The smell of fresh ocean air suffused the bowels of the ship, her cot creaking as the hull did with each gentle wave that was ridden. Someone had left the door to the bunk quarters open, and it irked Anisse slightly to hear the obnoxious laughing of the crew just outside. Drink, barter, gamble. Is that all they did upon the ship? She was sure there were other more lewd possibilities, but her mind wouldn’t dare go in that direction.
It wasn’t all terrible, she thought to herself. She twisted the cap closed upon her newest treasure, the pale green, robust heart floating idly in the concoction of the jar. The orc’s heart was larger than the others she’d had in her renewed collection, and the ‘donator’ had been harder to take down than she thought it would be. Even old orcs were seasoned brawlers, she found out, rubbing the side of her aching jaw, the bruising around her throat--he certainly didn’t go down without a fight. It might’ve been easier to take from the small ports the Captain attacked and sacked, but his rulings against killing and the chaos of the ransacking prevented her from action. It was idiotic, really.
Some lambs are born for the slaughter, after all.
Anisse stiffened as the ideal passed through her mind, a remnant of the Twilight Hammer she’d ran away from. The jar tinked against the little metal shelving she’d had the rest of the jars displayed upon, and she fixed it up with a strong piece of yarn to keep it from sliding off the shelf. What was she doing anyway? Where was the Purpose? Before it seemed so clear, to cull Azeroth. Level the playing field. Press the reset button. Destruction would birth a new land. A new world order.
No more war…
And now where was the Purpose? Fear had crept in to steal her will. But everywhere she looked there was only disease. Perversion. Even the elven city with its needless, suffocating wealth pushed its citizens into sloth and vulgarity despite the potential for magical enlightenment. The orc city had been interesting, at least. She’d never thought a culture basing its language upon grunts and nods could be so decorated in its simplicity. She ran a finger across the jar containing the orc heart. Perhaps that was why she wished for this one so direly, despite the beating taken. The courageous heart, with a will to help her own. If she stared hard enough, she could almost imagine it still beating behind the glass.
“Ship’s landed, girl,” Tia grinned at her from the darkness of the room’s doorway, just at the same time as the hull’s bell rang. “Get some fresh air, eh?”
It was not a bad suggestion, but when Anisse stepped outside to wince at the bright light of Booty Bay, she regretted it. Her head pulsed as the light assaulted her senses, but she bore through it at the whim of the smell of the ocean. Truth be told, she liked the smell, the gentle lapping of the waves at the legs of the dock. Eyes adjusting to the sight, she frowned when she realized how many small, green men decorated the large port. If they were as annoying as the Captain’s ‘buddy’, she was turning right back around to board the ship.
“Got it all right here, sweetie! Read all about it! Stormwind Gazette, Gnome Gnews, Orgrimmar Daily, Azerothian Ladies Digest(™)*! Take your pick! Only 1 gold a piece!“ Newspaper flashed Anisse in the face as one of the annoying goblins shoved them in front of her. She might’ve reacted by throttling the little goblin, but the newspapers caught her attention. Immediately she brought out the large pouch of gold the Captain had given her.
“Give me the Stormwind one…no not that one, the smaller paper with the headlines,” Anisse almost commanded. If it was possible that the paper boy’s eyes could get larger at the sight of the large satchel of gold, they did. The goblin licked his lips and smirked at her as she reached for the paper, jerking the paper away from her fingers. His meaty hand lay palm up in demand of more coin.
“That one’s gonna cost you extra, lady. Harder to get copies of that one. Not as…ya know. Big as the Gazette.” She of course, glowered at the goblin, but she could not deny his cunning enterprise, and gave him the extra coin for the paper.
‘MORE MURDERS! BODIES FOUND IN OLD TOWN MAKING OFFICIALS HEAD’S SPIN!’
The headlines made her face burn.
The photos printed underneath the headline then turned her blood cold. The markings upon the victim’s face were immediately recognizable, though the second victim did not seem so. A Twilight Hammer Cultist. Rounds and rounds of leather cord were wrapped around his neck, and at first she wagered that he died of strangulation.
The leather cords were necklaces.
The paper’s edges were crumpled tight in her hands, the longer she read on about the murder descriptions. Clearly it was a message sent to her. Her game-mate knew. Knew what she was. Apparently there was another murder earlier in the month she had missed since the ship had left Stormwind. Her stomach twisted, a cauldron of excitement, dissapointment and apprehension in one. She had missed so much. How she would have wished to feel the leather cord, pluck it from the dead cultist’s neck, to have what was hers again, but she was stuck on a dock with an insipid goblin waving papers in her face. How much could this player expose of her? How much could be used to their advantage?!
“Is that her? The new one? Haha, you know Wolf could do better.” The voices caught her off-guard, feminine. The Common tongue. The smell of cheap perfume caught her nose--the scent was outright clogging the air around her.
“Yeah he could be doing me!” A gaggle of giggles exploded behind her. Anisse twitched.
“No, no. He’s got an elf girl. Always with the elf girls, you know.” Another one spoke. “Mhmm. That one looks human. But didn’t she come off the ship?”
