It was just a little slice here. A little slice there.
The black leather bag she'd found was quite the treasure box. How beautifully the surgeon's scalpel cut through the layer of flesh, the insides bubbling over and painting the surface with color. She'd payed special attention to the medical books she'd borrowed to learn to properly use her newly found tools, and the lessons were certainly paying off. With each turn of her wrist, she guided the blade across her little masterpiece with precision, making sure every cut count. The inch of blade dipped inside of the crevice she'd cut, wetting the blade. A smile played along her lips as the knife cut so smoothly, easily, making this art her own. When at last she was done, she studied the cuts. Oh, she was getting better at this...
The meatpie crust was prepared!
"You're spending an awful lot of time on these, Miss Anna. Is...that a scalpel?"
Jarel was looking at his assistant strangely, finding a peculiar light in her eyes as she studied the little piece of "art" she'd created. It was just a crust. Snagging the pie from her, he popped it into the refrigeration unit, where the meatpie would be frozen in little more than an hour. The young woman tossed a tendril of hair away from her cheek and sighed, rolling out another bit of dough upon the bartop. It was early on in the morning, and not a drunkard was in sight. Her fingers white and powdery, she patted the dough down and rolled it out until it was thin.
"I am thinking of becoming a surgeon, Mr. Jarel." It was a blatant lie, of course, for she had other plans with her newfound treasures. The bartender believed every word.
"Ah, so a more permanent career, eh? Sounds like a good step. Not thinking of leaving the Lamb, are you dear?"
"No. Not quite." Her words were short but clear, all of her concentration on the meatpie as she set the thin layer of dough inside of the dish. While the meat of varying species was placed inside, she ladled hot gravy atop, and then folded the thin pastry over the top.
"Good. You know with those taxes you'd need the extra coin," Jarel was grinning ear to ear, but his assistant did not see it, much too concentrated on her work. "Should be sleeping, little chef."
"I will sleep when I must." The sharp scalpel catching the lamp light, it glinted as she cut the excess dough from the rest of the pie. Careful as the last one, she cut around with even, smooth strokes. She finally tuned in to the sound of Jarel's voice and his batch of hearsay and rumor he'd received for the week.
"...bet it'll be quite a big funeral. Think she might've eaten here a few times, hmm, lovely company, that Miss Hollowdrake. That masked fellow was about with a pretty thing earlier in the week, did I tell you that? Haha, I can only hope the gent comes back. He just drops his coin down like its nothing!"
"...mhmm..." Anisse murmured, now slicing into the top of the unbaked pastry. She was careful now not to cut too deeply, lest the batch of meat and gravy spill over too much over the top of the dough.
"They're all still going on about Goldshire, like it's something new to find a dead body in a room. I've heard the Innkeep's actually charging extra to people wanting to sleep in the room. Ridiculous, eh?"
Now this, these words did get her attention. Glancing up at Jarel, her fingers squeezed around tight to the metal of the scalpel, now made warm by her grip. "I thought...I heard the room had caught on fire?" Her words almost caught in her throat, talking about the scene.
"Yeah, me too. Apparently it was just the bed...some curtains. They replaced it right quick and went on with business. People have been claiming to see everything from ghosts to demons in the room. Haha, give it time, and they'll be digging through the floorboards to find Mor'Ladim's treasure in there!"
Anisse gave a half-smile, letting her eyes blink back down to the meatpie at hand. At least she didn't have to worry about the room anymore. With a last look of the last meatpie, Anisse handed the entree to Jarel gently, and cleaned her scalpel under the faucet until it was once again shining perfection. Tucking it in with the array of other surgical tools she'd not yet used, she shut the leather bag and strapped it around her shoulder. When Jarel saw that she was striding to the door, the bartender shook his head.
"Heading out at this hour? Girl, don't you ever sleep? Whatever are you going to do out there?"
Pausing before exiting the Lamb, Anisse tucked her cowl back up over her head. A shadow of a smile quirked her lips, her hand pressed against the bag at her hip.
"Me? I'm going to practice."
Monday, December 6, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #15
“We’re not supposed to be out here! Mother’s going to kill us…” the young girl whispered out harshly.
“Not before we snag a pumpkin tart from the city! Come on now!”
The two children ran down the main path, just outside of an evergreen wood. She knew exactly why he dragged her out of bed and pushed her into the hay cart tonight—because mother would despise the idea. Her brother, only two years elder than she, was a willful boy, and she ever the obedient child. Yet, when she was with him, they’d always managed to find trouble together—he was enough of a hassle on his own! Now she was being dragged down a dirt path in her nightgown, freezing in the night wind. She hardly knew where she was, and her arm ached from his pulling.
Still, young Annalese could not deny that their little journey was exciting.
“W…what is this? Where are we?”
“Tirasfal! Come on, run a little faster, we’re almost there!”
Little Annalese balked, and dug her slippered feet into the moist path, making her brother come to a complete stop. “Mother told us to never come to…to here!”
“It will just be a little while, Anna, I promise. And…I’ll tell mother I dragged you out with me. You won’t get in trouble a bit.” She could remember his sincere, warm amber eyes, not cold and stony, like their mother’s. “You’ll love the Harvest Festival!”
Indeed, it had been a welcome reprieve from the foggy streets of the children’s hometown. Even the trees around Lordaeron changed colors in celebration of the season. Giving her brother a challenging smile, she giggled as she raced him to the city gates. He caught up with her, and together, the two waltzed into the Courtyard.
With its carved pumpkins lighting the pathway and stone pillars of the city, Annalese was in wonderment. Local farmers displayed their last harvest for the year, welcoming all to partake before the food would rot. Fast paced music rang out from the courtyard as well, and couples took to dancing in twos. Children danced with ribbons and streamers, and Anna rushed off to join them. She’d danced until her feet were sore.
The pumpkin tarts were just as warm and good as her brother promised…
“Happy Hallow’s Eve, miss?” The perky Innkeeper said again, and this time Anisse heard her. The taste of spiced pumpkin was still on her tongue, and her gaze refocused upon the flavored treat in her hand. How long had she been standing there, staring idly at the Innkeeper? It must have been a while, as the innkeeper was now gazing back at her strangely.
“You alright dear…?” the Innkeeper smirked, laughing light-heartedly. “Now, those treats are not spiked, I promise you.”
“I…ngh…thanks.”
With some effort, the hooded woman filtered out of the tavern and into the Trade District of Stormwind. Others swept past her to accost the Innkeeper for more candy, dressed in elaborate costumes, or simply wearing masks. It was not…the holiday she really remembered it to be. Quietly marching her way back to the Slaughtered Lamb, she indulged the lost child in her with more memories of what once was for a small while longer. As she stepped into the tavern, however, she locked such thoughts away, preparing for another night of business.
Jarel Moor was treated with a small pile of unwanted candy, left alone on the bar.
“Not before we snag a pumpkin tart from the city! Come on now!”
The two children ran down the main path, just outside of an evergreen wood. She knew exactly why he dragged her out of bed and pushed her into the hay cart tonight—because mother would despise the idea. Her brother, only two years elder than she, was a willful boy, and she ever the obedient child. Yet, when she was with him, they’d always managed to find trouble together—he was enough of a hassle on his own! Now she was being dragged down a dirt path in her nightgown, freezing in the night wind. She hardly knew where she was, and her arm ached from his pulling.
Still, young Annalese could not deny that their little journey was exciting.
“W…what is this? Where are we?”
“Tirasfal! Come on, run a little faster, we’re almost there!”
Little Annalese balked, and dug her slippered feet into the moist path, making her brother come to a complete stop. “Mother told us to never come to…to here!”
“It will just be a little while, Anna, I promise. And…I’ll tell mother I dragged you out with me. You won’t get in trouble a bit.” She could remember his sincere, warm amber eyes, not cold and stony, like their mother’s. “You’ll love the Harvest Festival!”
Indeed, it had been a welcome reprieve from the foggy streets of the children’s hometown. Even the trees around Lordaeron changed colors in celebration of the season. Giving her brother a challenging smile, she giggled as she raced him to the city gates. He caught up with her, and together, the two waltzed into the Courtyard.
With its carved pumpkins lighting the pathway and stone pillars of the city, Annalese was in wonderment. Local farmers displayed their last harvest for the year, welcoming all to partake before the food would rot. Fast paced music rang out from the courtyard as well, and couples took to dancing in twos. Children danced with ribbons and streamers, and Anna rushed off to join them. She’d danced until her feet were sore.
The pumpkin tarts were just as warm and good as her brother promised…
“Happy Hallow’s Eve, miss?” The perky Innkeeper said again, and this time Anisse heard her. The taste of spiced pumpkin was still on her tongue, and her gaze refocused upon the flavored treat in her hand. How long had she been standing there, staring idly at the Innkeeper? It must have been a while, as the innkeeper was now gazing back at her strangely.
“You alright dear…?” the Innkeeper smirked, laughing light-heartedly. “Now, those treats are not spiked, I promise you.”
“I…ngh…thanks.”
With some effort, the hooded woman filtered out of the tavern and into the Trade District of Stormwind. Others swept past her to accost the Innkeeper for more candy, dressed in elaborate costumes, or simply wearing masks. It was not…the holiday she really remembered it to be. Quietly marching her way back to the Slaughtered Lamb, she indulged the lost child in her with more memories of what once was for a small while longer. As she stepped into the tavern, however, she locked such thoughts away, preparing for another night of business.
Jarel Moor was treated with a small pile of unwanted candy, left alone on the bar.
A Patron of the Lamb #14
Patrick Teller sat in the dining room of the Slaughtered Lamb, slouched back in his creaking chair, surrounded by the laughter of his mage-mates. Nearly nineteen years of age, he was the popular one among the trio of boys, with his unruly wheat-colored hair and his clever blue eyes, though hazed by the ale. The boredom of their studies in the Mage Tower had the boys looking for something more daring, and after playing some scoundrel tricks on the tired agents of SI:7, the boys found themselves sent away. Rumors abounded of the seedy reputation of the Lamb, and with Jarel’s relaxed stance concerning drinking, Patrick and his little troupe found they got to indulge in the heaviest and darkest brews in Stormwind without the chiding of a superior.
Brewfest was hardly over and they meant to live it down before they got back to hitting the books!
The serving girl caught his eye, and even now Apprentice Patrick was being hounded by his friends to get her name. She came around their table again, her mahogany hair pulled back into a messy tail, strands of it brushing against her girlish face. Wiping her hands on her little white apron, Patrick grinned as he saw the shy little smile appear on her lips, her eyes darting back and forth from him.
Apprentice Patrick had a smile that would melt any young girl’s heart, and he knew it.
For an hour, Apprentice Patrick worked his charms, wooing the serving girl into the seat near him. He’d told her easily about his Aunt’s tailoring business, and the many pretty dresses he could have made for her to wear, and rid her of those horrible scratchy garments. Why, he’d even suggested Anna to model the attire, for she had a petite, coveted figure. He dared to kiss her cheek and curl a lock of hair behind her ear, and was rewarded with a soft chuckle. He liked the sound of her voice, soft and quiet, calm. Yet, somewhere he was curious to know if she grew louder when she was pleasured.
When she invited him to see her room, he knew he’d won. He shooed his friends away, who were all too willing to place bets on whether he would have something to brag about in the morning. Smitten as she took his hand in hers, he let her lead him down to the basement, where the great bonfire grew. Though the warlock masters gave the two some irritated looks, Apprentice Patrick was nonetheless excited.
“Would this be the warlock’s training halls, then?” he whispered to the serving girl, pulling her back to him.
“It’s…yes, it’s something like that I think,” came the soft words against the crackling of the fire. Watching as the flames lined her profile in an orange light, Patrick couldn’t resist anymore, passing his lips over hers. With a laugh, she pulled, not letting him have more than a brush of a taste.
“Come! Come on!” the woman urged. Patrick laughed, and gave chase, letting her drag him into the underbelly of the Lamb, where the cold breath of the crypt blew. Torches cast shadows across the stone walls, and the apprentice chuckled nervously.
“You mean to say you have a room? Down here?”
“I do. Come, I’ll show you.” The girl’s little smile was laced with mischief. Oh, she was a daring lass. He was suddenly excited!
The pair approached the stack of crates, a small “doorway” split between the stacks, where a little blue curtain sheen hung over it. Smiling, she pulled him through the sheen, and he could feel the air tingle against him once he stepped inside the room, like the small magical tingle of an arcane wall rune. It was a simple little parlor with a small missionary bed covered in sheets, an old vanity, and a fairly nice wardrobe closet. His boots sunk into a thick, soft carpet, and he was pleasantly surprised by the light floral smell that had replaced the dank stench of mold and musk outside of her room. The oil lamp flickered as he reached for her, wanting to feel her lips on his in full, yet she playfully turned against him, only leaving him her girlish chortles.
“Come on…” he murmured into her ear yearningly, nosing into her hair, a fragrant slip of herbal leaves meeting his senses. She feathered her hands down his as he reached around her to tug the strings of her apron. He was eager, but he relaxed as he felt her slide up against him to speak into his ear.
“Lay down for me…”
The apprentice grinned, and took a seat on her little bed, feeling the mattress give as he sat. Squeezing the mattress uncertainly, Patrick was not quite so sure that it would hold the night’s adventures. When he turned back up to look at the serving girl, she was already pointing down at the floor. Unwilling to disappoint, he first kneeled down, and then lay back, helping himself down the rest of the way onto the carpet with the flats of his palms. She followed, sitting down over him, legs open over his stomach. The skirts of her serving dress twisted around her hips, giving a provocative glimpse of her legs. No doubt, Patrick was interested with her, feeling he’d lucked out.
It was always the shy ones…
…that were absolutely insane.
Anisse closed her eyes as the curved dagger slunk right through his belly, feeling his body twitch underneath her. He hadn’t had the chance to scream out, his final unintelligible words a gurgle as his own blood flooded his mouth. It wouldn’t have mattered, as the sound ward above her doorway nullified the noise from leaving her room, as well as keeping outside disturbances outside. It’d been a worthy purchase, taking most of her earnings, but it afforded her the privacy of an undisturbed sleep. Though she never thought she’d claim a victim in the crypts of the Slaughtered Lamb, this kill had meaning to her. With each twist of the blade and each last twitch of Apprentice Patrick’s body, she was killing the plague of carnal thoughts that had distracted her for the past days. She breathed out a few words in demonic, heating the blade with her control over flame. It made it easier for her to drag the dagger up through his chest, close to his sternum. In his death, she found peace, ending the source of her confliction as she stared into the lifeless blue eyes of the young mage.
They were not the sea-green color she had hoped to see frozen in death at that moment, still…
Cleaning off the blade with his garments, she pulled the bloodied clothes off of the apprentice. Anisse revealed a thicker butcher knife, pulling it from under the thick carpet. Heating the knife once more until it took on a hellish glow, she began the process of sectioning off the body, focused on her method. It helped to detach her from the debacle with the Captain a night ago, seeing the lumps of flesh all neatly separated. This, this was the flesh, bore down and revealed in all its “glory”, a circuit of organics now made defunct. The visual of it helped to clean her mind further of unwanted desires. Numb as she should be, she hummed softly as she rolled up the remains in the ruined carpet, shoving it out of her parlor—a waste the carpet had been, unfortunately. Setting the rolled up carpet afire in the crypt, she left it to burn, knowing the intensified felflames would turn it to ash quickly.
A few steps lead her back to the parlor room, where she eyed the bags of organs she’d separated from the body. Shucking the last vestiges of the girlish, weak-hearted personality she’d adopted, Anisse eyed the bagged heart with a small smile. It was such a weakness. Perhaps that was why she collected them, to remind herself of the power it could have over a mind. Snaking the fresh heart into an occupied jar, she sighed, displeased by how stuffed the jar now seemed. As for the other organs, glancing at them now, she already knew their destination. Taxes, as high as they were, were the epitome of evil in Jarel’s eyes, making the purchase of good quality beef or pork ridiculous.
The Lamb could always use fresh meat.
Brewfest was hardly over and they meant to live it down before they got back to hitting the books!
The serving girl caught his eye, and even now Apprentice Patrick was being hounded by his friends to get her name. She came around their table again, her mahogany hair pulled back into a messy tail, strands of it brushing against her girlish face. Wiping her hands on her little white apron, Patrick grinned as he saw the shy little smile appear on her lips, her eyes darting back and forth from him.
Apprentice Patrick had a smile that would melt any young girl’s heart, and he knew it.
For an hour, Apprentice Patrick worked his charms, wooing the serving girl into the seat near him. He’d told her easily about his Aunt’s tailoring business, and the many pretty dresses he could have made for her to wear, and rid her of those horrible scratchy garments. Why, he’d even suggested Anna to model the attire, for she had a petite, coveted figure. He dared to kiss her cheek and curl a lock of hair behind her ear, and was rewarded with a soft chuckle. He liked the sound of her voice, soft and quiet, calm. Yet, somewhere he was curious to know if she grew louder when she was pleasured.
