"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.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
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.
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