.
The cold metal of the surgical scalpel glinted through through tall, thick grass, unwittingly left beside the wolf's corpse.
Anisse never thought she would be one of them.
Hours turned into days of confinment inside of the Slaughtered Lamb. Strangely, the tavern was where others also found safety. While people widdled away their fears by drowning themselves in ale, Anisse only felt the anxiety grow in her as she served them hour by hour, knowing she would have to leave sometime. This fear was ridiculous. And the twitching need to collect was becoming unbearable.
The previous night's...altercations, did not make things better, but she made it out.
With another flash of the demon's fingers, fire raced out to smash the wolf in the flank. A howling whine broke through the forest as it toppled over onto its side, the fur singed black by repetitious attacks. It's legs were still paddling where it lay, twitching out the last vestiges of life upon the grass as Anisse approached. The imp's skills had been exhausted, and as it began to chatter meaninglessly in demonic she banished it with a twitch of her fingers, wanting no distraction. She had to work quickly, or the innards would grow cold.
She wanted the trophies hot in her hands.
Her fingers trembled as she dragged the blade along the stomach, not slicing through the fur and flesh as deeply as she meant to. Clenching her teeth, she growled at herself to cut, to focus, needing this now. The blade dove through the belly now much too hard, and she winced, knowing it had cut through something vital. Another mistake, as with the boar before this. What use were these kills if she could not get what she needed out of them? Her nerves were too fried to even perform this simple task.
Freeing the now ruined liver and bladder from the stomach cavity, she peeled back the fur to get to the heart. A heart. She did not yet own an intact wolf's heart. At least she could manage to take this and jar it. Pressing apart the bloody rib bones to get to the protected heart, Anisse sighed out softly, caressing the muscle with her fingertips. It was lovely. Taking a moment to free the surgical scalpel from the leather bag, she felt the smooth metal of the instrument between her fingers before edging it along the webs of flesh that held the muscle in place.
The sight of Manoc's face gleamed in her mind, blood trickling from the bullet wound between his eyes.
Her fingers flinched, causing the scalpel's blade to slice the heart, making it bleed out. Ruined! Her fingers curled tight around that scalpel, infuriated. More than this, she was stricken by her fellow Twilight's death, the fresh memory of it driving her to do something about it. All impulses directed her to report back to her base, to join in on the chaos erupting about the city. She might've been at Manoc's side now, rejoicing in the glory of infiltrating the fool's defenses.
Manoc would have killed her last night, given the chance.
His chance was taken by a pair of gloved hands and a carefully aimed gun...a pistol? Anisse couldn't quite remember. By all accounts, she should be in gratitude toward the theatrically dressed gunsman that saved her life. In all reality, she felt a slump deep within her, denied a death that in the Twilight's eyes she had surely deserved. The tumult of emotion toward the debacle made her sick, and now she was denied the relief of a slick, warm, perfected heart.
Everything...was turned on its head...
She finally started to feel the stinging pain of the scalpel blade as it dug into her palm, so tightly was she squeezing it. Hands trembling, she threw everything she could back into the black leather bag and took off, leaving the trail of dead animals at its end. Perhaps another night, she could reign in her thoughts enough to attain what was needed.
The cold metal of the surgical scalpel glinted through through tall, thick grass, unwittingly left beside the wolf's corpse.
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