When she invited him to see her room, he knew he’d won. He shooed his friends away, who were all too willing to place bets on whether he would have something to brag about in the morning. Smitten as she took his hand in hers, he let her lead him down to the basement, where the great bonfire grew. Though the warlock masters gave the two some irritated looks, Apprentice Patrick was nonetheless excited.
“Would this be the warlock’s training halls, then?” he whispered to the serving girl, pulling her back to him.
“It’s…yes, it’s something like that I think,” came the soft words against the crackling of the fire. Watching as the flames lined her profile in an orange light, Patrick couldn’t resist anymore, passing his lips over hers. With a laugh, she pulled, not letting him have more than a brush of a taste.
“Come! Come on!” the woman urged. Patrick laughed, and gave chase, letting her drag him into the underbelly of the Lamb, where the cold breath of the crypt blew. Torches cast shadows across the stone walls, and the apprentice chuckled nervously.
“You mean to say you have a room? Down here?”
“I do. Come, I’ll show you.” The girl’s little smile was laced with mischief. Oh, she was a daring lass. He was suddenly excited!
The pair approached the stack of crates, a small “doorway” split between the stacks, where a little blue curtain sheen hung over it. Smiling, she pulled him through the sheen, and he could feel the air tingle against him once he stepped inside the room, like the small magical tingle of an arcane wall rune. It was a simple little parlor with a small missionary bed covered in sheets, an old vanity, and a fairly nice wardrobe closet. His boots sunk into a thick, soft carpet, and he was pleasantly surprised by the light floral smell that had replaced the dank stench of mold and musk outside of her room. The oil lamp flickered as he reached for her, wanting to feel her lips on his in full, yet she playfully turned against him, only leaving him her girlish chortles.
“Come on…” he murmured into her ear yearningly, nosing into her hair, a fragrant slip of herbal leaves meeting his senses. She feathered her hands down his as he reached around her to tug the strings of her apron. He was eager, but he relaxed as he felt her slide up against him to speak into his ear.
“Lay down for me…”
The apprentice grinned, and took a seat on her little bed, feeling the mattress give as he sat. Squeezing the mattress uncertainly, Patrick was not quite so sure that it would hold the night’s adventures. When he turned back up to look at the serving girl, she was already pointing down at the floor. Unwilling to disappoint, he first kneeled down, and then lay back, helping himself down the rest of the way onto the carpet with the flats of his palms. She followed, sitting down over him, legs open over his stomach. The skirts of her serving dress twisted around her hips, giving a provocative glimpse of her legs. No doubt, Patrick was interested with her, feeling he’d lucked out.
It was always the shy ones…
…that were absolutely insane.
Anisse closed her eyes as the curved dagger slunk right through his belly, feeling his body twitch underneath her. He hadn’t had the chance to scream out, his final unintelligible words a gurgle as his own blood flooded his mouth. It wouldn’t have mattered, as the sound ward above her doorway nullified the noise from leaving her room, as well as keeping outside disturbances outside. It’d been a worthy purchase, taking most of her earnings, but it afforded her the privacy of an undisturbed sleep. Though she never thought she’d claim a victim in the crypts of the Slaughtered Lamb, this kill had meaning to her. With each twist of the blade and each last twitch of Apprentice Patrick’s body, she was killing the plague of carnal thoughts that had distracted her for the past days. She breathed out a few words in demonic, heating the blade with her control over flame. It made it easier for her to drag the dagger up through his chest, close to his sternum. In his death, she found peace, ending the source of her confliction as she stared into the lifeless blue eyes of the young mage.
They were not the sea-green color she had hoped to see frozen in death at that moment, still…
Cleaning off the blade with his garments, she pulled the bloodied clothes off of the apprentice. Anisse revealed a thicker butcher knife, pulling it from under the thick carpet. Heating the knife once more until it took on a hellish glow, she began the process of sectioning off the body, focused on her method. It helped to detach her from the debacle with the Captain a night ago, seeing the lumps of flesh all neatly separated. This, this was the flesh, bore down and revealed in all its “glory”, a circuit of organics now made defunct. The visual of it helped to clean her mind further of unwanted desires. Numb as she should be, she hummed softly as she rolled up the remains in the ruined carpet, shoving it out of her parlor—a waste the carpet had been, unfortunately. Setting the rolled up carpet afire in the crypt, she left it to burn, knowing the intensified felflames would turn it to ash quickly.
A few steps lead her back to the parlor room, where she eyed the bags of organs she’d separated from the body. Shucking the last vestiges of the girlish, weak-hearted personality she’d adopted, Anisse eyed the bagged heart with a small smile. It was such a weakness. Perhaps that was why she collected them, to remind herself of the power it could have over a mind. Snaking the fresh heart into an occupied jar, she sighed, displeased by how stuffed the jar now seemed. As for the other organs, glancing at them now, she already knew their destination. Taxes, as high as they were, were the epitome of evil in Jarel’s eyes, making the purchase of good quality beef or pork ridiculous.
The Lamb could always use fresh meat.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #13
"You're pretty when you're angry, you know."
The words set Anisse's stomach turning, as did the rank breath of the elf as he leered in her face. Ale--rank, sour ale. By all accounts, the elf had belonged upstairs with the rest of the drunken rabble. There seemed to be some sort of horrid celebration that Anisse couldn't even begin to understand where everyone decided to make a profession out of being an idiot. Yet now, the elf was down in her little sacred space, invading it again, when she had done everything she could to avoid being upstairs.
Yet this was not what upset her most.
Pretty. It did something in her, the mere sound of the word, even as she pushed the elf pirate down, making him fall on the small narrow space of her room. He was still laughing at her, swaying as he tried to get up back to his feet. Her mind went back, however, to a time where the word "pretty" meant "weak". Where strength was measured by devotion, and she was just another nameless Acolyte.
Her red hair was so soft, and her kohl eyeliner ruined the prettiness of her face. She begged, pleaded for her life, offered money, to which all were numb to. All stared at the Defector, a disgusting, vain thing, clinging to her flesh as if it were her God. Oh how she had used to her long-lashed eyes to get everything she wanted, a pretty smile to weaken hearts around here. Except now, in the heart of the Twilight's, it was not a heart she could weaken. Unfortunately, it took much too long for the girl to realize this. Anisse held the ripped portion of her scalp in her hand still, listening to the hateful words of the Speaker, speaking of the farce of the Defector's beauty, and how she hid behind it. She would not stop crying, and Anisse could not bear to look.
The green-eyed girl disgusted Anisse with her weakness.
'Pretty', the Speaker hissed. 'Let me show you your true beauty.'
The shrieks exploded around the camp as the Defector was held down, writhing as the sharp knife was taken to her face. Her flesh peeled in pieces, like an onion.
'Pretty' meant...'victim'.
Fast forward to now, and Anisse was staring down the nameless elf with a cold, horrible glare. He'd insulted her one too many times, nevermind that he managed to return her pendant after an eternity of ridicule. A command in demonic dripped from her lips, and the swirling mass of shadow in the crypt separated to assist its 'mistress', ready to serve. The elf was able to resist little as the voidwalker rolled him up in the abyssal darkness of its body, suspended there.
He needed to be humbled.
The words set Anisse's stomach turning, as did the rank breath of the elf as he leered in her face. Ale--rank, sour ale. By all accounts, the elf had belonged upstairs with the rest of the drunken rabble. There seemed to be some sort of horrid celebration that Anisse couldn't even begin to understand where everyone decided to make a profession out of being an idiot. Yet now, the elf was down in her little sacred space, invading it again, when she had done everything she could to avoid being upstairs.
Yet this was not what upset her most.
Pretty. It did something in her, the mere sound of the word, even as she pushed the elf pirate down, making him fall on the small narrow space of her room. He was still laughing at her, swaying as he tried to get up back to his feet. Her mind went back, however, to a time where the word "pretty" meant "weak". Where strength was measured by devotion, and she was just another nameless Acolyte.
Her red hair was so soft, and her kohl eyeliner ruined the prettiness of her face. She begged, pleaded for her life, offered money, to which all were numb to. All stared at the Defector, a disgusting, vain thing, clinging to her flesh as if it were her God. Oh how she had used to her long-lashed eyes to get everything she wanted, a pretty smile to weaken hearts around here. Except now, in the heart of the Twilight's, it was not a heart she could weaken. Unfortunately, it took much too long for the girl to realize this. Anisse held the ripped portion of her scalp in her hand still, listening to the hateful words of the Speaker, speaking of the farce of the Defector's beauty, and how she hid behind it. She would not stop crying, and Anisse could not bear to look.
The green-eyed girl disgusted Anisse with her weakness.
'Pretty', the Speaker hissed. 'Let me show you your true beauty.'
The shrieks exploded around the camp as the Defector was held down, writhing as the sharp knife was taken to her face. Her flesh peeled in pieces, like an onion.
'Pretty' meant...'victim'.
Fast forward to now, and Anisse was staring down the nameless elf with a cold, horrible glare. He'd insulted her one too many times, nevermind that he managed to return her pendant after an eternity of ridicule. A command in demonic dripped from her lips, and the swirling mass of shadow in the crypt separated to assist its 'mistress', ready to serve. The elf was able to resist little as the voidwalker rolled him up in the abyssal darkness of its body, suspended there.
He needed to be humbled.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #12
"...you got to be kidding me!" Jarel Moor exclaimed, looking at his newest, heavily armored guest. The Sheriff looked down his hawk-turned nose at the bartender of the Slaughtered Lamb in all seriousness.
"By the order of the Grand King And--" The tax collector was cut short by Jarel's loud wordless arguing, trying to shut him up. He rose a single, thick fingered hand up to stop him, eyes rolling. "I don't need another speech, thank you, Sir."
Drawers were pulled out behind the bar, coin rattling around against wood. The Sheriff leaned against the counter to watch as Jarel scooped up gold coins by the tens, dumping them into a small bag.
"Thats a hefty tax. Nearly five times more what I usually pay. And it's not even tax time!" Jarel grumbled. The collector stuck his thumbs in the hooks of his trousers, toying with the handcuffs attached to them rather pointedly.
"If you'd like to argue, Sir Moor, I'm sure we can take you down to the Stockades so you can...heheh, plead your case."
Jarel threw the bag of coin, letting it slide down the counter for the Sheriff's fingers to pluck. Tipping his helm, the tax collector gently tousled the weighted gold bag between his hands. He whistled as he started back out toward the exit, a hop to his steps.
"The Kingdom of Stormwind thanks you. Good day."
The angry slamming of a crate from the tavern hardly made a sound in the catacombs, muffled by the floor above. By lamplight, Anisse kneeled upon the small, thatched carpet decorating her little parlor. Dipping her fingers into the wooden bowl on the floor before her, the tepid water rippled slightly at the intrusion of her digits. Scrying was taught to even the most inexperienced of Twilight Cultists, for signs of the Old Ones were often hidden from the five senses, such magic often smothered by the numb earth. Coupled with the right offerings, sight could be granted. There was one such obscure artifact she meant to find.
Anisse wondered if she still had the touch.
Spreading her fingers wide in the bowl, steam started to rise as the woman focused. Tensing, she felt the whispers of magic starting to gather. With force, she pulled the magic through her and then expelled it, and the flames answered her call, lighting her fingers and the water of the bowl. It danced fiercely, owning the silent water now. Anna sat back and studied the little spectacle, a pleased smile turning the corners of her lips.
She had little time to act, a small window to find what she sought though, and Anisse’s focus returned. The edge of a dagger scraped against the frayed carpet as it was scooped into her hand. She flinched, cutting the blade across her free palm to feed the flames, though she forced herself to stare upon the fiery bowl, unblinking. Hungry, the fire snapped up the droplets of blood that poured from the wound, crackling and popping in acceptance. Swaying, she gave her voice weight, giving herself to the seeking.
Through the Abyss I plead for thee,
Through fire and water do make me see,
Cast this primal fire far and wide
That what I seek will no longer hide!
Anisse scooted back, withholding a gasp as the fire leapt within the bowl. Anticipative, she rose a bit on her knees, looking down at the burning fire. It was a spinning torrent inside of the bowl, quickly evaporating the water inside as it funneled upwards. It had worked! For a mere minute the scrying went on, seeking the stolen obelisk that haunted her fingers. As the water boiled, the image of the small obsidian obelisk burned red hot in the water’s reflection, the black stone aglow. She could smell the ocean, hear the animalistic sounds of a jungle. Still she probed the scrying spell, her face so close to its funneling flame, the question throbbing in her mind over and over.
Where, where, where, where, where, where, where?!
The narrow, dark-colored face of a tusked female formed in the remaining water. A tuft of bright, pink hair was added just as the image collapsed, the last drop of water drifting off as steam, leaving an empty, smoking bowl. The scryer peered into the now blackened bowl, sitting back slowly onto her heels. She’d found her pendant. The image the spell had relinquished to her was a troll, at least she knew. Beyond that, she at least knew it was safe for the time being…she’d be hard-pressed getting another like it. Still, it irked her. She wanted the damned obelisk!
Laying back onto her small missionary bed, Anisse sighed inwardly, musing. She stared up to the ceiling, her eyes drawn to a wispy cobweb attached to a corner. Inside of it, something small struggled, sending vibrations of its doom. It was not long before the spider that called the corner home came to claim its meal. She smiled, watching the spider at work, coiling the little roach up in its silk threads.
Perhaps it was time for some traveling.
…when she had enough finances.
"By the order of the Grand King And--" The tax collector was cut short by Jarel's loud wordless arguing, trying to shut him up. He rose a single, thick fingered hand up to stop him, eyes rolling. "I don't need another speech, thank you, Sir."
Drawers were pulled out behind the bar, coin rattling around against wood. The Sheriff leaned against the counter to watch as Jarel scooped up gold coins by the tens, dumping them into a small bag.
"Thats a hefty tax. Nearly five times more what I usually pay. And it's not even tax time!" Jarel grumbled. The collector stuck his thumbs in the hooks of his trousers, toying with the handcuffs attached to them rather pointedly.
"If you'd like to argue, Sir Moor, I'm sure we can take you down to the Stockades so you can...heheh, plead your case."
Jarel threw the bag of coin, letting it slide down the counter for the Sheriff's fingers to pluck. Tipping his helm, the tax collector gently tousled the weighted gold bag between his hands. He whistled as he started back out toward the exit, a hop to his steps.
"The Kingdom of Stormwind thanks you. Good day."
The angry slamming of a crate from the tavern hardly made a sound in the catacombs, muffled by the floor above. By lamplight, Anisse kneeled upon the small, thatched carpet decorating her little parlor. Dipping her fingers into the wooden bowl on the floor before her, the tepid water rippled slightly at the intrusion of her digits. Scrying was taught to even the most inexperienced of Twilight Cultists, for signs of the Old Ones were often hidden from the five senses, such magic often smothered by the numb earth. Coupled with the right offerings, sight could be granted. There was one such obscure artifact she meant to find.
Anisse wondered if she still had the touch.
Spreading her fingers wide in the bowl, steam started to rise as the woman focused. Tensing, she felt the whispers of magic starting to gather. With force, she pulled the magic through her and then expelled it, and the flames answered her call, lighting her fingers and the water of the bowl. It danced fiercely, owning the silent water now. Anna sat back and studied the little spectacle, a pleased smile turning the corners of her lips.
She had little time to act, a small window to find what she sought though, and Anisse’s focus returned. The edge of a dagger scraped against the frayed carpet as it was scooped into her hand. She flinched, cutting the blade across her free palm to feed the flames, though she forced herself to stare upon the fiery bowl, unblinking. Hungry, the fire snapped up the droplets of blood that poured from the wound, crackling and popping in acceptance. Swaying, she gave her voice weight, giving herself to the seeking.
Through the Abyss I plead for thee,
Through fire and water do make me see,
Cast this primal fire far and wide
That what I seek will no longer hide!
Anisse scooted back, withholding a gasp as the fire leapt within the bowl. Anticipative, she rose a bit on her knees, looking down at the burning fire. It was a spinning torrent inside of the bowl, quickly evaporating the water inside as it funneled upwards. It had worked! For a mere minute the scrying went on, seeking the stolen obelisk that haunted her fingers. As the water boiled, the image of the small obsidian obelisk burned red hot in the water’s reflection, the black stone aglow. She could smell the ocean, hear the animalistic sounds of a jungle. Still she probed the scrying spell, her face so close to its funneling flame, the question throbbing in her mind over and over.
Where, where, where, where, where, where, where?!
The narrow, dark-colored face of a tusked female formed in the remaining water. A tuft of bright, pink hair was added just as the image collapsed, the last drop of water drifting off as steam, leaving an empty, smoking bowl. The scryer peered into the now blackened bowl, sitting back slowly onto her heels. She’d found her pendant. The image the spell had relinquished to her was a troll, at least she knew. Beyond that, she at least knew it was safe for the time being…she’d be hard-pressed getting another like it. Still, it irked her. She wanted the damned obelisk!