“Maybe he’s getting her on the side?” Their voices lowered to a murmur as she glanced backward at the stalking harpies. There was so much cleavage hanging, Anisse wondered why they bothered wearing anything at all.
“Mmmmaybe. She looks like a little rag doll though. I betcha there’s a nice little body under those robes to play with. Hehe, cute. Pretty hair.”
“…c’mon lets go talk to her…”
“Briza you sound like you want to do her!”
More giggling. It rung in Anisse’s ears, and she wanted to run. Far away.
“You know I would do anything for the right price, girls--hey where’s she going?”
The scorched newspaper was left behind in Anisse’s stead as she practically ran for the sanctity of the ship.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A Patron of the Lamb #24
The Sin’dorei ranger lurched around in the dirt, the last pleaded words dissolving into a rattle as life began to give out. Her eyes were frozen upon the cloaked figure in death. The one who had stood idly by as she was overwhelmed in the Dead Scar, watching as she was taken down by dozens of undead. Surely she had given her life for the stranger, a true protector of her kind--perhaps she could even forgive the fellow elf for a lack of courage. But to let her die here? Helplessly consumed by the swarms of Scourge? Condemned to become one of them? It was a fate worse than any death the Farstrider could imagine.
The dead began to crowd, their shadows falling over her prone body. She was still conscious! It was a nightmare of nightmares, too weak to even end her own life before they could tear her apart…
The sting of icy magic collected the attentions of the undead, freezing them in place, and then drawing them all away from the Farstrider’s broken body. She had enough strength in her to witness the downfall of all of the zombies. By no means perfection, of course, as the mage circled around and around in the Scar to widdle them down with fire and ice, taking the occasional rake of bony claws to ensure a blast here or there. When all was said and done, a relief slid through the dying elf as the cloaked figure stood over her.
“…th…than-k…you…” she managed to rasp out, feeling the comfort of fingers trace up the side of her face, following the line of her ear. A final, soothing farewell. She would not die alone.
The lips visible under the cowl curved into the smallest of smiles, replying in muddled Thalassian: “Thank you…”
She could process the heavy sting of a fine blade cutting around her left ear as her heart pumped its last.
(Late into the night, later that day)
Below deck, and away from the Captain and his cohorts, Anisse sat upon the cot she was assigned. Humming softly, she sunk the needle through and through her hood, stitching the edge of the blood elf’s ear she claimed to the inside of the fabric. Stuffing it with a long, slender twig she’d procured from her travels to keep it erect, she smiled at her work. It would be passable. Gathering the other ear into her lap, she rethreaded the needle with more twine.
One down, one to go.
“What you be doin’ down here, girl?” Tia’zula caught her off-guard, making the needle slip out of her grasp for a moment. She scowled faintly at the troll, the expression fading soon after she found it. The troll was…tolerable, in comparison to the other members of the crew. She sighed as she slid the needle through the skin, lining it up with the hood once more.
“Preparing.”
Anisse could feel the troll watching her in silence. And then a raspy cackle erupted from her throat. The young woman looked up at Tia, a frown on her face.
“You t’inkin’ dat gonna keep you safe in de city? Coupla elfy ears?”
“It is the best I can do. If the Captain believes I am to be confined to the ship, I’m afraid I have other plans. I do not believe humans are welcomed in the elven forests…” She hoped the elves were not as prone to worldly pleasures as most of the human patrons that stepped into the Lamb had been. After observing the Captain for so long though….Anisse had her doubts. Still, any place was better than the Lamb at this very moment. Making gold as part of the ship’s crew was far more favorable than spending two weeks as an unpaid barmaid.
She hoped the patrons would miss her meatpies as they choked on their ale.
“How ‘bout dis? I help you get ‘round de elf lan’s, you go ‘preparin’ t’ help in de soup kitchen? Captan order it.” Tia grinned as she watched the girl put the finished hood on. The attached ears wobbled a bit before she secured the cowl under her chin with a knot. Though the wood inserts scraped against the sides of her head, the ears would be passable with a bit more support. “You makin’ a cute elf, girl. I make it bettah.”
“Fine..” Anisse swept down her hood, and the ears slid back uselessly, hanging from the fabric. Her eyes drifted off to the long, flat crate that sat on her cot, and she knew the troll was eyeing it too.
“What in dere?”
The girl’s hands went to the tied collar at her throat. Inside, she was relieved to be away from Stormwind, away from the idiots, from the weak-hearted, from the arrogant.
From the thieves…
Yet, the “game” could not be over until it was over. When she had what was rightfully hers.
“…product. When we are in Booty Bay again, perhaps it can be shipped.”
“Can jus’ sell in Silvamoon, eh? Or dat Brill? Dey seem t’ like de pies.”
Anisse held back a chuckle, pursing her lips tight to swallow it as she lifted the flat crate. “Not pies. I will need to refrigerate it, however. There is an icebox in the soup kitchen, yes?”
“I t’ink so.” Tia made way for the young woman as she carried her crate to the end of the rows of cots. Her small boots clinked upon the metal rivets that secured the floorboards of the ship. “Where you be shippin’ it to?”