Laying back onto her small missionary bed, Anisse sighed inwardly, musing. She stared up to the ceiling, her eyes drawn to a wispy cobweb attached to a corner. Inside of it, something small struggled, sending vibrations of its doom. It was not long before the spider that called the corner home came to claim its meal. She smiled, watching the spider at work, coiling the little roach up in its silk threads.
Perhaps it was time for some traveling.
…when she had enough finances.
A Patron of the Lamb #11
Deep beneath the Slaughtered Lamb, stacked crates hid away a parlor in a cold room of the catacombs. The soft, warm light of an oil lamp lit the numerous crates, a giveaway that someone occupied the space. Indeed, a woman stood on the bare stone floor, indecisive between sitting or standing alone. Jarel Moor, the bartender of the Lamb, had been generous with the choice of furniture he'd supplied Anisse with, though most of it had been rubbish thrown away by fellow citizenry of Stormwind. The summoning spell she'd been forced to purchase seemed useless. Both irritating and finicky, it had been difficult working with the imp--the demon seemed to want to burn everything else in the small room instead of what she ordered it too. Fortunately, her own control over the Immolation spell was all she needed to fuse broken hinges and wooden legs back together. There was a distinct enjoyment in wielding this particular spell, feeling the fire hot along her fingers, yet not burning at her skin. The intensity of the fire was rather unexplainable, as was her inclination to it. No elemental fire spell taught to her by the Twilight's was quite the same.
The imp on the other hand...she'd found another use for it. Its body was somewhere in the crypt, still smoldering as it twitched in the darkness. Pinned to the cracks of the stone floor by broken slivers of wood, Anisse kept the demon alive through the process of extracting its tiny gland of a heart--it was the only way she could keep it from unsummoning. The heart seemed small within the jar of solution it floated in, overtaken by the fluids, and she had to rebalance the cocktail of alcohol and formaldehyde to keep the small organ from drying out completely. It sat upon the wooden vanity desk Anisse now, another part of her growing collection. However, it was not the jar she was staring at--it seemed very far away at this particular moment. It was her precious pendant she looked down silently upon from where she sat.
The pendant that was no longer there.
Still, the woman stared, as if her mere eyes might make the necklace materialize out of thin air. She knew it well, the leather cord holding the small obsidian obelisk close around her throat. It had been given to her by her own Speaker, a gift to welcome her to the Twilight's Hammer. Carved from the stone the cultists used to call forth the empowered abyssals upon the sands of Silithus, as she was told, it resonated faintly, thrumming in her hand and against her throat when she wore it. Though she had distanced herself from the cult, and she might've sealed her fate eventually by their hands, Anisse still found a comfort she could not explain in the little trinket.
The loss of it dented her heart.
It sent her into a flurry, sheets and pillows flung this way and that inside the small parlor. The drawers of her vanity were pulled out roughly, searching, the oil lamp carried to light the cold crypt floors in her desperation. Her search came to nothing. Slowly, her eyes retracked around the room and everywhere she'd been, before settling back on the bed.
The bed, where the elf had been hiding.
Jarel insinuated that the elf had been a merchant of some sort, and apparently a thief, as she'd caught him rummaging through her parlor. She'd overlooked him, like a boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar, he fled in shame after failing to charm her with his antics. Now, realizing he'd tricked her all along, she eyed the steps, following the ghost of his movements that night with a determination.
Stomping her way back up to the tavern above, Anisse caught the attention of the bartender almost immediately--even the few guests of the Lamb regarded the "mousy" girl curiously. A few strapping men were working behind the counter, carrying the large boxed crates out of the Slaughtered Lamb. It seemed Jarel had produced a nice shipping deal for the very special meatpies served within the Slaughtered Lamb.
"Why aren't you sleeping, Anna dear?" The bartender blinked at the woman as one of the shipping men assessed her. She ran about hoodless today, with her quaint, soft face. A smile was drawn from the moving boy as he looked upon her, trying to greet Anisse. That smile left quickly when she fixed him with a pair of empty amber eyes, rushing him out the door with only her cold stare. Jarel sighed, shaking his head. "You've been up for two days straight! I don't have any errands for you now, go on."
"No," came the cold answer from the woman, imagining the teasing smile of the elf. The long-eared brat made her feel like an idiot now, having testing her, trying to provoke her to action that night. She couldn't fathom now why she let him get away alive. Inhaling a quick breath, she softened her voice, trying to sound amiable. "I wish to help."
"Haha, Anisse." Jarel spoke the name as if it were some strange revelation. The copper binds that held his hair in dreds caught the reflection of the torchlit tavern as he moved, leaning on the bar. "My dear, you're simply too scrawny to pick up one of these boxes. They'd break you."
"Let me...at least make sure the product gets to the approapriate ship," Anisse argued, her face intense. "You do not want to be caught with an unmanned tavern, do you?"
"Heh, you have a point, little lady." Jarel eyed his live-in assistant for a long moment. By now he knew there was something she was up to. The woman hardly threw herself upon a job as she did now. He at last sighed and shooed her off with a hand. "And then you come back, you sleep."
"Of course," was the soft reply in turn. "In a bit."
The tavern door was slammed in her wake, making Jarel jump slightly behind the bar.
The imp on the other hand...she'd found another use for it. Its body was somewhere in the crypt, still smoldering as it twitched in the darkness. Pinned to the cracks of the stone floor by broken slivers of wood, Anisse kept the demon alive through the process of extracting its tiny gland of a heart--it was the only way she could keep it from unsummoning. The heart seemed small within the jar of solution it floated in, overtaken by the fluids, and she had to rebalance the cocktail of alcohol and formaldehyde to keep the small organ from drying out completely. It sat upon the wooden vanity desk Anisse now, another part of her growing collection. However, it was not the jar she was staring at--it seemed very far away at this particular moment. It was her precious pendant she looked down silently upon from where she sat.
The pendant that was no longer there.
Still, the woman stared, as if her mere eyes might make the necklace materialize out of thin air. She knew it well, the leather cord holding the small obsidian obelisk close around her throat. It had been given to her by her own Speaker, a gift to welcome her to the Twilight's Hammer. Carved from the stone the cultists used to call forth the empowered abyssals upon the sands of Silithus, as she was told, it resonated faintly, thrumming in her hand and against her throat when she wore it. Though she had distanced herself from the cult, and she might've sealed her fate eventually by their hands, Anisse still found a comfort she could not explain in the little trinket.
The loss of it dented her heart.
It sent her into a flurry, sheets and pillows flung this way and that inside the small parlor. The drawers of her vanity were pulled out roughly, searching, the oil lamp carried to light the cold crypt floors in her desperation. Her search came to nothing. Slowly, her eyes retracked around the room and everywhere she'd been, before settling back on the bed.
The bed, where the elf had been hiding.
Jarel insinuated that the elf had been a merchant of some sort, and apparently a thief, as she'd caught him rummaging through her parlor. She'd overlooked him, like a boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar, he fled in shame after failing to charm her with his antics. Now, realizing he'd tricked her all along, she eyed the steps, following the ghost of his movements that night with a determination.
Stomping her way back up to the tavern above, Anisse caught the attention of the bartender almost immediately--even the few guests of the Lamb regarded the "mousy" girl curiously. A few strapping men were working behind the counter, carrying the large boxed crates out of the Slaughtered Lamb. It seemed Jarel had produced a nice shipping deal for the very special meatpies served within the Slaughtered Lamb.
"Why aren't you sleeping, Anna dear?" The bartender blinked at the woman as one of the shipping men assessed her. She ran about hoodless today, with her quaint, soft face. A smile was drawn from the moving boy as he looked upon her, trying to greet Anisse. That smile left quickly when she fixed him with a pair of empty amber eyes, rushing him out the door with only her cold stare. Jarel sighed, shaking his head. "You've been up for two days straight! I don't have any errands for you now, go on."
"No," came the cold answer from the woman, imagining the teasing smile of the elf. The long-eared brat made her feel like an idiot now, having testing her, trying to provoke her to action that night. She couldn't fathom now why she let him get away alive. Inhaling a quick breath, she softened her voice, trying to sound amiable. "I wish to help."
"Haha, Anisse." Jarel spoke the name as if it were some strange revelation. The copper binds that held his hair in dreds caught the reflection of the torchlit tavern as he moved, leaning on the bar. "My dear, you're simply too scrawny to pick up one of these boxes. They'd break you."
"Let me...at least make sure the product gets to the approapriate ship," Anisse argued, her face intense. "You do not want to be caught with an unmanned tavern, do you?"
"Heh, you have a point, little lady." Jarel eyed his live-in assistant for a long moment. By now he knew there was something she was up to. The woman hardly threw herself upon a job as she did now. He at last sighed and shooed her off with a hand. "And then you come back, you sleep."
"Of course," was the soft reply in turn. "In a bit."
The tavern door was slammed in her wake, making Jarel jump slightly behind the bar.
A Patron of the Lamb #10
"....what the hell am I going to do with those?" Jarel, the bartender of the Slaughtered Lamb barked. Two rather old, grungy looking dining chairs sat, their legs rickety and unsteady. The chairs were simply not safe for holding guests anymore. At least, thats what he gathered when both chairs randomly collapsed underneath his heavily armored guest earlier in the evening. She had not been very happy, as Jarel's black eye could attest to. He really had to watch his mouth a bit. The comment about the amazon's weight was probably uncalled for. Not that she hadn't been good looking. Rubbing the tender, discolored area around his eye, he winced and grimaced between the pain and the incoming sunlight crawling through his front door.
Jarel could count on the curvacious warrior not making another appearance at his tavern.
"Eyepatches are fashionable, aren't they?" the bartender winked at the hooded woman sitting at the corner table of the dining room. "Augh...ouch!" he hissed. Winking was bad.
"I think you deserved it," Anisse replied flatly, her hood slid back a bit to eye her glass of iced tea. Rather than drinking it, she seemed satisfied with toying with the ice cubes inside of the glass with her spoon. "I do not think your guests come to hear you talk. Or insult them, even playfully."
"What?!" Jarel blew off the woman with a dismissive wave. "You're mistaken, missy. People come here for my good looks."
Anisse looked away tiredly as he strutted, flexing his rather pathetic "muscles". The bartender was not terribly horrible looking, but he wasn't winning the Azerothian Beauty Pageant either. Either way, the apprentice warlock decided she would retire, growing weary of watching the man act like a fool. There seemed to be no inkling of serious manner in the proprietor.
"Good night, Jarel," she murmured as she swept down to the basement, not giving him the time to think of something for her to do. As a permanent patron of the Lamb, Anisse had closed herself into a free deal of food and sleeping arrangements in exchange for harvesting meat for cooking and helping to keep the crypts below clean. Training was expensive, and she could not afford a regular room in the other Stormwind Inns. As thankful as she was for it, the warlock was in a sour mood, having spent most of her night trying to decimate the murloc population of Elwynn Forest. A simple task turned into a need for something to fill her jars with, a trinket besides a squishy eyeball. Unfortunately, most of the spells in her arsenal slowly tainted the body organs from the inside out, often liquifying the innards of the fragile fish-like creatures by the time they would fall. It made collecting their hearts all but impossible, and Anisse had returned by morning with no meaningful trinket.
At least the request of new meat for Jarel's meatpies had been filled. Apparently Defias rebels were tasty.
Home. Her soft leather boots clicked upon the catacomb floors. Peeling the robe off her shoulders, she sighed comfortably, feeling the soft velvet of the fabric. At least she had enough coins to buy the fresh new robe. Surely, she was indulging herself with the new cloth. Unfortunately, it was also going down on the crypt floors. Anisse unlocked her special chest of treasures, and placed a single, small jar into its confines. The kobold heart, the only undamaged organ she was able to collect, bounced like a bobbing apple in its mixture of preserving fluids, forever trapped behind the glass for her to study. Gently, she let the smaller jar clink against the Kal'dorei and succubus hearts. One last look of admiration, and the lid was pressed down until it clicked into place. The chest shimmered as she ran her fingers over the surface, and this made Anisse smile throughly. The scroll of protection she'd used to enchant it was horribly expensive, but it would be protected against all but her own fingers.
The jars could sit in safety. The dregs of the night slowly fell away from her mind with that affirmation.
Lying down upon her robes in her thin petticoat, Anisse drifted off into a comfortable sleep, ignoring the slight cold that whisked over her from the underground catacombs.
An hour later...
A scratching, dragging noise echoed through the bowels of the catacombs.
Waking with a start, Anisse's fingertips came to life with fire, the flames racing up the entirety of her hands. The Twilights had come for her at last, those she had betrayed. Somewhere in her heart, she knew this day had come, for the Twilight's Hammer never would let such an insult to their Way, as she was, be forgotten. She shivered, crawling up to her feet in that cold, dank crypt, staring on at the coming figure with her doom in its hands. Yet, for all her fears, she was ready to go down with a fight. The light of the flames lining her white slip of a nightgown, she looked much like an angry phantom in the darkness of the crypt, ready to rain down her vengeance.
"Acck...Great...Titan's Knickers..." echoed a man's voice, the tanned face of the bartender revealed. "Put your damn hands out before I take a bucket of water to you, woman!!"
"...Jarel?" Her voice wavered in the dark, a smidgeon of fear touching it's softness, the flames remaining. She'd not felt her heart beating so quickly since her first Offering.
"Well, of course! You know, you could see much better if you'd actually keep those torches lit." The dragging, screeching noise came to a stop, and her head thumped with its resonations, from her backpedalling paranoia. Her stomach was twisted in knots, sick. Somehow, she collected herself enough to light the torch next to her, and then let the spell die.
"Why did you wake me? I could have killed you." The idea hadn't completely left her head, glaring hard at the man.
"My luck, girlie. Put your clothes on, I've got something for you."
Throwing the lain robe back on so it hung loosely over her cotton nightgown, Anisse stared down upon an old wooden dining room chair. A broken, old wooden dining room chair.
"You are bringing me trash?"
"Im bringing you a seat. A 'thank you' would suffice."
"It's broken. I cannot use it."
"Use your head, woman," Jarel sighed out. "I have some wood rails down here you can use to make a bed with, so you don't have to sleep on the crypt floor. If you're going to live down here and work for my establishment, I'm not having you smelling like a corpse. Don't you smell yourself? You stink."
It was probably the smell of dried blood that wilted his nose, caked underneath her fingernails. Anisse wasn't about to tell him that, though. She let him go on his tangent, surprised with his concern.
"We'll fix this. Summon your imp."
"I don't have one."
Jarel fixed her with a hard stare. "Summon your imp."
"I do not have an imp," she answered again in monotone. His eyes were boring through her now.
"Why the hell don't you have an imp?!"
"They seem a distraction, and useless and I do--"
"Every neonate warlock needs a damned imp. It doesn't matter how annoying they are. They are a step up the ladder to demonic control. It ought to have been one of the first spells for you to learn. If you don't have an imp, you might as well be a damned mage. Good luck with that route, Lady Sleeps-with-the-dead," the bartender quipped gruffly. He seemed in a sour mood, not his usual cheery self above in the tavern. It was a side of Jarel Moor she'd never seen before, and it fascinated her.
"How do you know so much of warlocks? You are a bartender." He laughed hard at her question now, shaking his head.
"You don't live in the wild without learning the habits of it's wildlife, milady. I do not practice, but I know more than you do, apparently. We're getting you an imp, and we'll teach you to train it to obey your commands."
He dropped a bag of money at her feet, a sizable satchel that was heavy in her hands as she picked it up. He caught her amber eyes as she rose again, his own intense.
"Those warlock trainers up there? They would laugh at you now, and send you out to die. Do you understand me? Feel thankful that I'm doing this for you."
Anisse had no doubt the Warlock trainers cared nothing for her well-being, but the thought was mutual, in truth. Since she'd escaped her Brethren, she only meant to hide behind the warlocks, to mingle, to pretend she was one of theirs. Their way of magic was interesting, but it was hardly a path she obsessed with, and she treated it as a useful key to shelved knowledge. She would turn the key and take what she needed, when she needed it.
Now it seemed, there was a different plan.
"Warlocks are a ruthless bunch, remember that," Jarel explained, and Anisse agreed silently. "But with the respect of those in your Circle, you can find life much easier. You are already on the list of shame with your botched attempt on the spy. She was delivered to you to be taken care of! It's not a good spot to be in, m'dear. "
"Why are you helping me?"
Jarel laughed. "Because I don't want you to die!" the cheeky bartender of the Lamb returned to her with his candid smile. "I don't know what kind of meat you've been bringing me, but it sure isn't lamb, and everyone loves it! I'm not letting you go to your death. You'll just have to learn to live with that."
Anisse smiled thinly beneath her hood as they worked up the ramp twisting to the warlock's den. People enjoyed her treasures.
"Then you will teach me to control a demon outside?" the woman said a bit too hopefully.
"Hell no. You can practice commanding it to weld your chairs and bed together. You can have yourself a little parlor down there! Come on then, hurry it up."
Anisse followed silently behind the bartender now, playing the little dunce, feigning her ignorance. There was so much more to this picture she could not allow Jarel to see. The bartender had his uses after all. His heart perhaps, was in the right place in aiding her.
For once, that place was not in a jar.
Jarel could count on the curvacious warrior not making another appearance at his tavern.
"Eyepatches are fashionable, aren't they?" the bartender winked at the hooded woman sitting at the corner table of the dining room. "Augh...ouch!" he hissed. Winking was bad.
"I think you deserved it," Anisse replied flatly, her hood slid back a bit to eye her glass of iced tea. Rather than drinking it, she seemed satisfied with toying with the ice cubes inside of the glass with her spoon. "I do not think your guests come to hear you talk. Or insult them, even playfully."
"What?!" Jarel blew off the woman with a dismissive wave. "You're mistaken, missy. People come here for my good looks."
Anisse looked away tiredly as he strutted, flexing his rather pathetic "muscles". The bartender was not terribly horrible looking, but he wasn't winning the Azerothian Beauty Pageant either. Either way, the apprentice warlock decided she would retire, growing weary of watching the man act like a fool. There seemed to be no inkling of serious manner in the proprietor.
"Good night, Jarel," she murmured as she swept down to the basement, not giving him the time to think of something for her to do. As a permanent patron of the Lamb, Anisse had closed herself into a free deal of food and sleeping arrangements in exchange for harvesting meat for cooking and helping to keep the crypts below clean. Training was expensive, and she could not afford a regular room in the other Stormwind Inns. As thankful as she was for it, the warlock was in a sour mood, having spent most of her night trying to decimate the murloc population of Elwynn Forest. A simple task turned into a need for something to fill her jars with, a trinket besides a squishy eyeball. Unfortunately, most of the spells in her arsenal slowly tainted the body organs from the inside out, often liquifying the innards of the fragile fish-like creatures by the time they would fall. It made collecting their hearts all but impossible, and Anisse had returned by morning with no meaningful trinket.
At least the request of new meat for Jarel's meatpies had been filled. Apparently Defias rebels were tasty.
Home. Her soft leather boots clicked upon the catacomb floors. Peeling the robe off her shoulders, she sighed comfortably, feeling the soft velvet of the fabric. At least she had enough coins to buy the fresh new robe. Surely, she was indulging herself with the new cloth. Unfortunately, it was also going down on the crypt floors. Anisse unlocked her special chest of treasures, and placed a single, small jar into its confines. The kobold heart, the only undamaged organ she was able to collect, bounced like a bobbing apple in its mixture of preserving fluids, forever trapped behind the glass for her to study. Gently, she let the smaller jar clink against the Kal'dorei and succubus hearts. One last look of admiration, and the lid was pressed down until it clicked into place. The chest shimmered as she ran her fingers over the surface, and this made Anisse smile throughly. The scroll of protection she'd used to enchant it was horribly expensive, but it would be protected against all but her own fingers.
The jars could sit in safety. The dregs of the night slowly fell away from her mind with that affirmation.
Lying down upon her robes in her thin petticoat, Anisse drifted off into a comfortable sleep, ignoring the slight cold that whisked over her from the underground catacombs.
An hour later...
A scratching, dragging noise echoed through the bowels of the catacombs.
Waking with a start, Anisse's fingertips came to life with fire, the flames racing up the entirety of her hands. The Twilights had come for her at last, those she had betrayed. Somewhere in her heart, she knew this day had come, for the Twilight's Hammer never would let such an insult to their Way, as she was, be forgotten. She shivered, crawling up to her feet in that cold, dank crypt, staring on at the coming figure with her doom in its hands. Yet, for all her fears, she was ready to go down with a fight. The light of the flames lining her white slip of a nightgown, she looked much like an angry phantom in the darkness of the crypt, ready to rain down her vengeance.
"Acck...Great...Titan's Knickers..." echoed a man's voice, the tanned face of the bartender revealed. "Put your damn hands out before I take a bucket of water to you, woman!!"
"...Jarel?" Her voice wavered in the dark, a smidgeon of fear touching it's softness, the flames remaining. She'd not felt her heart beating so quickly since her first Offering.
"Well, of course! You know, you could see much better if you'd actually keep those torches lit." The dragging, screeching noise came to a stop, and her head thumped with its resonations, from her backpedalling paranoia. Her stomach was twisted in knots, sick. Somehow, she collected herself enough to light the torch next to her, and then let the spell die.
"Why did you wake me? I could have killed you." The idea hadn't completely left her head, glaring hard at the man.
"My luck, girlie. Put your clothes on, I've got something for you."
Throwing the lain robe back on so it hung loosely over her cotton nightgown, Anisse stared down upon an old wooden dining room chair. A broken, old wooden dining room chair.
"You are bringing me trash?"
"Im bringing you a seat. A 'thank you' would suffice."
"It's broken. I cannot use it."
"Use your head, woman," Jarel sighed out. "I have some wood rails down here you can use to make a bed with, so you don't have to sleep on the crypt floor. If you're going to live down here and work for my establishment, I'm not having you smelling like a corpse. Don't you smell yourself? You stink."
It was probably the smell of dried blood that wilted his nose, caked underneath her fingernails. Anisse wasn't about to tell him that, though. She let him go on his tangent, surprised with his concern.
"We'll fix this. Summon your imp."
"I don't have one."
Jarel fixed her with a hard stare. "Summon your imp."
"I do not have an imp," she answered again in monotone. His eyes were boring through her now.
"Why the hell don't you have an imp?!"
"They seem a distraction, and useless and I do--"
"Every neonate warlock needs a damned imp. It doesn't matter how annoying they are. They are a step up the ladder to demonic control. It ought to have been one of the first spells for you to learn. If you don't have an imp, you might as well be a damned mage. Good luck with that route, Lady Sleeps-with-the-dead," the bartender quipped gruffly. He seemed in a sour mood, not his usual cheery self above in the tavern. It was a side of Jarel Moor she'd never seen before, and it fascinated her.
"How do you know so much of warlocks? You are a bartender." He laughed hard at her question now, shaking his head.
"You don't live in the wild without learning the habits of it's wildlife, milady. I do not practice, but I know more than you do, apparently. We're getting you an imp, and we'll teach you to train it to obey your commands."
He dropped a bag of money at her feet, a sizable satchel that was heavy in her hands as she picked it up. He caught her amber eyes as she rose again, his own intense.
"Those warlock trainers up there? They would laugh at you now, and send you out to die. Do you understand me? Feel thankful that I'm doing this for you."
Anisse had no doubt the Warlock trainers cared nothing for her well-being, but the thought was mutual, in truth. Since she'd escaped her Brethren, she only meant to hide behind the warlocks, to mingle, to pretend she was one of theirs. Their way of magic was interesting, but it was hardly a path she obsessed with, and she treated it as a useful key to shelved knowledge. She would turn the key and take what she needed, when she needed it.
Now it seemed, there was a different plan.
"Warlocks are a ruthless bunch, remember that," Jarel explained, and Anisse agreed silently. "But with the respect of those in your Circle, you can find life much easier. You are already on the list of shame with your botched attempt on the spy. She was delivered to you to be taken care of! It's not a good spot to be in, m'dear. "
"Why are you helping me?"
Jarel laughed. "Because I don't want you to die!" the cheeky bartender of the Lamb returned to her with his candid smile. "I don't know what kind of meat you've been bringing me, but it sure isn't lamb, and everyone loves it! I'm not letting you go to your death. You'll just have to learn to live with that."
Anisse smiled thinly beneath her hood as they worked up the ramp twisting to the warlock's den. People enjoyed her treasures.
"Then you will teach me to control a demon outside?" the woman said a bit too hopefully.
"Hell no. You can practice commanding it to weld your chairs and bed together. You can have yourself a little parlor down there! Come on then, hurry it up."
Anisse followed silently behind the bartender now, playing the little dunce, feigning her ignorance. There was so much more to this picture she could not allow Jarel to see. The bartender had his uses after all. His heart perhaps, was in the right place in aiding her.
For once, that place was not in a jar.
A Patron of the Lamb #9
The cement is hard, cold, uncomfortable, even through the layers of robe folded beneath her head. It should be the sort of discomfort she finds solace in, so close to the dirt and stone. Through it's rumblings she once heard whispers, unintelligible, but it was always enough just to hear the Voices. The Speaker once taught her how to listen after feeling the vibrations of the obsidian stones in communion, but now there was nothing the crypt floors could give to her but their silence. She breathed out softly as she lay there, unable to sleep, unable to dream. Moving the fabric of her robes, she now pressed her cheek up against the dirty grout and stone and halted her breath, trying to glean a sound. A voice, a mere word.
The silence mocked her.
In a fit, she threw her robes against the crypt wall. The nearby torchlight flickered it's dissapointment at her as the cloth slid uselessly down the cold stone. Silently, she cursed the Abyss Child who gave her this fear and made her run from what she knew. She cursed the inkling of mercy she felt that stopped her from binding the Child to the altar those nights ago. She had purpose, she had desires, she had a clear conscience. It was because of Sleeping One that she was here, doing the bidding of arrogant warlocks that her Speaker would have never suffered to live! She was neither a Twilight, a Seeker of truth, an Acolyte ushering the great sundering of the world as it so surely deserved...
Anisse was a failure.
Clenching her teeth, she would not allow a flow of tears, by the Abyss, no. Feeling the coming pressure of tears anyway angered her, feeling her eyes moisten. This was not what she would become. Her eyes flickered over to the crate where she kept her treasures, now decorated with a lock. Within the locked space came the comfort that something was hers at least. She laced her boots up tight, pulling the leather strap across the crisscross of laces. Her stockings sported holes, but behind the skirts of her robes, none could see them, what should she care? Her robes on the other hand, crumpled as they were, ought to be replaced. The stench of mold and and grave moss clung to the faded fabric as she pulled it over her head, and it bothered her for the first time since escaping to Stormwind.
She was a cleaner monster than that.
Shopping came to mind, strangely--not that she had much to work with. Perhaps inside she had a woman's heart somewhere, wishing to drown her sorrows by shopping. A gold piece and 15 silver, she counted within her pockets, hardly enough to buy a day's worth of food. Her satchel, cleaned and prepared, was clenched over her shoulder as she made her way up to the tavern. The bartender hardly noticed her rise up from the ramp and walk out into the small courtyard, seeming a little more than groggy. It was rather early in the morning for Jarel Moor.
-------------------------------
"Where is your demon, idiot?!" the white-haired elf growled out, almost frothing at the mouth by now in her anger. She wondered if the dagger-wielder was suffering from a contracted disease. "Set it on the damned gnolls and then attack! Ugh. I can't keep all of them off of you!"
Why Anisse decided to take the help from the raging assassin, she couldn't quite decide, but she regretted it. What respect and interest she had in their race had completely fallen through with this encounter. The thrill of the hunt spoiled by the elf's consistent barrage of derogatory remarks, Anisse found it even less worthwhile when the Kal'dorei demanded that she get anything holding value from the corpses of the gnolls. She was terribly bored, the day's shopping ruined for this...partnership. She'd have to think of something to do.
"I am sorry," the woman said, her voice filled with shame. "I'm a little new at this."
"Whatever," snorted the Kal'dorei, emptying a nice leather satchel from the gnoll, as well as more pieces of silver. "Just summon the damn demon so we can get this over with. I need to kill 2 more of them."
"As you wish. Do you want me to use a soulstone?" The stone glimmered like the string of black pearls Anisse used to tie her mahogany hair back within the hood, filling her hand.
"Yeah...in case you do something dumb again. I'm not dying for it."
Without question, Anisse casted the spell, the demonic words coming slow and untrained to her lips, but the connection was made. The elf shivered as she felt the tingle of the dark magic connecting her spirit to the orb.
"There. Good. Look forget about the demon, and just wait till I get them all, then attack. NO fearing, okay?" the elf tried to reason now, hanging on to her apparently thin strand of patience.
Anisse nodded her cowled head meekly.
At once, the elf was at work. Dissapearing from her sight, Anisse watched as one of the canine-like gnolls crumpled to the ground, killed instantly in one stroke by the backstabbing manuever. It was quite impressive. The assassin next lay into the gnoll's companion, who roared with fury, but could not come close to landing a blow upon the elf.
"Help!" the Kaldorei growled out as two more gnolls joined the fight against the assassin. Anisse then inflicted a curse of fear upon the attackers, sending them to scatter and alert others, much to the elf's horror.
"You little...! Auugh! I'm going to--"
Anisse was nowhere to be found, from what the elf could see. Fighting valiantly against some ten gnolls all alone, she killed the eighth before her body could take more of the axe blows and bites. She ran perhaps ten feet away from the slobbering creatures before a bolt of earth magic brought her to her knees, making her blackout. It was not long before she sensed the warlock's hands around her essence. Try as the elf might, she could not get back to her body. It was just as the warlock planned.
"There we go. I think they're all gone now," Anisse murmured to the orb quietly. Her voice was soft, but devoid of warmth as she assessed the soulstone. "It worked rather well, don't you think?" Her finger rubbed into the small crack in the surface of the soulstone. "Pity the stone is damaged. I don't think you will be able to return to your body unless I completely shatter it. It's a small quirk of demonic magic. Funny, don't you think?"
The elf screamed, but went unheard, her own voice only echoing inside of the orb, outwardly glowing. Blades of grass now cradled the stone where Anisse set it down, and before it set the slaughtered body of the Kaldorei. The body was relieved of the loot the assassin had greedily horded. The orb flickered angrily, and the hooded woman smirked, not having to hear the course tongue.
"You aren't very good at killing," Anisse told the churning orb, freeing a good sized knife with a thin, curved blade from the inside of her robes. "Neither am I. But that will change in time, I think." Freeing the torso of it's leather tunic, the knife started to cut through the chest cavity. The soul inside of the stone screamed more in horror than pain, forced to watch as her body was mutilated.
"Thank you for the practice," she said, her lips barely moving as she concentrated on her task.
The silence mocked her.
In a fit, she threw her robes against the crypt wall. The nearby torchlight flickered it's dissapointment at her as the cloth slid uselessly down the cold stone. Silently, she cursed the Abyss Child who gave her this fear and made her run from what she knew. She cursed the inkling of mercy she felt that stopped her from binding the Child to the altar those nights ago. She had purpose, she had desires, she had a clear conscience. It was because of Sleeping One that she was here, doing the bidding of arrogant warlocks that her Speaker would have never suffered to live! She was neither a Twilight, a Seeker of truth, an Acolyte ushering the great sundering of the world as it so surely deserved...
Anisse was a failure.
Clenching her teeth, she would not allow a flow of tears, by the Abyss, no. Feeling the coming pressure of tears anyway angered her, feeling her eyes moisten. This was not what she would become. Her eyes flickered over to the crate where she kept her treasures, now decorated with a lock. Within the locked space came the comfort that something was hers at least. She laced her boots up tight, pulling the leather strap across the crisscross of laces. Her stockings sported holes, but behind the skirts of her robes, none could see them, what should she care? Her robes on the other hand, crumpled as they were, ought to be replaced. The stench of mold and and grave moss clung to the faded fabric as she pulled it over her head, and it bothered her for the first time since escaping to Stormwind.
She was a cleaner monster than that.
Shopping came to mind, strangely--not that she had much to work with. Perhaps inside she had a woman's heart somewhere, wishing to drown her sorrows by shopping. A gold piece and 15 silver, she counted within her pockets, hardly enough to buy a day's worth of food. Her satchel, cleaned and prepared, was clenched over her shoulder as she made her way up to the tavern. The bartender hardly noticed her rise up from the ramp and walk out into the small courtyard, seeming a little more than groggy. It was rather early in the morning for Jarel Moor.
-------------------------------
"Where is your demon, idiot?!" the white-haired elf growled out, almost frothing at the mouth by now in her anger. She wondered if the dagger-wielder was suffering from a contracted disease. "Set it on the damned gnolls and then attack! Ugh. I can't keep all of them off of you!"
Why Anisse decided to take the help from the raging assassin, she couldn't quite decide, but she regretted it. What respect and interest she had in their race had completely fallen through with this encounter. The thrill of the hunt spoiled by the elf's consistent barrage of derogatory remarks, Anisse found it even less worthwhile when the Kal'dorei demanded that she get anything holding value from the corpses of the gnolls. She was terribly bored, the day's shopping ruined for this...partnership. She'd have to think of something to do.
"I am sorry," the woman said, her voice filled with shame. "I'm a little new at this."
"Whatever," snorted the Kal'dorei, emptying a nice leather satchel from the gnoll, as well as more pieces of silver. "Just summon the damn demon so we can get this over with. I need to kill 2 more of them."
"As you wish. Do you want me to use a soulstone?" The stone glimmered like the string of black pearls Anisse used to tie her mahogany hair back within the hood, filling her hand.
"Yeah...in case you do something dumb again. I'm not dying for it."
Without question, Anisse casted the spell, the demonic words coming slow and untrained to her lips, but the connection was made. The elf shivered as she felt the tingle of the dark magic connecting her spirit to the orb.