“The butcher shop.” Anisse said softly, glancing over her shoulder to the troll. “In Stormwind.”
The dead began to crowd, their shadows falling over her prone body. She was still conscious! It was a nightmare of nightmares, too weak to even end her own life before they could tear her apart…
The sting of icy magic collected the attentions of the undead, freezing them in place, and then drawing them all away from the Farstrider’s broken body. She had enough strength in her to witness the downfall of all of the zombies. By no means perfection, of course, as the mage circled around and around in the Scar to widdle them down with fire and ice, taking the occasional rake of bony claws to ensure a blast here or there. When all was said and done, a relief slid through the dying elf as the cloaked figure stood over her.
“…th…than-k…you…” she managed to rasp out, feeling the comfort of fingers trace up the side of her face, following the line of her ear. A final, soothing farewell. She would not die alone.
The lips visible under the cowl curved into the smallest of smiles, replying in muddled Thalassian: “Thank you…”
She could process the heavy sting of a fine blade cutting around her left ear as her heart pumped its last.
(Late into the night, later that day)
Below deck, and away from the Captain and his cohorts, Anisse sat upon the cot she was assigned. Humming softly, she sunk the needle through and through her hood, stitching the edge of the blood elf’s ear she claimed to the inside of the fabric. Stuffing it with a long, slender twig she’d procured from her travels to keep it erect, she smiled at her work. It would be passable. Gathering the other ear into her lap, she rethreaded the needle with more twine.
One down, one to go.
“What you be doin’ down here, girl?” Tia’zula caught her off-guard, making the needle slip out of her grasp for a moment. She scowled faintly at the troll, the expression fading soon after she found it. The troll was…tolerable, in comparison to the other members of the crew. She sighed as she slid the needle through the skin, lining it up with the hood once more.
“Preparing.”
Anisse could feel the troll watching her in silence. And then a raspy cackle erupted from her throat. The young woman looked up at Tia, a frown on her face.
“You t’inkin’ dat gonna keep you safe in de city? Coupla elfy ears?”
“It is the best I can do. If the Captain believes I am to be confined to the ship, I’m afraid I have other plans. I do not believe humans are welcomed in the elven forests…” She hoped the elves were not as prone to worldly pleasures as most of the human patrons that stepped into the Lamb had been. After observing the Captain for so long though….Anisse had her doubts. Still, any place was better than the Lamb at this very moment. Making gold as part of the ship’s crew was far more favorable than spending two weeks as an unpaid barmaid.
She hoped the patrons would miss her meatpies as they choked on their ale.
“How ‘bout dis? I help you get ‘round de elf lan’s, you go ‘preparin’ t’ help in de soup kitchen? Captan order it.” Tia grinned as she watched the girl put the finished hood on. The attached ears wobbled a bit before she secured the cowl under her chin with a knot. Though the wood inserts scraped against the sides of her head, the ears would be passable with a bit more support. “You makin’ a cute elf, girl. I make it bettah.”
“Fine..” Anisse swept down her hood, and the ears slid back uselessly, hanging from the fabric. Her eyes drifted off to the long, flat crate that sat on her cot, and she knew the troll was eyeing it too.
“What in dere?”
The girl’s hands went to the tied collar at her throat. Inside, she was relieved to be away from Stormwind, away from the idiots, from the weak-hearted, from the arrogant.
From the thieves…
Yet, the “game” could not be over until it was over. When she had what was rightfully hers.
“…product. When we are in Booty Bay again, perhaps it can be shipped.”
“Can jus’ sell in Silvamoon, eh? Or dat Brill? Dey seem t’ like de pies.”
Anisse held back a chuckle, pursing her lips tight to swallow it as she lifted the flat crate. “Not pies. I will need to refrigerate it, however. There is an icebox in the soup kitchen, yes?”
“I t’ink so.” Tia made way for the young woman as she carried her crate to the end of the rows of cots. Her small boots clinked upon the metal rivets that secured the floorboards of the ship. “Where you be shippin’ it to?”
“The butcher shop.” Anisse said softly, glancing over her shoulder to the troll. “In Stormwind.”
A Patron of the Lamb #23
It was back to work. But not at the Slaughtered Lamb. Oh no. The tavern could go without her presence for a small while, and Anisse could certainly use a break from the humiliating position as barmaid.
There were things that needed doing.
She did not wait for the cellars to stop spinning from the scrying spell, even, or the insidious whispers from her contact with the Abyss to subside. She wanted what was hers. Her obsession with the pendant had surpassed to a point that she’d almost forgotten about it. Almost. The mocking, taunting voice that slid out of the scrying bowl with its black and white vision irked her. A dog, he called her. A dog on a leash. No, she did not need the pendant.
She wanted it because he had it. He was a thief.
Anisse stumbled out of the Slaughtered Lamb, pacing. Where would she go? What would she do? What could she do? Fingers curled into messy strands of mahogany hair, pulling them loose from her ponytail--yanking. The knowledge that he had such an integral piece of her in the pendant steeped her paranoia until she was a mad, twitching mess. Nevermind that he insulted her.
Stained glass. Books. Shelves. A faceted figure in black and white. An absurd, gentleman’s voice. That is all she had of her pursuer--a minute of collected images and sound.
A surgeon’s bag of tools…the scalpel had been his to begin with. Perhaps there was more to this than she had initially thought?
…she didn’t want to think. She wanted the pendant back.
The images drifting through her mind, her feet led her to the Royal Stormwind Library. A kindly old librarian greeted her with trembling, age-spotted hands. Brittle bones. This one would do, a meaningful sacrifice. She hated to be so ostentatious with the kill, but she needed her pursuer’s attention.
“What can I do for you, my girl?” The old librarian murmured, vision dulled. Not quite the librarian if she could not even see correctly. Anisse wondered how organized the Library really was under the old woman’s direction. Perhaps the culling of this one would pave the way for a more competent book keeper. Anisse smiled as kindly as she could to the old one, softening her rigid voice. She was innocence personified now.
“Perhaps you can help me look for an old transcript, madame?”
“…transcripts? Ahh! That would be in the vaults below! Come, come, I’ll show you. Oh, you sound like a sweet little thing, you do! Remind me of my granddaughter, Lilah. I bet you’re just lovely too! Oh blast these eyes of mine…”
Anisse followed silently, eyeing the heavy door to the lore vaults.
A dog, was she? She would show him a dog…
There were things that needed doing.
She did not wait for the cellars to stop spinning from the scrying spell, even, or the insidious whispers from her contact with the Abyss to subside. She wanted what was hers. Her obsession with the pendant had surpassed to a point that she’d almost forgotten about it. Almost. The mocking, taunting voice that slid out of the scrying bowl with its black and white vision irked her. A dog, he called her. A dog on a leash. No, she did not need the pendant.
She wanted it because he had it. He was a thief.
Anisse stumbled out of the Slaughtered Lamb, pacing. Where would she go? What would she do? What could she do? Fingers curled into messy strands of mahogany hair, pulling them loose from her ponytail--yanking. The knowledge that he had such an integral piece of her in the pendant steeped her paranoia until she was a mad, twitching mess. Nevermind that he insulted her.
Stained glass. Books. Shelves. A faceted figure in black and white. An absurd, gentleman’s voice. That is all she had of her pursuer--a minute of collected images and sound.
A surgeon’s bag of tools…the scalpel had been his to begin with. Perhaps there was more to this than she had initially thought?
…she didn’t want to think. She wanted the pendant back.
The images drifting through her mind, her feet led her to the Royal Stormwind Library. A kindly old librarian greeted her with trembling, age-spotted hands. Brittle bones. This one would do, a meaningful sacrifice. She hated to be so ostentatious with the kill, but she needed her pursuer’s attention.
“What can I do for you, my girl?” The old librarian murmured, vision dulled. Not quite the librarian if she could not even see correctly. Anisse wondered how organized the Library really was under the old woman’s direction. Perhaps the culling of this one would pave the way for a more competent book keeper. Anisse smiled as kindly as she could to the old one, softening her rigid voice. She was innocence personified now.
“Perhaps you can help me look for an old transcript, madame?”
“…transcripts? Ahh! That would be in the vaults below! Come, come, I’ll show you. Oh, you sound like a sweet little thing, you do! Remind me of my granddaughter, Lilah. I bet you’re just lovely too! Oh blast these eyes of mine…”
Anisse followed silently, eyeing the heavy door to the lore vaults.
A dog, was she? She would show him a dog…
A Patron of the Lamb #22
The Cathedral bells rung out their hourly missive--the tenth hour that signaled freedom. Anisse threw her wet washrag with such a force that the metal basin behind the bar tinged painfully in reply when it received it. She threw her apron roughly at the bartender as well, in which Jarel baffled at, blinking up at her. He sighed dolefully at the girl and folded the apron neatly into its place behind the bar.
“Don’t you be angry with me now, Miss Anna. If you’d learn a little in the way of good manners, you might get to keep your tips today.”
Anisse tightened her fists at her side, grumbling out her words. “I was perfectly in line today, Mister Moor.” In her ruffled serving shirt and bright blue cotton skirt, she looked as intimidating as a rag doll. Terribly put-out, she folded her arms across her chest as she scowled at Jarel. The bartender stared back at her, and then threw his hands up, making her flinch a bit in his sudden movement.
“You made the new girl cry! Not to mention that you were unbelievably rude to most of our visitors.”
Anisse’s scowl deepened, her heated voice growing higher with each word she spat. “She was annoying, Mister Moor. I don’t think she was even paying attention on the inventory run! And a gnome, sir?! A gnome? She had to hang onto the bar counter just to see over it! A..and even normal people aren’t that stupidly happy! It’s disturbing!”
Silence fell over the remaining people in the tavern. Only two, but, still, the effect of her shouting was intense. She sneered at the people as they stared at her and Jarel, and they quickly looked away to finish their dinner. And snickered.
“And that man was harassing me, I just know it! He followed me and the insipid gnome after we wrapped up the inventory run,” Anisse growled out quietly now. “And you just let him sit there and….and talk to me!”
Jarel chuckled, rolling his eyes at his temperamental waitress. “Oh dear. The man was talking to you? Should I fine him for such an indiscretion?”