"There. Good. Look forget about the demon, and just wait till I get them all, then attack. NO fearing, okay?" the elf tried to reason now, hanging on to her apparently thin strand of patience.
Anisse nodded her cowled head meekly.
At once, the elf was at work. Dissapearing from her sight, Anisse watched as one of the canine-like gnolls crumpled to the ground, killed instantly in one stroke by the backstabbing manuever. It was quite impressive. The assassin next lay into the gnoll's companion, who roared with fury, but could not come close to landing a blow upon the elf.
"Help!" the Kaldorei growled out as two more gnolls joined the fight against the assassin. Anisse then inflicted a curse of fear upon the attackers, sending them to scatter and alert others, much to the elf's horror.
"You little...! Auugh! I'm going to--"
Anisse was nowhere to be found, from what the elf could see. Fighting valiantly against some ten gnolls all alone, she killed the eighth before her body could take more of the axe blows and bites. She ran perhaps ten feet away from the slobbering creatures before a bolt of earth magic brought her to her knees, making her blackout. It was not long before she sensed the warlock's hands around her essence. Try as the elf might, she could not get back to her body. It was just as the warlock planned.
"There we go. I think they're all gone now," Anisse murmured to the orb quietly. Her voice was soft, but devoid of warmth as she assessed the soulstone. "It worked rather well, don't you think?" Her finger rubbed into the small crack in the surface of the soulstone. "Pity the stone is damaged. I don't think you will be able to return to your body unless I completely shatter it. It's a small quirk of demonic magic. Funny, don't you think?"
The elf screamed, but went unheard, her own voice only echoing inside of the orb, outwardly glowing. Blades of grass now cradled the stone where Anisse set it down, and before it set the slaughtered body of the Kaldorei. The body was relieved of the loot the assassin had greedily horded. The orb flickered angrily, and the hooded woman smirked, not having to hear the course tongue.
"You aren't very good at killing," Anisse told the churning orb, freeing a good sized knife with a thin, curved blade from the inside of her robes. "Neither am I. But that will change in time, I think." Freeing the torso of it's leather tunic, the knife started to cut through the chest cavity. The soul inside of the stone screamed more in horror than pain, forced to watch as her body was mutilated.
"Thank you for the practice," she said, her lips barely moving as she concentrated on her task.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #8
It was morning by the time Anisse returned to Stormwind. She moved her cowl back just a bit to see the sun rise over the city, over the so-called Valley of Heroes. It had never been a place she’d taken too much time to observe in passing. Looking at the grand statues now, touched by the yellows and oranges of the brightening day, in truth she found the place fetching. She smirked slightly in thought, knowing how much her former comrades would have liked to bring the city down to nothing but rubbish, to have toppled the castle and erect their great obsidian shrines of worship in its place.
By all measures, she had betrayed the Twilights, and fled the hidden caves she once called home. It was in the insectlike eyes of the Abyss Child that she found her chains of devotion broken. The urgent sense of freeing the sacrifice had enveloped her, making her feel this…mercy. It was so strange, such a sudden influx of emotion that she hadn’t felt before in so long. Somewhere, she felt a lingering disgust with herself, having betrayed them so. Were they searching for her? The notion of creeping back to the underground cavern and baring her treachery before her brethren was strong.
Fortunately, the instinct of living was stronger.
Anisse pulled the cowl back over her forehead, covering her tangles of hair. Her scalp itched annoyingly, and she was due for a bath, having spent the night collecting her treasures. It had been hard dragging the body of the bandit to the wolf den, not exactly being the strongest of women, but she managed well enough. She was pleased however, and an extra bound could be spotted in her gait as she traveled through the Trade Quarter. The cowled figure even afforded a few twittering waves of her fingers to random passerby in greeting, though what they might have thought about that she couldn’t determine, as she saw most only from the waist down. Exception to that was a gnome with salmon pink hair, his mustache curling up as he grinned back cheerily, returning her wave.
Gnomes always seemed naturally excited and happy to Anisse, even when they were in coffins.
On down the winding pathway did she go, divided from the Mage Quarter, ends of her robes drifting over tufts of green grass as she sped forward. The obscenely large feet of a night elf moved off to the side of the grassy walkway, letting her pass. She could feel the elf’s eyes on the back of her covered head as she walked, the weighted satchel at her side swinging to and fro like a pendulum. Though it left small droplets of blood in the moist grass, Anisse knew the day’s comings and goings would trample it away.
Climbing up the walkway to the Slaughtered Lamb, Jarol Moor, proprietor, gave his hermit patron a strange look. Was she waving at him? Stopping to talk to him?
“What can I do for you, my dear?” he said cordially, though his eyebrow cocked up impossibly high at her. He’d really never seen her so cheery. He was further curious when the woman pulled back her hood, revealing a pair of amber eyes lined in kohl. A grin pulled at Jarol, for she was soft-faced, unbecoming of a warlock, even an apprentice. He’d definitely had seen lovelier women by comparison, scandalously gorgeous, in fact, like that Ursula Deline. This one wasn’t too bad to look at either, though.
“Another bowl of the usual, milady?” he crooned, ready to serve with wooden bowl and spoon. Anisse stopped him abruptly, and instead grabbed for a satchel, pulling it up to lie on the bar table. When she pulled out the wrapped, bloody packages, and set them gently before him, Jarol was simply at a loss.
“I have some lamb for you here. I do know how expensive it can be purchasing it from the market, so I took the liberty of bringing some myself.”
Jarol opened up the packages to find a few bloody masses of flesh, the paper stubbornly clinging to the slick organs. He could make out what looked like a liver, and a rope of intestine, while the other unwrapped packages seemed unrecognizable. They seemed clean however, and that was good enough for him.
“You’re most gracious, miss.” Jarol nodded to her in thanks, and rewrapped the packages, placing them into the ice box beneath the bar table.
“Do make sure to invite a few choice guests to the Slaughtered Lamb when you serve the meat.” Anisse held the cherished heart to her chest possessively, wrapped up inside the leather bag. Her eyes connected to Jarol’s with meaning. “I believe some honored paladins might enjoy the meal most of all.”
She liked to share her treasures.
Ah, but the most sacred treasure was hers alone. It sat locked in her arms as she traveled down below, until her feet scraped against the familiar stone of the crypts. Eyeing the crate where her empty jars sit, Anisse sighs, opening the lid tenderly. The succubus heart is the first to greet her with its crimson glow, the fire of it eternally left to burn inside the muscle. The empty jars surrounding it needed their life too. At one time, she’d collected them simply for magical purposes, and they were used as quickly as she gathered them. Now, the collection was more a ritual to her. The need to have them gnawed at her as hunger would to an emaciated child: there was simply no ignoring it.
Carefully lying her leather bag on the stone floor, she reached into its confines and pulled the mass of bloody flesh out. The heart trickled blood down between her fingers and ran down her arm as she held it up, admiring. Sliding the glass jar across the stone, she forced the organ into its opening with a sickening pop, and it drifted slowly in the clear concoction within, turning it a deep red. Anisse grinned, sighing contently.
Her collection had started. Anew.
By all measures, she had betrayed the Twilights, and fled the hidden caves she once called home. It was in the insectlike eyes of the Abyss Child that she found her chains of devotion broken. The urgent sense of freeing the sacrifice had enveloped her, making her feel this…mercy. It was so strange, such a sudden influx of emotion that she hadn’t felt before in so long. Somewhere, she felt a lingering disgust with herself, having betrayed them so. Were they searching for her? The notion of creeping back to the underground cavern and baring her treachery before her brethren was strong.
Fortunately, the instinct of living was stronger.
Anisse pulled the cowl back over her forehead, covering her tangles of hair. Her scalp itched annoyingly, and she was due for a bath, having spent the night collecting her treasures. It had been hard dragging the body of the bandit to the wolf den, not exactly being the strongest of women, but she managed well enough. She was pleased however, and an extra bound could be spotted in her gait as she traveled through the Trade Quarter. The cowled figure even afforded a few twittering waves of her fingers to random passerby in greeting, though what they might have thought about that she couldn’t determine, as she saw most only from the waist down. Exception to that was a gnome with salmon pink hair, his mustache curling up as he grinned back cheerily, returning her wave.
Gnomes always seemed naturally excited and happy to Anisse, even when they were in coffins.
On down the winding pathway did she go, divided from the Mage Quarter, ends of her robes drifting over tufts of green grass as she sped forward. The obscenely large feet of a night elf moved off to the side of the grassy walkway, letting her pass. She could feel the elf’s eyes on the back of her covered head as she walked, the weighted satchel at her side swinging to and fro like a pendulum. Though it left small droplets of blood in the moist grass, Anisse knew the day’s comings and goings would trample it away.
Climbing up the walkway to the Slaughtered Lamb, Jarol Moor, proprietor, gave his hermit patron a strange look. Was she waving at him? Stopping to talk to him?
“What can I do for you, my dear?” he said cordially, though his eyebrow cocked up impossibly high at her. He’d really never seen her so cheery. He was further curious when the woman pulled back her hood, revealing a pair of amber eyes lined in kohl. A grin pulled at Jarol, for she was soft-faced, unbecoming of a warlock, even an apprentice. He’d definitely had seen lovelier women by comparison, scandalously gorgeous, in fact, like that Ursula Deline. This one wasn’t too bad to look at either, though.
“Another bowl of the usual, milady?” he crooned, ready to serve with wooden bowl and spoon. Anisse stopped him abruptly, and instead grabbed for a satchel, pulling it up to lie on the bar table. When she pulled out the wrapped, bloody packages, and set them gently before him, Jarol was simply at a loss.
“I have some lamb for you here. I do know how expensive it can be purchasing it from the market, so I took the liberty of bringing some myself.”
Jarol opened up the packages to find a few bloody masses of flesh, the paper stubbornly clinging to the slick organs. He could make out what looked like a liver, and a rope of intestine, while the other unwrapped packages seemed unrecognizable. They seemed clean however, and that was good enough for him.
“You’re most gracious, miss.” Jarol nodded to her in thanks, and rewrapped the packages, placing them into the ice box beneath the bar table.
“Do make sure to invite a few choice guests to the Slaughtered Lamb when you serve the meat.” Anisse held the cherished heart to her chest possessively, wrapped up inside the leather bag. Her eyes connected to Jarol’s with meaning. “I believe some honored paladins might enjoy the meal most of all.”
She liked to share her treasures.
Ah, but the most sacred treasure was hers alone. It sat locked in her arms as she traveled down below, until her feet scraped against the familiar stone of the crypts. Eyeing the crate where her empty jars sit, Anisse sighs, opening the lid tenderly. The succubus heart is the first to greet her with its crimson glow, the fire of it eternally left to burn inside the muscle. The empty jars surrounding it needed their life too. At one time, she’d collected them simply for magical purposes, and they were used as quickly as she gathered them. Now, the collection was more a ritual to her. The need to have them gnawed at her as hunger would to an emaciated child: there was simply no ignoring it.
Carefully lying her leather bag on the stone floor, she reached into its confines and pulled the mass of bloody flesh out. The heart trickled blood down between her fingers and ran down her arm as she held it up, admiring. Sliding the glass jar across the stone, she forced the organ into its opening with a sickening pop, and it drifted slowly in the clear concoction within, turning it a deep red. Anisse grinned, sighing contently.
Her collection had started. Anew.
A Patron of the Lamb #7
Red leather bandanas. Apparently, this was what Anisse’s missions were belittled to. It earned her enough wages to live off however, so this collecting was necessary. Completing these small favors also earned her some favor in return, which was sorely needed to get suspicious eyes off of her. The woman did spend too much time in the crypts beneath the Slaughtered Lamb, tending to her wooden garden of jars.
Very empty jars.
Anisse walked along with a heavy heart, drifting through the backwoods of Elwynn Forest. Her jars sat in that cold, stone room, with nothing to warm them. She relied on the collected succubus heart to do just that, actually, as she couldn’t figure out what in the Nether should actually be put into them. Luring random people into the Slaughtered Lamb’s basement seemed to be dangerous business, as many others used it. Being walked in on while she was eviscerating a corpse was not a plan of hers, and asking the bartender to attach a closing time to the Lamb might be something like asking the man to cut off his own arm for her sake.
After the messy business with the gnome captive, the Lamb seemed off-limits as a “work site”.
Flicking her fingers as she walked, she practiced summoning the magical fire to her fingertips again and again, watching the orange flames line her gloves. The fire burnt through the cotton little by little, tearing through the threads the longer she left it burning. It was an interesting spell, but she’d been careful learning too much at once. She wished to give special interest to each spell individually, learning its ins and outs before moving on to something new. At this rate, it may take a while for her to learn to summon her first demon, she knew. She spread the flames to her other set of fingers and smiled at the display. Somehow, the cultist felt she could do without a demon for a while longer…
A sharp pain suddenly hit Anisse in her right forearm, making her gasp. She peered down at her arm, which now sported a lengthy tear down the sleeve, the edge of sharp metal having gashed her arm. Pain! She gasped aloud and grasped her arm, the sick-sweet sting of pain something rather sacred for one who felt little. Turning fully around, she was met with a hard knock on the head, cracking her nose, while a harsh kick drew the air out from her lungs, and sent her backward, falling. Her eyes squeezed shut as more glorious pain raced down the bridge of her nose, feeling herself land upon the moist grass, her cowl sliding back off of her head. When her vision cleared, she found the bandit leering over her threateningly, his dagger weaving in his hand. His dark eyes squinted, scheming behind the red mask.
Where the Nether did he come from?
Coughing, Anisse looked up at her assailant. He was most assuredly used to begging, fear, or retaliation. From the blinking, she assumed he wasn’t used to seeing a victim smile. Did he not know the glory of pain? Quite frankly, he’d surprised her with the assault. The confusion was short-lived as the bandit’s eyes squinted again, angered by the woman’s smirk.
“I’ll cleave that smile from your face!” he snarled, and dove down upon her. The dagger plunged into Anisse’s belly, making her cry out with the intense wave of pain. Panting, Anisse was set upon the murderous bandit, who was now searching through her robes for valuables as she bled to death.
Was this how it was to end? Vandalized, perhaps violated by the bandit, by the look in his eyes, as she drew her last breath? Something about his invading eyes rubbed her the wrong way, and despite the pain burning in her insides, the woman obeyed the urge to rebuke him, and fight. The slender fingers emerged from her burnt away gloves to clutch to the bandit’s face, covering his eyes, nose and mouth. Before he could strike again with the dagger, her hand erupted in fire as it clutched to his face.
The scream that followed brought that wayward smile back to Anisse’s lips.
She could smell his burning flesh as his face burnt to the color of flaked charcoal, the fel magic having intensified the spell’s effect in increments. Falling upon the ground, his face smoked as he rolled, leaving the assailant blind and scarred. Ah, how he wept. Bits of red cloth were permanently seared into his face as well, and this sent a wave of pride through Anisse, making the pain of her own wound lessen. The spell had worked beautifully.
It could be her last breath spent admiring her work, after all.
Anisse closed her eyes, listening to the whimpering of her companion. There was no pain now, but his. Her breath began to halt, surely she was a mess by now, blood everywhere, her life feeding the grass. Then came the tingling sensation of…something? She opened her eyes to find a woman dressed in white, trimmed in violet. A light glow was around the healer’s hands, and it took only a mere flick of the mysterious fingers before she began to feel the wounds close.
“You may rise. You are safe.”
The woman had a deep, intense voice, her eyes the color of moonlight dancing upon water. Long ears swayed back from her head, leaving a crown of long, violet hair to fall down her back and shoulders. Even her very skin was a dusky violet. Anisse had seen such a creature before, some as old as the land itself. What things might they have seen in their long lives? She watched as the night elf bent to lower a hand, and it was taken silently, the cowl put back into place over her head.
“I am…much obliged.”
“Elune be with you,” was the simple and quick response. At once, the elf was engulfed in shadows, the aura lining her slender body. It startled Anisse at first, and then she couldn’t help but watch the female walk off on her own, following the pathway back to the city. What a small, strange encounter. She wondered, why in the depths of her heart, the elf had chosen to save her. There was a gratitude that filled Anisse, and even a soft spot for the one who would be her savior, the silent, tall one.
As the cowled woman turned her eyes upon the scarred bandit who had attacked her, what softness she felt went hard, and cold as ice. The man could hear her footfalls, hear the sound of the grass crushing under her approach. He shivered upon the ground, his head tossing all around, seeing nothing with his eyeballs seared to his sockets. A whimper sounded from him as he heard next the shift of the folds of a robe.
“You have something I want.”
The soft breath of words against his ear was replaced by the sound of his own blood-curdling scream.
None would come to help him now.
Very empty jars.
Anisse walked along with a heavy heart, drifting through the backwoods of Elwynn Forest. Her jars sat in that cold, stone room, with nothing to warm them. She relied on the collected succubus heart to do just that, actually, as she couldn’t figure out what in the Nether should actually be put into them. Luring random people into the Slaughtered Lamb’s basement seemed to be dangerous business, as many others used it. Being walked in on while she was eviscerating a corpse was not a plan of hers, and asking the bartender to attach a closing time to the Lamb might be something like asking the man to cut off his own arm for her sake.