Anisse groaned out now. “He was waiting for me to get off my shift. I know it. He wouldn’t leave me alone! It’s…its distracting!” Her eyes narrowed at the bartender as she hissed at him, the amber color almost glowing in her anger. “I’m surprised you didn’t let him pay for the rest of my shift to take me to Lakeshire, like the other damned patron! They’re all absolutely daft!”
Jarel laughed a little louder at the girl now as she seethed on. “Should I have? Ahahaha, Miss Anna…he probably liked you. You are a cute little thing, after all. You ought to relax and just chat them up--its what’s expected of a barmaid. Don‘t you know that by now? That’s how you earn your tips! You don‘t have to sleep with them too, dear girl.”
“…hhh….” Silence flooded the barmaid, terribly unnerved. She might’ve twitched a few times as she skittered to the end of the bar.
“….you aren’t sleeping with our patrons, are you, Miss Anna?”
A fiery ball of ruined inventory lists streaked past Jarel’s head. The makeshift fireball smashed into the cabinets behind him, rattling wooden bowls on their shelves. Ashes flew all over, blanketing Jarel. He gave a helpless chuckle as he watched the girl storm down to the cellars, torchlight flickering after her. The bartender shifted quickly, clamping a metal pot over the fire burning behind him, snuffing it out. The remaining patrons took their leave of the Slaughtered Lamb, rather quickly.
“…good. We’re not…that type of establish..ment…” Jarel coughed out, wiping off papery ash from around his eyes.
Time passed beneath the floors of the Slaughtered Lamb, and Anisse’s churning irritation had passed with it. Even the warlocks quieted their chatter, their mocking laughter no longer flowing from the squeaking pipelines above her. Sometimes they had enlightening conversation on the subject of demonic magic which she drew from, but they melted into vain gossip too often.
She was restless, and the urge to kill whispered around in the folds of her mind. The scalpel tempted her, even from within the recesses of the surgeon’s bag, hidden away. Yet the sneering sounds of the felguard made that possible calm from killing all but drain away. How she hated the demon! She could imagine it now, the vicious demonspawn taking all her delight from her as it would take her kills, ruining the things which she held precious inside of each body. Like some inanely violent child, gleefully tearing up toys just to watch them break.
She wouldn’t give the bastard the chance. Not this time.
And so Anisse lay there on the floor of her dirty, ruined parlor, staring up at the threads of spidery webbing hanging from the stone ceiling. Perhaps counting each strand would lull her into the sleep she needed. As her mind slipped away from the musty smelling catacombs, questioning thoughts came to her--thoughts she hadn‘t considered in a long, long time. Was there more, perhaps, to this life than the Lamb, the impending deaths of others, collecting, and her studies? Was there anything more worth seeking…?
…the last time she had such a “revival”, she joined the Twilight’s Hammer. Look where that’s brought you now…
Sighing outwardly, she ignored the sound of ashy debree rustling as she turned on her side, accepting sleep from the stone cold catacomb floors.
Was there anything more worth her time in this world?
‘Not likely…’ Anisse breathed out sleepily to herself as she found a dreamless sleep.
“Don’t you be angry with me now, Miss Anna. If you’d learn a little in the way of good manners, you might get to keep your tips today.”
Anisse tightened her fists at her side, grumbling out her words. “I was perfectly in line today, Mister Moor.” In her ruffled serving shirt and bright blue cotton skirt, she looked as intimidating as a rag doll. Terribly put-out, she folded her arms across her chest as she scowled at Jarel. The bartender stared back at her, and then threw his hands up, making her flinch a bit in his sudden movement.
“You made the new girl cry! Not to mention that you were unbelievably rude to most of our visitors.”
Anisse’s scowl deepened, her heated voice growing higher with each word she spat. “She was annoying, Mister Moor. I don’t think she was even paying attention on the inventory run! And a gnome, sir?! A gnome? She had to hang onto the bar counter just to see over it! A..and even normal people aren’t that stupidly happy! It’s disturbing!”
Silence fell over the remaining people in the tavern. Only two, but, still, the effect of her shouting was intense. She sneered at the people as they stared at her and Jarel, and they quickly looked away to finish their dinner. And snickered.
“And that man was harassing me, I just know it! He followed me and the insipid gnome after we wrapped up the inventory run,” Anisse growled out quietly now. “And you just let him sit there and….and talk to me!”
Jarel chuckled, rolling his eyes at his temperamental waitress. “Oh dear. The man was talking to you? Should I fine him for such an indiscretion?”
Anisse groaned out now. “He was waiting for me to get off my shift. I know it. He wouldn’t leave me alone! It’s…its distracting!” Her eyes narrowed at the bartender as she hissed at him, the amber color almost glowing in her anger. “I’m surprised you didn’t let him pay for the rest of my shift to take me to Lakeshire, like the other damned patron! They’re all absolutely daft!”
Jarel laughed a little louder at the girl now as she seethed on. “Should I have? Ahahaha, Miss Anna…he probably liked you. You are a cute little thing, after all. You ought to relax and just chat them up--its what’s expected of a barmaid. Don‘t you know that by now? That’s how you earn your tips! You don‘t have to sleep with them too, dear girl.”
“…hhh….” Silence flooded the barmaid, terribly unnerved. She might’ve twitched a few times as she skittered to the end of the bar.
“….you aren’t sleeping with our patrons, are you, Miss Anna?”
A fiery ball of ruined inventory lists streaked past Jarel’s head. The makeshift fireball smashed into the cabinets behind him, rattling wooden bowls on their shelves. Ashes flew all over, blanketing Jarel. He gave a helpless chuckle as he watched the girl storm down to the cellars, torchlight flickering after her. The bartender shifted quickly, clamping a metal pot over the fire burning behind him, snuffing it out. The remaining patrons took their leave of the Slaughtered Lamb, rather quickly.
“…good. We’re not…that type of establish..ment…” Jarel coughed out, wiping off papery ash from around his eyes.
Time passed beneath the floors of the Slaughtered Lamb, and Anisse’s churning irritation had passed with it. Even the warlocks quieted their chatter, their mocking laughter no longer flowing from the squeaking pipelines above her. Sometimes they had enlightening conversation on the subject of demonic magic which she drew from, but they melted into vain gossip too often.
She was restless, and the urge to kill whispered around in the folds of her mind. The scalpel tempted her, even from within the recesses of the surgeon’s bag, hidden away. Yet the sneering sounds of the felguard made that possible calm from killing all but drain away. How she hated the demon! She could imagine it now, the vicious demonspawn taking all her delight from her as it would take her kills, ruining the things which she held precious inside of each body. Like some inanely violent child, gleefully tearing up toys just to watch them break.
She wouldn’t give the bastard the chance. Not this time.
And so Anisse lay there on the floor of her dirty, ruined parlor, staring up at the threads of spidery webbing hanging from the stone ceiling. Perhaps counting each strand would lull her into the sleep she needed. As her mind slipped away from the musty smelling catacombs, questioning thoughts came to her--thoughts she hadn‘t considered in a long, long time. Was there more, perhaps, to this life than the Lamb, the impending deaths of others, collecting, and her studies? Was there anything more worth seeking…?
…the last time she had such a “revival”, she joined the Twilight’s Hammer. Look where that’s brought you now…
Sighing outwardly, she ignored the sound of ashy debree rustling as she turned on her side, accepting sleep from the stone cold catacomb floors.
Was there anything more worth her time in this world?
‘Not likely…’ Anisse breathed out sleepily to herself as she found a dreamless sleep.
A Patron of the Lamb #22
(...and mild language! Haha, okay, sort of. This takes place after some creepy secret santa gift exchange rp. In a butcher shop, no less.)
Nearly sundown over Westfall’s dry fields, and a scream broke out over the wheat-colored grass. Dust clouds swirled as the oversized boar tore at the grass with its rough hooves, squealing in high-pitched fever in dumb, unexplainable agony. The torment only ended when the axe blade cleaved through its head, halving the small brain it contained. Twitching its last upon the grass, the demon spat upon the lesser creature, towering formidably over the corpse…and its mistress.
“It is done, weakling.” The felguard muttered out disdainfully to the petite human. No doubt he thought of doing the same to her as he had done to the pig. Instead, his eyes dropped to the gouge wounds in her side. “How pitiful you are. This beast’s tusks can hardly scratch my own body, and you limp like a diseased flesh bag.” The demon sneered, his thick fingers curling around his axe tightly. “Allow me to help put you out of your misery.”
Anisse kept her scathing gaze on the demon. Of the imp and the void walker, she hated this new one the most, some queer embodiment of unfathomable rage and violence. They seemed to exist to test her reign over her own emotion, to tempt it out, and lose control. The imp was a coward, but a greedy coward, and more than once had the thing argued its own sense into her. The void walker simply made her hate the world. Perhaps more than the Twilight Hammer could have--it made her hate herself, her own actions.
But this creature, this muscle-bound demonic lout: it was the worst of them all.
It could look down on her, where its belittling words would make the most impact.
Anisse sauntered up to the demon, paying no mind to the wounds in her side, and the felguard locked eyes with her, this young mortal girl who would not be intimidated. Her small, slender hands pressed upon the metal of his axe head as it trembled with a violent desire to use. It could destroy her. Violate her small body and then rip it to shreds, add color to this bleak world with her entrails.
But the felguard would not dare move, staring into those cold, amber eyes.
“I have already taken your heart once, demon,” Anisse said very plainly. “How did it feel, waiting in agony for the magics of your world to repair what I did to you?” The warlock pressed up onto her toes, her slender hand lain upon the area where his small, beating heart pumped beneath. Her lips whispered with intention, soft, and biting with truth.
“I will gladly do it again before banishing you to the Netherworld, if you do not remain silent.”