After the messy business with the gnome captive, the Lamb seemed off-limits as a “work site”.
Flicking her fingers as she walked, she practiced summoning the magical fire to her fingertips again and again, watching the orange flames line her gloves. The fire burnt through the cotton little by little, tearing through the threads the longer she left it burning. It was an interesting spell, but she’d been careful learning too much at once. She wished to give special interest to each spell individually, learning its ins and outs before moving on to something new. At this rate, it may take a while for her to learn to summon her first demon, she knew. She spread the flames to her other set of fingers and smiled at the display. Somehow, the cultist felt she could do without a demon for a while longer…
A sharp pain suddenly hit Anisse in her right forearm, making her gasp. She peered down at her arm, which now sported a lengthy tear down the sleeve, the edge of sharp metal having gashed her arm. Pain! She gasped aloud and grasped her arm, the sick-sweet sting of pain something rather sacred for one who felt little. Turning fully around, she was met with a hard knock on the head, cracking her nose, while a harsh kick drew the air out from her lungs, and sent her backward, falling. Her eyes squeezed shut as more glorious pain raced down the bridge of her nose, feeling herself land upon the moist grass, her cowl sliding back off of her head. When her vision cleared, she found the bandit leering over her threateningly, his dagger weaving in his hand. His dark eyes squinted, scheming behind the red mask.
Where the Nether did he come from?
Coughing, Anisse looked up at her assailant. He was most assuredly used to begging, fear, or retaliation. From the blinking, she assumed he wasn’t used to seeing a victim smile. Did he not know the glory of pain? Quite frankly, he’d surprised her with the assault. The confusion was short-lived as the bandit’s eyes squinted again, angered by the woman’s smirk.
“I’ll cleave that smile from your face!” he snarled, and dove down upon her. The dagger plunged into Anisse’s belly, making her cry out with the intense wave of pain. Panting, Anisse was set upon the murderous bandit, who was now searching through her robes for valuables as she bled to death.
Was this how it was to end? Vandalized, perhaps violated by the bandit, by the look in his eyes, as she drew her last breath? Something about his invading eyes rubbed her the wrong way, and despite the pain burning in her insides, the woman obeyed the urge to rebuke him, and fight. The slender fingers emerged from her burnt away gloves to clutch to the bandit’s face, covering his eyes, nose and mouth. Before he could strike again with the dagger, her hand erupted in fire as it clutched to his face.
The scream that followed brought that wayward smile back to Anisse’s lips.
She could smell his burning flesh as his face burnt to the color of flaked charcoal, the fel magic having intensified the spell’s effect in increments. Falling upon the ground, his face smoked as he rolled, leaving the assailant blind and scarred. Ah, how he wept. Bits of red cloth were permanently seared into his face as well, and this sent a wave of pride through Anisse, making the pain of her own wound lessen. The spell had worked beautifully.
It could be her last breath spent admiring her work, after all.
Anisse closed her eyes, listening to the whimpering of her companion. There was no pain now, but his. Her breath began to halt, surely she was a mess by now, blood everywhere, her life feeding the grass. Then came the tingling sensation of…something? She opened her eyes to find a woman dressed in white, trimmed in violet. A light glow was around the healer’s hands, and it took only a mere flick of the mysterious fingers before she began to feel the wounds close.
“You may rise. You are safe.”
The woman had a deep, intense voice, her eyes the color of moonlight dancing upon water. Long ears swayed back from her head, leaving a crown of long, violet hair to fall down her back and shoulders. Even her very skin was a dusky violet. Anisse had seen such a creature before, some as old as the land itself. What things might they have seen in their long lives? She watched as the night elf bent to lower a hand, and it was taken silently, the cowl put back into place over her head.
“I am…much obliged.”
“Elune be with you,” was the simple and quick response. At once, the elf was engulfed in shadows, the aura lining her slender body. It startled Anisse at first, and then she couldn’t help but watch the female walk off on her own, following the pathway back to the city. What a small, strange encounter. She wondered, why in the depths of her heart, the elf had chosen to save her. There was a gratitude that filled Anisse, and even a soft spot for the one who would be her savior, the silent, tall one.
As the cowled woman turned her eyes upon the scarred bandit who had attacked her, what softness she felt went hard, and cold as ice. The man could hear her footfalls, hear the sound of the grass crushing under her approach. He shivered upon the ground, his head tossing all around, seeing nothing with his eyeballs seared to his sockets. A whimper sounded from him as he heard next the shift of the folds of a robe.
“You have something I want.”
The soft breath of words against his ear was replaced by the sound of his own blood-curdling scream.
None would come to help him now.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Patron of the Lamb #6
Another day at the Slaughtered Lamb closed as morning light touched the courtyard, lifting the veil of night from the entrance of the mysterious tavern. Chairs closed near the table and the bartender yawned, a wet rag held in his right hand. With a toss, the wet rag went into a bin behind him, splashing water in a spike over the cleaned wood. His boots loose and untied, Jarol Moor waltzed over to the back of his tavern, where his more permanent patrons stood down below. On down he walked through the twisting corridor, unlatching a torch on the way. It was abysmally chilly in the lower levels.
“Oy!” he called out, stretching his neck around the large bonfire in the center of the room. The warlock masters spread slightly, some nodding silently in greeting, some rolling their eyes instead. At least one was still stumbling hazily, an empty tankard attached to her hand. They must have had quite the drinking party the night through. Gakin the Darkbinder eyed the bartender from his corner, and a smile turned his lips beneath his thick black mustache.
“Did they leave?” was the question from the elder Master. All eyes were upon Jarol now.
“You chased them right out, sir. Didn’t even stay by to drink in some ale!” A laugh heaved from the bartender, the bonfire flickering.
“Ah well. Make sure to send a message to our contacts, Mr. Moor. Tell them our end of the bargain is completed. If the Cathedral wishes to send their dogs to fraternize with a spy, there is nothing more that can be done. They can take care of the matter, far as I’m concerned.”
“Really now? Haha, duly noted.”
“At least he took care of the damned succubus.” Gakin sighed deeply, straightening the tethers of his robes. “I’ll need the lower catacombs left alone for the next…hour perhaps, Mr. Moor.” His grin seemed like a sliver of ivory against his dark skin. “Put the inconvenience on our tab, as always.”
“I only live to serve, Gent,” Jarol chuckled, his eyes darting to the back of the den.
Down below a floor, where Jarol’s eyes could not see, the neonate warlock put a care into her task. The withered remains of the Game Master’s victims burned now, providing the deeper catacombs with an eerier light than usual. Anisse shook her head: what a waste! The organs in all of the bodies had been useless, with no point in salvaging anything. Having torn the wings off of the demon's corpse, she smiled as they lay up against a fresh coffin--such lovely leather wings they were.
A slip of her fingers, and fire leapt from the "cleaner's" hands, burning up the remains of the succubus. The creature's body contained a heart, which she now admired through bloodied glass. The heart was of a unique shape, and hot to the touch: it had sizzled when she put it into the jar's solution. It seemed to glow now, even through the jar and it's liquids, and an otherworldly heat even warming the glass itself. Such things should be put on display, Anisse thought, for all to see.
Unfortunately, such things weren’t meant for everyone’s eyes.
Opening one of the crates locked into the darkest area of the crypts, Anisse smiled upon her treasures: five large jars containing perfectly preserved human organs. Laying the newest addition into the nestled crate, she eyed the other glass jars and sighed contently. Cleaning up the catacombs all night had been worth it after all.
Then, Anisse noticed something off about the jars.
The glass was opaque, and she could no longer see the trophy organs behind the glass. Her lips twitching into a frown, she took a jar into her hands, and opened it slowly.
Dust.
The jar was filled with nothing…but dust.
Every bit of thick control she had over herself came crashing down as she spilled out the white, dried remains from the jar onto the crypt floor. Now the second, the third jar, all spilled out as white dust. By the fifth jar, Anisse was weeping steadily behind her cowl. All her work, her precious trophies, the beautiful pieces of flesh….gone. She took the succubus heart, and hugged its jar to her chest, rocking back and forth on the ground, trying to figure out what had happened. It had been the right measure of formaldehyde, hadn’t it? Teary eyes peered around the catacombs as she went over measurements in her mind. Then, something clicked, and her body froze in realization.
The paladin.
The whirring aura of his consecration spell purified all of her precious trophies.
In silence, Anisse rose up off the crypt floor, the useless remains like sand poured around her feet. Her small boots crushed through the jar’s mess as she walked through, looking straight up the steps that lead to the next level. There was a solution to all this, even without one to play the game with anymore.
Anisse would have to kill, and harvest on her own.
“Oy!” he called out, stretching his neck around the large bonfire in the center of the room. The warlock masters spread slightly, some nodding silently in greeting, some rolling their eyes instead. At least one was still stumbling hazily, an empty tankard attached to her hand. They must have had quite the drinking party the night through. Gakin the Darkbinder eyed the bartender from his corner, and a smile turned his lips beneath his thick black mustache.
“Did they leave?” was the question from the elder Master. All eyes were upon Jarol now.
“You chased them right out, sir. Didn’t even stay by to drink in some ale!” A laugh heaved from the bartender, the bonfire flickering.
“Ah well. Make sure to send a message to our contacts, Mr. Moor. Tell them our end of the bargain is completed. If the Cathedral wishes to send their dogs to fraternize with a spy, there is nothing more that can be done. They can take care of the matter, far as I’m concerned.”
“Really now? Haha, duly noted.”
“At least he took care of the damned succubus.” Gakin sighed deeply, straightening the tethers of his robes. “I’ll need the lower catacombs left alone for the next…hour perhaps, Mr. Moor.” His grin seemed like a sliver of ivory against his dark skin. “Put the inconvenience on our tab, as always.”
“I only live to serve, Gent,” Jarol chuckled, his eyes darting to the back of the den.
Down below a floor, where Jarol’s eyes could not see, the neonate warlock put a care into her task. The withered remains of the Game Master’s victims burned now, providing the deeper catacombs with an eerier light than usual. Anisse shook her head: what a waste! The organs in all of the bodies had been useless, with no point in salvaging anything. Having torn the wings off of the demon's corpse, she smiled as they lay up against a fresh coffin--such lovely leather wings they were.
A slip of her fingers, and fire leapt from the "cleaner's" hands, burning up the remains of the succubus. The creature's body contained a heart, which she now admired through bloodied glass. The heart was of a unique shape, and hot to the touch: it had sizzled when she put it into the jar's solution. It seemed to glow now, even through the jar and it's liquids, and an otherworldly heat even warming the glass itself. Such things should be put on display, Anisse thought, for all to see.
Unfortunately, such things weren’t meant for everyone’s eyes.
Opening one of the crates locked into the darkest area of the crypts, Anisse smiled upon her treasures: five large jars containing perfectly preserved human organs. Laying the newest addition into the nestled crate, she eyed the other glass jars and sighed contently. Cleaning up the catacombs all night had been worth it after all.
Then, Anisse noticed something off about the jars.
The glass was opaque, and she could no longer see the trophy organs behind the glass. Her lips twitching into a frown, she took a jar into her hands, and opened it slowly.
Dust.
The jar was filled with nothing…but dust.
Every bit of thick control she had over herself came crashing down as she spilled out the white, dried remains from the jar onto the crypt floor. Now the second, the third jar, all spilled out as white dust. By the fifth jar, Anisse was weeping steadily behind her cowl. All her work, her precious trophies, the beautiful pieces of flesh….gone. She took the succubus heart, and hugged its jar to her chest, rocking back and forth on the ground, trying to figure out what had happened. It had been the right measure of formaldehyde, hadn’t it? Teary eyes peered around the catacombs as she went over measurements in her mind. Then, something clicked, and her body froze in realization.
The paladin.
The whirring aura of his consecration spell purified all of her precious trophies.
In silence, Anisse rose up off the crypt floor, the useless remains like sand poured around her feet. Her small boots crushed through the jar’s mess as she walked through, looking straight up the steps that lead to the next level. There was a solution to all this, even without one to play the game with anymore.
Anisse would have to kill, and harvest on her own.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #5
It was a game, she knew. Someone was toying with her, leading her down the twisting ramp below the Lamb, into the Demon’s Maw that was the warlock’s haven. Curious glances were directed her way as her vision adjusted, and she took a step nearer, uncertain. There was no sign of the flighty demon summoner, or her consort. It had buzzed at her nerves since she glimpsed the woman, hearing the summoner laugh and flirt along, knowing quite well that that woman couldn’t do much of anything along those lines. Not when most of her organs had been removed, and she had been stuffed inside of a wooden coffin. Undead, perhaps? No, that couldn’t be right. Anisse had heard stories of reanimated, shambling bodies, and they didn’t quite seem like a pretty sight.
Yet the lovely summoner had passed through, living, breathing, and with a mate, or something of the sort. What was she? Demon summoner? Sorcerer? Harlot? Perhaps a combination of the three? She shouldn’t have been alive! The mystery grabbed a hold of the former cultist, and wouldn’t let go. More playful, womanly giggles echoed down the basement of the Lamb, and Anisse sought out the sound on the other side of the bonfire. Staring down the darker corridor that lead further down into the catacombs, she imagined for a moment, those quiet rushes of voices spilling from an unseen mouth, pleading for release.
“Yes, they went down there,” came the deep, unsettling voice of Gakin the Darkbinder, startling Anisse. His dark skin stretched as he smiled thinly, tightly, his mustache tickling his upper lip. “Take care of that, will you? We don’t wish for any…trouble. Or a mess.”
Gakin’s thick, deep laugh followed her down into the womb of the catacombs. They were using her, of course. These were the trivial tasks she was used to, since arriving in the Lamb, the tasks everyone else was too “above” doing. In so many ways, she was reminded of her time among the Twilight’s. Never was she elevated to a higher standard, but she never complained, never envied those above her. Anisse knew where her place was, as she did now. Her place was to figure out the game, and how to play among the scurrying shadows in the dark.
And how they scurried…
A thin, nasal giggle melted into a sigh, somewhere in the catacombs. Turning a corner, she found the scurrying players of the game. Anisse shifted against the wall, flattening herself against it on the stair as she watched. There across the hallway, the female stood with her ensnared suitor against the stony surface, her bosom almost spilling out of her bodice. Unintelligible whispers caressed the air around the male as the harlot leaned against him, making him shiver. The man seemed to be melting under the sorceress’s touch quickly. He sucked in a breath, an intense groan breaking the unearthly quiet of the catacombs. He was quite aroused.
This was a ritual Anisse did not understand, the act of mating. Nor did she ever wish to understand it, as it was never an act studied within her encampment. Nor were such things allowed for those within her rank. She understood intimacy, certainly. The mind melds between a cultist and that which he or she summoned were often intense and spiritual in a sense. Yet, a shared physical intimacy served as an unwanted distraction for all cultists, for the most devout Twilights knew where their attentions should be. Watching the pretense to the act now, Anisse suddenly felt thankful that she never was formally introduced to it.
It was enough to make her turn away, and start a walk back up the steps, despite the absurdity of the demon summoner being alive. Silently, she started the trek back up, when a choked gasp sliced through the stiff air. A deep sigh left her. Did she really have to look? She really didn’t want to see any of this personal business. Her head turned slowly, hesitantly, spying the lovers. Locked together in a passionate kiss, the two were entwined…with a stream of energies passing between their bodies. A magical transfer? Annise looked on more intently, fascinated. A change seemed to sift through the dead sorceress, the coppery curls dissolving into midnight black hair, great black horns driving upwards from her head. Ahh, it all made sense now—a glamour spell! The demon had taken on the form of the summoner it had killed those days ago.
Not that the armored man would notice, as he was busy convulsing against the wall, his eyelids flickering.
She wished to watch now, watch this kill, as she had watched the demon kill the woman she impersonated. How long would it take for the life to drain from his body? How strong was this creature? Already, his cheeks began to sallow, eyes rolling back into his head. It certainly would not be long now. Yet the entranced victim seemed to struggle within, summoning a heroic will to fight off the magic. Perhaps he could withstand this creature’s assault? Anisse watched, her heart thrumming in her chest.
For a reason unknown, the hooded figure scraped her boots upon the stone, and stepped out into the torch lit hallway.
The demon drew back from dark-armored male, leaving him slumped against the stony wall as Anisse made her presence known. The creature’s grin gleamed stark white in the darkness, spotting the onlooker. The alluring creature was speaking now, her voice drifting through the hallway to her ears in sultry, elegant tones. It was a tongue Anisse could not understand, yet this creature seemed to understand her actions more fully than she did herself. A thin, taloned finger pointed to her in the low, cold light, even as the demon began to disappear, melding into the dark. She was left standing, peering down at the incapacitated man, thick black hair resting over his eyes. Already, his head began to nod, his enchanted fog beginning to clear. It wouldn’t be long before he would be cognizant. Ah, the game. She understood it, as she looked down upon the victim, and at the coffins around her.
Now, would she play, or wouldn’t she?