The felguard’s eyes gleamed an enraged red, unphased by the threat. “Shove it up your hole, miserable little bi--”
The demon found it hard to speak his words with his lips sliced off. Shocked by the pain, the demon dropped its axe as a six-inch scalpel was driven through it’s eyeball, and pulled back out. The bloody eye now sat upon Anisse’s blade like a pickled, large olive. She whispered in demonic quickly as the felguard toppled to its knees, groaning in agony, and the hulking lump went stiff as the spell took hold. It sat, all of it’s body phased out of existence…except for its head. Raging in tongues unknown to its mistress, Anisse came closer, slowly pulling the impaled eyeball off of her renewed scalpel.
The thing just had to spoil her good mood, didn’t it? Winter’s Veil had not been too disappointing. She’d been lead to a butcher shop teeming with jars of gifts, and then let down with a written threat. Her benefactor was a confusing one, to be certain. The scalpel tasted more and more demonic face flesh as she thought on this, deaf to the felguard’s snarling screams. Is that what this little “game” boiled down to? A hunt? A promise to end her life? She sighed, prying the other eyeball out of the demon’s face, and slipping it onto her scalpel as well. She could not really say she was surprised, but she was disappointed. There were many in her lifetime that had wished to end her existence, after all. The hunt was always the same, in the end, with the same players.
They would die. Or they would move on to more “interesting sport.”
And nothing would be learned.
Anisse looked upon the bloody mess of the felguard’s face, and sighed, finally banishing the demon completely. This one would take time to be broken, and she was unsatisfied with her lack of focus during the breaking. Tying the demon’s torn eye-stalks together, she looked over the horizon. The sun had disappeared, and a chilled wind took over the sun scorched plains. She winced as she began to feel the sting of the gouging marks in her side, taken from the hulking boar. At least she was calm--the demon hadn’t gotten to her. She looked down at the pair of demonic eyeballs and smiled, wiggling them in her fingers, considering. It wasn’t a terrible day, and she had enough gold for a good bed.
The jars within her satchel clinked together as she limped, slowly, back to a place she could heal. The distinct, large eyeballs were left hanging off the branch of a dead tree.
And she cared not who found them first.
Nearly sundown over Westfall’s dry fields, and a scream broke out over the wheat-colored grass. Dust clouds swirled as the oversized boar tore at the grass with its rough hooves, squealing in high-pitched fever in dumb, unexplainable agony. The torment only ended when the axe blade cleaved through its head, halving the small brain it contained. Twitching its last upon the grass, the demon spat upon the lesser creature, towering formidably over the corpse…and its mistress.
“It is done, weakling.” The felguard muttered out disdainfully to the petite human. No doubt he thought of doing the same to her as he had done to the pig. Instead, his eyes dropped to the gouge wounds in her side. “How pitiful you are. This beast’s tusks can hardly scratch my own body, and you limp like a diseased flesh bag.” The demon sneered, his thick fingers curling around his axe tightly. “Allow me to help put you out of your misery.”
Anisse kept her scathing gaze on the demon. Of the imp and the void walker, she hated this new one the most, some queer embodiment of unfathomable rage and violence. They seemed to exist to test her reign over her own emotion, to tempt it out, and lose control. The imp was a coward, but a greedy coward, and more than once had the thing argued its own sense into her. The void walker simply made her hate the world. Perhaps more than the Twilight Hammer could have--it made her hate herself, her own actions.
But this creature, this muscle-bound demonic lout: it was the worst of them all.
It could look down on her, where its belittling words would make the most impact.
Anisse sauntered up to the demon, paying no mind to the wounds in her side, and the felguard locked eyes with her, this young mortal girl who would not be intimidated. Her small, slender hands pressed upon the metal of his axe head as it trembled with a violent desire to use. It could destroy her. Violate her small body and then rip it to shreds, add color to this bleak world with her entrails.
But the felguard would not dare move, staring into those cold, amber eyes.
“I have already taken your heart once, demon,” Anisse said very plainly. “How did it feel, waiting in agony for the magics of your world to repair what I did to you?” The warlock pressed up onto her toes, her slender hand lain upon the area where his small, beating heart pumped beneath. Her lips whispered with intention, soft, and biting with truth.
“I will gladly do it again before banishing you to the Netherworld, if you do not remain silent.”
The felguard’s eyes gleamed an enraged red, unphased by the threat. “Shove it up your hole, miserable little bi--”
The demon found it hard to speak his words with his lips sliced off. Shocked by the pain, the demon dropped its axe as a six-inch scalpel was driven through it’s eyeball, and pulled back out. The bloody eye now sat upon Anisse’s blade like a pickled, large olive. She whispered in demonic quickly as the felguard toppled to its knees, groaning in agony, and the hulking lump went stiff as the spell took hold. It sat, all of it’s body phased out of existence…except for its head. Raging in tongues unknown to its mistress, Anisse came closer, slowly pulling the impaled eyeball off of her renewed scalpel.
The thing just had to spoil her good mood, didn’t it? Winter’s Veil had not been too disappointing. She’d been lead to a butcher shop teeming with jars of gifts, and then let down with a written threat. Her benefactor was a confusing one, to be certain. The scalpel tasted more and more demonic face flesh as she thought on this, deaf to the felguard’s snarling screams. Is that what this little “game” boiled down to? A hunt? A promise to end her life? She sighed, prying the other eyeball out of the demon’s face, and slipping it onto her scalpel as well. She could not really say she was surprised, but she was disappointed. There were many in her lifetime that had wished to end her existence, after all. The hunt was always the same, in the end, with the same players.