Yet the lovely summoner had passed through, living, breathing, and with a mate, or something of the sort. What was she? Demon summoner? Sorcerer? Harlot? Perhaps a combination of the three? She shouldn’t have been alive! The mystery grabbed a hold of the former cultist, and wouldn’t let go. More playful, womanly giggles echoed down the basement of the Lamb, and Anisse sought out the sound on the other side of the bonfire. Staring down the darker corridor that lead further down into the catacombs, she imagined for a moment, those quiet rushes of voices spilling from an unseen mouth, pleading for release.
“Yes, they went down there,” came the deep, unsettling voice of Gakin the Darkbinder, startling Anisse. His dark skin stretched as he smiled thinly, tightly, his mustache tickling his upper lip. “Take care of that, will you? We don’t wish for any…trouble. Or a mess.”
Gakin’s thick, deep laugh followed her down into the womb of the catacombs. They were using her, of course. These were the trivial tasks she was used to, since arriving in the Lamb, the tasks everyone else was too “above” doing. In so many ways, she was reminded of her time among the Twilight’s. Never was she elevated to a higher standard, but she never complained, never envied those above her. Anisse knew where her place was, as she did now. Her place was to figure out the game, and how to play among the scurrying shadows in the dark.
And how they scurried…
A thin, nasal giggle melted into a sigh, somewhere in the catacombs. Turning a corner, she found the scurrying players of the game. Anisse shifted against the wall, flattening herself against it on the stair as she watched. There across the hallway, the female stood with her ensnared suitor against the stony surface, her bosom almost spilling out of her bodice. Unintelligible whispers caressed the air around the male as the harlot leaned against him, making him shiver. The man seemed to be melting under the sorceress’s touch quickly. He sucked in a breath, an intense groan breaking the unearthly quiet of the catacombs. He was quite aroused.
This was a ritual Anisse did not understand, the act of mating. Nor did she ever wish to understand it, as it was never an act studied within her encampment. Nor were such things allowed for those within her rank. She understood intimacy, certainly. The mind melds between a cultist and that which he or she summoned were often intense and spiritual in a sense. Yet, a shared physical intimacy served as an unwanted distraction for all cultists, for the most devout Twilights knew where their attentions should be. Watching the pretense to the act now, Anisse suddenly felt thankful that she never was formally introduced to it.
It was enough to make her turn away, and start a walk back up the steps, despite the absurdity of the demon summoner being alive. Silently, she started the trek back up, when a choked gasp sliced through the stiff air. A deep sigh left her. Did she really have to look? She really didn’t want to see any of this personal business. Her head turned slowly, hesitantly, spying the lovers. Locked together in a passionate kiss, the two were entwined…with a stream of energies passing between their bodies. A magical transfer? Annise looked on more intently, fascinated. A change seemed to sift through the dead sorceress, the coppery curls dissolving into midnight black hair, great black horns driving upwards from her head. Ahh, it all made sense now—a glamour spell! The demon had taken on the form of the summoner it had killed those days ago.
Not that the armored man would notice, as he was busy convulsing against the wall, his eyelids flickering.
She wished to watch now, watch this kill, as she had watched the demon kill the woman she impersonated. How long would it take for the life to drain from his body? How strong was this creature? Already, his cheeks began to sallow, eyes rolling back into his head. It certainly would not be long now. Yet the entranced victim seemed to struggle within, summoning a heroic will to fight off the magic. Perhaps he could withstand this creature’s assault? Anisse watched, her heart thrumming in her chest.
For a reason unknown, the hooded figure scraped her boots upon the stone, and stepped out into the torch lit hallway.
The demon drew back from dark-armored male, leaving him slumped against the stony wall as Anisse made her presence known. The creature’s grin gleamed stark white in the darkness, spotting the onlooker. The alluring creature was speaking now, her voice drifting through the hallway to her ears in sultry, elegant tones. It was a tongue Anisse could not understand, yet this creature seemed to understand her actions more fully than she did herself. A thin, taloned finger pointed to her in the low, cold light, even as the demon began to disappear, melding into the dark. She was left standing, peering down at the incapacitated man, thick black hair resting over his eyes. Already, his head began to nod, his enchanted fog beginning to clear. It wouldn’t be long before he would be cognizant. Ah, the game. She understood it, as she looked down upon the victim, and at the coffins around her.
Now, would she play, or wouldn’t she?
A Patron of the Lamb #4
“You will not find what you are searching for here, my child.”
The gentle voice of the old man was forced, insincere. Scratchy gray eyebrows furrowed deeply in a creased face, his lips trying not to curl into a sneer. Did these “priests” not teach the manipulation of shadow energies? Perhaps it was her wording of the question. Or perhaps the old bishop’s unwillingness to help came from something…deeper. His wall of faith was tall and strong, like the opulent walls of his place of worship. She could see that he never dared to look beyond it, from the impatient breath he drew. The longer Anisse stood there, staring at him from behind her shadowy cowl, the more she could feel his mask of humility crack, little by little. Amusing little man.
No, she would not find what she was looking for here.
Anisse passed like a phantom back down the sloping steps, eager to get away from the grand Cathedral of Light. If the gold spent to beautify its arching walls might be put instead to the rest of the city, she thought Stormwind might have been in better shape. She was used to far less accomadating situations in any case, like the “grandeur” of a small tent and blankets. Still, the feeling of the cold ground of the catacombs in the Slaughtered Lamb was more comforting than the rented out rooms and their beds. She slowly climbed up the ramp to the tavern and entered, nodding toward Jarel once.
“Ah. Another bowl of stew?” The bartender was already preparing a bowl, a spoon. Anisse waved him off quickly, and the wooden bowl and spoon disappeared beneath the countertop. She slid into her wooden chair, her back turned to the rest of the empty tavern, the book slipping from her arms and opening onto the table. She’d at last passed through the chapters that made her feel like an idiot child intending on writing an essay on the demonic arts. Diagrams and the descriptions of basic spells filled the current chapter, and she was pleased. Somewhat. She would have to put these spells to the test. Feeling the surge of magic through her fingertips would teach her more than these words could ever say. There would be no reagent gathering for this “imp”? She let herself relax in her chair, hearing the wood creak lightly as she moved, finding the ragged tome interesting finally.
Then came the sound of obnoxious, whispery giggling.
Anisse glanced behind her as the giggling grew louder, also accompanied by the creak of heavy armor. Her head rose enough to spot the two that had entered, the male in his dark plate, a woman tucked against him. There was an aura of cold about the tall male, as if his armor was stung with a sheet of thin ice. Jarel was quick to offer them services, and Anisse was quick to get back to her reading. Flattening the pages of her book, the hooded woman sighed, blotting out the sound of their conversation as best she could. Focusing on a spell listing, she ran her finger under its description. Corruption: Inflicts a curse of shadow energy onto the proposed target, corrupting the body and eating away at its life forces for an allotted amount of time. The spell is best used in conjuction with fear, or while the target is focused upon a de—
The table rattled as the armored man took a seat, the woman he came in with still hooked to his side. At her table. Anisse didn’t bother to look up and acknowledge the stranger, but she could tell his icy glance was upon her.
“I am looking for someone. Maybe you can help me?” the man started, a strange echo following his voice. It caught her attention, the disembodied sound. Yet, it still did not convince her to look upon him. A look would entail a welcome to sit.
“Doubtful,” Anisse spoke lowly, flipping another page of her tome with emphasis. Apparently he didn’t get the hint, for the man continued asking questions about nothing she knew about. He seemed convinced she knew the answers, or that he had known her from somewhere. After trite, one worded answers, Anisse excused herself from the table, letting out a deep sigh.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you. Go away,” she spoke hollowly, already irritated that she had to leave her seat. More whispering from the lewd woman clinging to his arm, and the table rattled again as they rose together. Finally, a prelude to peace and quiet. She glanced their way as the two moved to the back of the tavern, the woman’s skirts brushing the wooden floorboards as she sashayed alongside the armored man. Anisse glanced harder now as the two slipped down the twisting ramp that lead down the basement. The last of the woman’s coppery curls disappeared as the two went past her vision. She knew that woman.
Anisse had her heart in a jar downstairs.
The gentle voice of the old man was forced, insincere. Scratchy gray eyebrows furrowed deeply in a creased face, his lips trying not to curl into a sneer. Did these “priests” not teach the manipulation of shadow energies? Perhaps it was her wording of the question. Or perhaps the old bishop’s unwillingness to help came from something…deeper. His wall of faith was tall and strong, like the opulent walls of his place of worship. She could see that he never dared to look beyond it, from the impatient breath he drew. The longer Anisse stood there, staring at him from behind her shadowy cowl, the more she could feel his mask of humility crack, little by little. Amusing little man.
No, she would not find what she was looking for here.
Anisse passed like a phantom back down the sloping steps, eager to get away from the grand Cathedral of Light. If the gold spent to beautify its arching walls might be put instead to the rest of the city, she thought Stormwind might have been in better shape. She was used to far less accomadating situations in any case, like the “grandeur” of a small tent and blankets. Still, the feeling of the cold ground of the catacombs in the Slaughtered Lamb was more comforting than the rented out rooms and their beds. She slowly climbed up the ramp to the tavern and entered, nodding toward Jarel once.
“Ah. Another bowl of stew?” The bartender was already preparing a bowl, a spoon. Anisse waved him off quickly, and the wooden bowl and spoon disappeared beneath the countertop. She slid into her wooden chair, her back turned to the rest of the empty tavern, the book slipping from her arms and opening onto the table. She’d at last passed through the chapters that made her feel like an idiot child intending on writing an essay on the demonic arts. Diagrams and the descriptions of basic spells filled the current chapter, and she was pleased. Somewhat. She would have to put these spells to the test. Feeling the surge of magic through her fingertips would teach her more than these words could ever say. There would be no reagent gathering for this “imp”? She let herself relax in her chair, hearing the wood creak lightly as she moved, finding the ragged tome interesting finally.
Then came the sound of obnoxious, whispery giggling.
Anisse glanced behind her as the giggling grew louder, also accompanied by the creak of heavy armor. Her head rose enough to spot the two that had entered, the male in his dark plate, a woman tucked against him. There was an aura of cold about the tall male, as if his armor was stung with a sheet of thin ice. Jarel was quick to offer them services, and Anisse was quick to get back to her reading. Flattening the pages of her book, the hooded woman sighed, blotting out the sound of their conversation as best she could. Focusing on a spell listing, she ran her finger under its description. Corruption: Inflicts a curse of shadow energy onto the proposed target, corrupting the body and eating away at its life forces for an allotted amount of time. The spell is best used in conjuction with fear, or while the target is focused upon a de—
The table rattled as the armored man took a seat, the woman he came in with still hooked to his side. At her table. Anisse didn’t bother to look up and acknowledge the stranger, but she could tell his icy glance was upon her.
“I am looking for someone. Maybe you can help me?” the man started, a strange echo following his voice. It caught her attention, the disembodied sound. Yet, it still did not convince her to look upon him. A look would entail a welcome to sit.
“Doubtful,” Anisse spoke lowly, flipping another page of her tome with emphasis. Apparently he didn’t get the hint, for the man continued asking questions about nothing she knew about. He seemed convinced she knew the answers, or that he had known her from somewhere. After trite, one worded answers, Anisse excused herself from the table, letting out a deep sigh.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you. Go away,” she spoke hollowly, already irritated that she had to leave her seat. More whispering from the lewd woman clinging to his arm, and the table rattled again as they rose together. Finally, a prelude to peace and quiet. She glanced their way as the two moved to the back of the tavern, the woman’s skirts brushing the wooden floorboards as she sashayed alongside the armored man. Anisse glanced harder now as the two slipped down the twisting ramp that lead down the basement. The last of the woman’s coppery curls disappeared as the two went past her vision. She knew that woman.
Anisse had her heart in a jar downstairs.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A Patron of the Lamb #3
Thumpirity-thump. Thumpirity-thump. The sound of the bartender’s fingers drumming upon the oak tabletop filled the Slaughtered Lamb. For a week he had watched the woman sit locked to her chair in the corner, never leaving the sanctity of her anonymous tomes behind. Now, she being the only patron of his tavern tonight, his fingers drummed harder, waiting for the figure to do something. Anything. He grinned wider and wider as he watched Anisse twitch in her seat, until, able to stand the rapping fingers no more, she abruptly stood from her chair and approached him.
“Would you kindly stop that?” the woman gritted out from between her teeth, her soft voice touched with darker intent. Like a true gentleman, he offered his devoted patron a hot bowl of lamb stew, knowing it would calm the spark of fire in the eyes he saw deep inside the shadowy cowl. The white-knuckled grip she held upon her precious tomes started to lessen, and he knew his victory was near.
“Sit down and eat and I might, Miss,” he winked at Anisse. He even added extra potatoes to the dish! With an exasperated sigh, the woman took the bowl, sliding a few silver coins over to Jarel in a brash manner, and then tramped her booted heels back to her table.
“Forgot your drink, dear.”
Broth spilled upon the woman’s table as she almost dropped the bowl. The look she now gave Mr. Moor made his smile grow wire tight, a giddiness flowing through him. Stirring her cold glass of tea with a spoon, the cubes inside tinked against the glass, sounding off like little hollow chimes. He was quick to slide the beverage to her hands, which he studied with a quick glance of his eyes. The small hands were dry, and pale, her nails slightly dirty. She was a nailbiter, from what he could tell of their shortness, for she certainly didn’t manicure them. Jarel seemed to pride himself on knowing his guests, especially ones who made a home of his tavern.
“I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction!”
“No, we’ve not,” was the simple answer from the hooded woman. He laughed as he took the spoon that she thrust back into his fingers.
“Well, you could tell me your name perhaps, yes? Yes!” He was much too cheerful to work in such a place.
“And why should I do that?”
Jarel was clever. He had to be to keep even the most suspicious customer coming back, at least for the stew. It was a stubborn streak Anisse had noticed first-hand.
“I tend to have a nice little repore with the Masters down below, milady. Imagine how nice it would be for me to compliment your studies to Sir Darkbinder, hmmm?” came the good-natured reply. Yes, much too cheery. “Of course, a name would do you well.” The man waved his hand around dimissively. “Telling him that the ‘lady in the dark robes is an absolute wonderful student’ seems to be rather…bland a description, doesn’t it, my dear? So a name to fit that pretty face would do you well! And I bet you’re a pretty one, beneath all that doom and gloom, yes?”
“…ngh…”
It was all she could come up with, the bartender’s lips moving too fast, his words overwhelming. Rarely did her brothers and sisters talk so much within the Cult. All their thoughts were transcribed by the Speaker, for he knew all that should be known, and no other words had been needed before. Idle chatter was as pointless as an Acolyte’s name, which now this odd, cheery man also asked for. She struggled with the name, as she hadn’t used it in so long, never having earned the right to be recognized by it. Her lips parted to speak it, to draw it out of the corridors of her memory, stacked alongside the foggy glimpses of a childhood she no longer needed.
“Anna…” she breathed out, and it felt good to say it.
“Would you kindly stop that?” the woman gritted out from between her teeth, her soft voice touched with darker intent. Like a true gentleman, he offered his devoted patron a hot bowl of lamb stew, knowing it would calm the spark of fire in the eyes he saw deep inside the shadowy cowl. The white-knuckled grip she held upon her precious tomes started to lessen, and he knew his victory was near.
“Sit down and eat and I might, Miss,” he winked at Anisse. He even added extra potatoes to the dish! With an exasperated sigh, the woman took the bowl, sliding a few silver coins over to Jarel in a brash manner, and then tramped her booted heels back to her table.
“Forgot your drink, dear.”
Broth spilled upon the woman’s table as she almost dropped the bowl. The look she now gave Mr. Moor made his smile grow wire tight, a giddiness flowing through him. Stirring her cold glass of tea with a spoon, the cubes inside tinked against the glass, sounding off like little hollow chimes. He was quick to slide the beverage to her hands, which he studied with a quick glance of his eyes. The small hands were dry, and pale, her nails slightly dirty. She was a nailbiter, from what he could tell of their shortness, for she certainly didn’t manicure them. Jarel seemed to pride himself on knowing his guests, especially ones who made a home of his tavern.
“I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction!”
“No, we’ve not,” was the simple answer from the hooded woman. He laughed as he took the spoon that she thrust back into his fingers.
“Well, you could tell me your name perhaps, yes? Yes!” He was much too cheerful to work in such a place.
“And why should I do that?”
Jarel was clever. He had to be to keep even the most suspicious customer coming back, at least for the stew. It was a stubborn streak Anisse had noticed first-hand.
“I tend to have a nice little repore with the Masters down below, milady. Imagine how nice it would be for me to compliment your studies to Sir Darkbinder, hmmm?” came the good-natured reply. Yes, much too cheery. “Of course, a name would do you well.” The man waved his hand around dimissively. “Telling him that the ‘lady in the dark robes is an absolute wonderful student’ seems to be rather…bland a description, doesn’t it, my dear? So a name to fit that pretty face would do you well! And I bet you’re a pretty one, beneath all that doom and gloom, yes?”
“…ngh…”
It was all she could come up with, the bartender’s lips moving too fast, his words overwhelming. Rarely did her brothers and sisters talk so much within the Cult. All their thoughts were transcribed by the Speaker, for he knew all that should be known, and no other words had been needed before. Idle chatter was as pointless as an Acolyte’s name, which now this odd, cheery man also asked for. She struggled with the name, as she hadn’t used it in so long, never having earned the right to be recognized by it. Her lips parted to speak it, to draw it out of the corridors of her memory, stacked alongside the foggy glimpses of a childhood she no longer needed.
“Anna…” she breathed out, and it felt good to say it.
A Patron of the Lamb #2
Jarel Moor, the owner and tender of the Slaughtered Lamb of Stormwind, was absolutely elated tonight. The tavern was brimming with company, and he happily passed the drinks along. He snickered to himself, knowing that the group probably had nowhere else to hold their little soiree, for the Lamb was usually among the last establishments in the city to receive such gatherings. Though the dwarf seemed to care less where he was as long as he had ale, the others, twelve of them, all showed their different levels of disapproval of his tavern. The night elves in the group especially amused him. He watched them sneer at the creaky boards and whisper to themselves in their native tongue, until at last, they wandered out of the Lamb and sat about in the grassy courtyard. Elves: predictable to the last.
The gold was still good.
The Barkeeper’s more permanent patron was nowhere to be seen, however. Finding the crowd both irritating and disruptive, Anisse found the quiet below the Lamb to be what she needed. The bones of the catacombs were hardly as noisy, neither did they tend to drink themselves into idiotic stupors. Picking through her leather satchel, she sighed at what little she had within it. The last of the silver pieces she had were spent on the lamb stew specialty (she really did quite like the dish), and her quick abandonment of the Twilight camp hadn’t exactly left her time to pack anything important. She wondered where the Abyss Child might be by now, and how the creature was faring.
Her fingers swept against something smooth and hard, pocketed in the bottom of the satchel. Ah, an obsidian sliver, touched by the Old ones themselves. The obelisk it had been carved from stretched deep through far off deserts, touching the secrecies kept beneath the earth for so long, she was told. Some had heard the otherworldy voices whispering from the obelisks, and Anisse remembered how much she wished to hear them speak their secrets to her. For so many nights she had gripped so tightly to the ancient sliver to hear the voices become her will. Now…? What was it to her now?
Footsteps echoed down from the tavern and out onto the cellar steps, suddenly. Her thoughts cut off at the sound, Anisse quickly threw the sliver back into her satchel and stuffed it into a half-open coffin. Scrambling to her feet, she put her hands together in front of her, and turned her head low, acting as though she were just making her way up. The woman she passed smirked at her as she passed Anisse, and she caught the scent of cheap perfume, and felfire, the smallish demon skipping just behind her.
“Oh, right. I won’t need you anymore!” the warlock said with a laugh. At the snap of her fingers, the small, fiery demon disappeared before Anisse’s eyes. Was it so easy to control them? A snap of the fingers, they would appear, submitted completely to a warlock’s desires? As the warlock turned the corner, Anisse was helpless to follow, wishing to see more of what this Demon-tamer could do. She stayed a distance away, sliding along the wall as the warlock walked down, down into the bottom rooms, passing stacked coffins.
A circle was scrawled upon the floor, glowing magically, with what seemed to be etched runes in the midst of it. Such things were commonplace with the Twilight’s, and this warlock seemed to immediately know what to do. Anisse saw the warlock in plain view now, her cowl having hidden the face of most standing before her. Coppery curls of hair toppled down the young warlock’s back, as she almost skipped around the room, lighting candlesticks. Her red dress sloped down a voluptuous body, breasts peeking up out of the frothy corset she wore. It was apparent the woman was flashy, by the many rings she had, and the circlets of necklaces that rested upon her squeezed bosom.
“At last!” the warlock exclaimed under an excited exhale of breath. Her hands twitched upwards as she focused upon the circle, and Anisse held her breath as she felt the warlock’s spell begin to crackle in the air. “Come to me!”
Lights flickered around the catacombs, setting the room aglow with hues of violet. The warlock’s whispers were low and soft, with an edge of demand. Anisse could not understand the words, but she knew it was a calling, a summoning. Upon the pulsing circle, a creature appeared, akin to a woman, but with the hooves of a goat. A long tail protruded from the creature’s buttocks, leather clinging to the most private areas of the curving body. She was a wicked beauty, her horns sharp as the lash she snapped upon the cold stone. The warlock bounced up and down in her spot, absolutely stricken with…joy?
“Yes, yes! I did it! I did i---hkkk!” the celebration ended quickly as the whip came coiling around the rather ditzy warlock’s neck. The warlock’s eyes flitted to the dark figure, recognizing that she was standing there, watching. She tried to signal that she needed help, her fingers twitching at the leather coiled around her neck, but no help came, or was offered. Anisse watched in rapt fascination as the goat-woman kicked down the lady sorceress, letting her slam, belly first into the ground. She died silently, her neck broken with a tight pull of the whip.
…oops.
A grin split the demon’s face, a tongue slipping out from between her white, sharp teeth. The wicked thing knew Anisse had stayed the whole time watching, knew she was fascinated by the kill. The demon shimmered out of existence then, her grin burning into the mind. Was this a gift then, this kill? Anisse doubted it, and knew the body needed to go, lest she herself was accused of the “accident.” There were plenty of coffins lying about, unused. How convenient. Perhaps the organs could be harvested for a few spells.
Jarel would appreciate the service.
The gold was still good.
The Barkeeper’s more permanent patron was nowhere to be seen, however. Finding the crowd both irritating and disruptive, Anisse found the quiet below the Lamb to be what she needed. The bones of the catacombs were hardly as noisy, neither did they tend to drink themselves into idiotic stupors. Picking through her leather satchel, she sighed at what little she had within it. The last of the silver pieces she had were spent on the lamb stew specialty (she really did quite like the dish), and her quick abandonment of the Twilight camp hadn’t exactly left her time to pack anything important. She wondered where the Abyss Child might be by now, and how the creature was faring.
Her fingers swept against something smooth and hard, pocketed in the bottom of the satchel. Ah, an obsidian sliver, touched by the Old ones themselves. The obelisk it had been carved from stretched deep through far off deserts, touching the secrecies kept beneath the earth for so long, she was told. Some had heard the otherworldy voices whispering from the obelisks, and Anisse remembered how much she wished to hear them speak their secrets to her. For so many nights she had gripped so tightly to the ancient sliver to hear the voices become her will. Now…? What was it to her now?
Footsteps echoed down from the tavern and out onto the cellar steps, suddenly. Her thoughts cut off at the sound, Anisse quickly threw the sliver back into her satchel and stuffed it into a half-open coffin. Scrambling to her feet, she put her hands together in front of her, and turned her head low, acting as though she were just making her way up. The woman she passed smirked at her as she passed Anisse, and she caught the scent of cheap perfume, and felfire, the smallish demon skipping just behind her.
“Oh, right. I won’t need you anymore!” the warlock said with a laugh. At the snap of her fingers, the small, fiery demon disappeared before Anisse’s eyes. Was it so easy to control them? A snap of the fingers, they would appear, submitted completely to a warlock’s desires? As the warlock turned the corner, Anisse was helpless to follow, wishing to see more of what this Demon-tamer could do. She stayed a distance away, sliding along the wall as the warlock walked down, down into the bottom rooms, passing stacked coffins.
A circle was scrawled upon the floor, glowing magically, with what seemed to be etched runes in the midst of it. Such things were commonplace with the Twilight’s, and this warlock seemed to immediately know what to do. Anisse saw the warlock in plain view now, her cowl having hidden the face of most standing before her. Coppery curls of hair toppled down the young warlock’s back, as she almost skipped around the room, lighting candlesticks. Her red dress sloped down a voluptuous body, breasts peeking up out of the frothy corset she wore. It was apparent the woman was flashy, by the many rings she had, and the circlets of necklaces that rested upon her squeezed bosom.
“At last!” the warlock exclaimed under an excited exhale of breath. Her hands twitched upwards as she focused upon the circle, and Anisse held her breath as she felt the warlock’s spell begin to crackle in the air. “Come to me!”
Lights flickered around the catacombs, setting the room aglow with hues of violet. The warlock’s whispers were low and soft, with an edge of demand. Anisse could not understand the words, but she knew it was a calling, a summoning. Upon the pulsing circle, a creature appeared, akin to a woman, but with the hooves of a goat. A long tail protruded from the creature’s buttocks, leather clinging to the most private areas of the curving body. She was a wicked beauty, her horns sharp as the lash she snapped upon the cold stone. The warlock bounced up and down in her spot, absolutely stricken with…joy?
“Yes, yes! I did it! I did i---hkkk!” the celebration ended quickly as the whip came coiling around the rather ditzy warlock’s neck. The warlock’s eyes flitted to the dark figure, recognizing that she was standing there, watching. She tried to signal that she needed help, her fingers twitching at the leather coiled around her neck, but no help came, or was offered. Anisse watched in rapt fascination as the goat-woman kicked down the lady sorceress, letting her slam, belly first into the ground. She died silently, her neck broken with a tight pull of the whip.
…oops.
A grin split the demon’s face, a tongue slipping out from between her white, sharp teeth. The wicked thing knew Anisse had stayed the whole time watching, knew she was fascinated by the kill. The demon shimmered out of existence then, her grin burning into the mind. Was this a gift then, this kill? Anisse doubted it, and knew the body needed to go, lest she herself was accused of the “accident.” There were plenty of coffins lying about, unused. How convenient. Perhaps the organs could be harvested for a few spells.
Jarel would appreciate the service.
A Patron of the Lamb
The Slaughtered Lamb, sitting in a lonely corner of the Stormwind Magic Quarter, drew little in the way of favorable company, as many would know. Most that entered had something to hide, or were hunting, or were looking for some strange thrill. Those that stayed usually had all three in mind. The dark, old oak tables and chairs collected dusty spider webs, as the bartender, Jarel Moor, had grown tired of cleaning them. It hadn’t mattered really, as few ever decided to stay long, and the little spiders crawling along the floorboards added some macabre appeal.
It was all the kind of quiet that his current patron liked. The figure had visited the past few days, and rarely left her chair now, comfortable with the squeaky floorboards and the dismal lighting. Even the bitter aftertaste that locked in her throat from the smell of felfire became a comfort. The Warlocks below always made a spectacular show of killing rats. With her hood pulled up close around her head, and nothing beyond her hands shown beyond her black, loose robes, the woman guarded herself well, and with good reason.
Cultists, she knew, were not welcomed into the Alliance.
Not even a former cultist of the Twilight’s Hammer would garner such favor from the human city with the cult’s teachings still so fresh in her mind, she suspected. She doubted returning to the cultists was a viable plan, even. Releasing the Offering surely meant her death upon return, or capture. Where is it that she had faltered, she wondered to herself. The hood slipped down as she rubbed at her face, brewing over the frustration of it all. Where had it all gone wrong?
Through Chaos would return Order, she had believed. There was none on this world left to save, war-torn as it was. Even the old Dragons felt the need for absolution when woken from their deep sleep, knowing all must be remade. The Abyss Child certainly would have made a worthy sacrifice, bringing the reckoning closer. Everything had been prepared.
Then, the visions came, heavy with warning, straight from the Abyss Child. None would be spared, not even the Devoted. There had been no promises of reward, only an end, as Abyssal creatures danced in the fiery aftermath. In a moment of pure uncertainty, she released the sacrifice. Her stomach tumbled at this irrational, rampant feeling she had never felt before.
Fear…
Footsteps hit the wooden planks, and she twitched, quickly snatching the hood back up to cover herself. The dread came over her, wondering if they’d found her finally, to take her back. Once again, her stomach began to tumble, her body tightening in its chair. Had they recaptured the Abyss Child? Had her wrong been revealed?
“What’ll it be?” Jarol stated casually, pulling out the question with a tinge of boredom. She did her best to glance backward to look, trying to make the turn of her head as subtle as possible. Her foot slid in place, in case she might need to leave. Would it be wise to try to defend herself in the tavern, if it came to that? Her hand tightened on the bottom of her seat, tense.
“Piss off!” piped up the gnomish warlock as he walked right past the barkeeper, his imp bounding along behind him. His scratchy beard was perhaps as wound up as he was, from the look of the short one. She and the bartender watched as the ill-tempered gnome stormed to the back of the tavern, stomping his way down the path to the basement, the torchlight flickering as he passed. The former Cultist allowed herself to breathe, slumping back into her chair.
“No respect in these parts,” Jarel sighed dramatically, shaking his head. He smiled at her, as he caught her watching. It was a smug smile, the face of the secretive, hidden behind a friendly facade. She knew the smile well. Her mind wandered, musing on how many bodies he’d cleaned up in exchange for favors, how much she would have to pay him to keep her identity a secret, if he knew more of her than he let on.
Looking upon him, she wondered how many times his heart might beat after it was cut fresh, from his chest.
“Another bowl of lamb stew,” she murmured, the request soft, but hollow. They were not the words she intended; her mind envisioned the still dripping heart in a bowl. Perhaps her best decision was to turn around in her chair, lest she have a more than a little mess on her hands. Slowly clearing her mind, she took a bite of the stew, and savored the medley of carrots, broth, and tender meat. She had to blend in, somehow. There were possibilities here, and she already had a knack for summoning otherworldly denizens. Though the intricacies of demons were unfamiliar to her, how much different could they be from an Abyssal?
Anisse, would-be warlock, would soon find out.
It was all the kind of quiet that his current patron liked. The figure had visited the past few days, and rarely left her chair now, comfortable with the squeaky floorboards and the dismal lighting. Even the bitter aftertaste that locked in her throat from the smell of felfire became a comfort. The Warlocks below always made a spectacular show of killing rats. With her hood pulled up close around her head, and nothing beyond her hands shown beyond her black, loose robes, the woman guarded herself well, and with good reason.
Cultists, she knew, were not welcomed into the Alliance.
Not even a former cultist of the Twilight’s Hammer would garner such favor from the human city with the cult’s teachings still so fresh in her mind, she suspected. She doubted returning to the cultists was a viable plan, even. Releasing the Offering surely meant her death upon return, or capture. Where is it that she had faltered, she wondered to herself. The hood slipped down as she rubbed at her face, brewing over the frustration of it all. Where had it all gone wrong?
Through Chaos would return Order, she had believed. There was none on this world left to save, war-torn as it was. Even the old Dragons felt the need for absolution when woken from their deep sleep, knowing all must be remade. The Abyss Child certainly would have made a worthy sacrifice, bringing the reckoning closer. Everything had been prepared.
Then, the visions came, heavy with warning, straight from the Abyss Child. None would be spared, not even the Devoted. There had been no promises of reward, only an end, as Abyssal creatures danced in the fiery aftermath. In a moment of pure uncertainty, she released the sacrifice. Her stomach tumbled at this irrational, rampant feeling she had never felt before.
Fear…
Footsteps hit the wooden planks, and she twitched, quickly snatching the hood back up to cover herself. The dread came over her, wondering if they’d found her finally, to take her back. Once again, her stomach began to tumble, her body tightening in its chair. Had they recaptured the Abyss Child? Had her wrong been revealed?
“What’ll it be?” Jarol stated casually, pulling out the question with a tinge of boredom. She did her best to glance backward to look, trying to make the turn of her head as subtle as possible. Her foot slid in place, in case she might need to leave. Would it be wise to try to defend herself in the tavern, if it came to that? Her hand tightened on the bottom of her seat, tense.
“Piss off!” piped up the gnomish warlock as he walked right past the barkeeper, his imp bounding along behind him. His scratchy beard was perhaps as wound up as he was, from the look of the short one. She and the bartender watched as the ill-tempered gnome stormed to the back of the tavern, stomping his way down the path to the basement, the torchlight flickering as he passed. The former Cultist allowed herself to breathe, slumping back into her chair.
“No respect in these parts,” Jarel sighed dramatically, shaking his head. He smiled at her, as he caught her watching. It was a smug smile, the face of the secretive, hidden behind a friendly facade. She knew the smile well. Her mind wandered, musing on how many bodies he’d cleaned up in exchange for favors, how much she would have to pay him to keep her identity a secret, if he knew more of her than he let on.
Looking upon him, she wondered how many times his heart might beat after it was cut fresh, from his chest.
“Another bowl of lamb stew,” she murmured, the request soft, but hollow. They were not the words she intended; her mind envisioned the still dripping heart in a bowl. Perhaps her best decision was to turn around in her chair, lest she have a more than a little mess on her hands. Slowly clearing her mind, she took a bite of the stew, and savored the medley of carrots, broth, and tender meat. She had to blend in, somehow. There were possibilities here, and she already had a knack for summoning otherworldly denizens. Though the intricacies of demons were unfamiliar to her, how much different could they be from an Abyssal?
Anisse, would-be warlock, would soon find out.
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