They would die. Or they would move on to more “interesting sport.”
And nothing would be learned.
Anisse looked upon the bloody mess of the felguard’s face, and sighed, finally banishing the demon completely. This one would take time to be broken, and she was unsatisfied with her lack of focus during the breaking. Tying the demon’s torn eye-stalks together, she looked over the horizon. The sun had disappeared, and a chilled wind took over the sun scorched plains. She winced as she began to feel the sting of the gouging marks in her side, taken from the hulking boar. At least she was calm--the demon hadn’t gotten to her. She looked down at the pair of demonic eyeballs and smiled, wiggling them in her fingers, considering. It wasn’t a terrible day, and she had enough gold for a good bed.
The jars within her satchel clinked together as she limped, slowly, back to a place she could heal. The distinct, large eyeballs were left hanging off the branch of a dead tree.
And she cared not who found them first.
A Patron of the Lamb #21
The Defias Hideout had seen fewer newcomers throughout the day than it was used to, and that was clearly because of the bloody mess left just a few feet in front of the mine’s entrance. Someone was in a celebratory mood and eager to share the season’s spirit, from the look of the barren tree, now laced with bright décor.
Unfortunately, no one was as eager to admire the work that had been put into it.
The fleshy garlands had been dried out by now under the harsh sun, and already were attracting Fleshrippers overhead, giving the homeless and the vagrant even less reason to approach the mines. The three under the tree, nameless “gifters”, were seated, bound to the sun-bleached trunk. No one would miss the three--the Decorator had made sure of that, but an almost loving attention was spent in hanging their innards all over the barren branches in grosteque display.
And, ohh, at the top, did the bundle of hearts shine. How the Decorator would be displeased to see the carrion bird try to lift off with the bundle, tearing chunks out of the fleshy “star”. Yet, like many of her new neighbors, Anisse had become homeless, for even Jarel didn’t have the gold to keep from charging her for room and board at the Slaughtered Lamb. She most certainly wasn’t going to pay for a corner of burnt up commodities in the cellars, so home, at least for now, was deep in the mines, shared with numerous other unwanted.
Despite her lot in life, Anisse was in good spirits, even with the news that she might be replaced as a waitress. Perhaps later she could concentrate on life’s little irritations, but these offerings had meaning, and she was proud that the kills did not go wasted. What was more, was that she’d been gifted another heart! In the mail, no less! She eyed the basilisk heart inside of its jar and smiled dotingly upon it in the weak light of her corner. Dried out, but whole. Greatfather Winter worked in mysterious ways.
And of course, somewhere in the burnt surgeon’s bag was the other jar, housing the other gifted heart…the other that urged a response from her.
Anisse never imagined she’d grow so excited at the thought of someone appreciating her work, but she was, and she hoped with all of her being that her Winter’s Veil tree would be appreciated too.
If the birds didn’t “appreciate” it completely first.
Unfortunately, no one was as eager to admire the work that had been put into it.
The fleshy garlands had been dried out by now under the harsh sun, and already were attracting Fleshrippers overhead, giving the homeless and the vagrant even less reason to approach the mines. The three under the tree, nameless “gifters”, were seated, bound to the sun-bleached trunk. No one would miss the three--the Decorator had made sure of that, but an almost loving attention was spent in hanging their innards all over the barren branches in grosteque display.
And, ohh, at the top, did the bundle of hearts shine. How the Decorator would be displeased to see the carrion bird try to lift off with the bundle, tearing chunks out of the fleshy “star”. Yet, like many of her new neighbors, Anisse had become homeless, for even Jarel didn’t have the gold to keep from charging her for room and board at the Slaughtered Lamb. She most certainly wasn’t going to pay for a corner of burnt up commodities in the cellars, so home, at least for now, was deep in the mines, shared with numerous other unwanted.
Despite her lot in life, Anisse was in good spirits, even with the news that she might be replaced as a waitress. Perhaps later she could concentrate on life’s little irritations, but these offerings had meaning, and she was proud that the kills did not go wasted. What was more, was that she’d been gifted another heart! In the mail, no less! She eyed the basilisk heart inside of its jar and smiled dotingly upon it in the weak light of her corner. Dried out, but whole. Greatfather Winter worked in mysterious ways.
And of course, somewhere in the burnt surgeon’s bag was the other jar, housing the other gifted heart…the other that urged a response from her.
Anisse never imagined she’d grow so excited at the thought of someone appreciating her work, but she was, and she hoped with all of her being that her Winter’s Veil tree would be appreciated too.
If the birds didn’t “appreciate” it completely first.
A Patron of the Lamb #20
It was the worst day ever recorded in the definition of “worst days” for the barmaid of the Slaughtered Lamb. Particularly horrible days seemed to visit upon Anisse regularly, and whether this was because of her habitual disagreeable nature toward the world and its people, or just plain bad luck, it just couldn’t be decided. Perhaps, in fact, it was a combination of the two blended together, but the day had grown to its crescendo in things that could go wrong.
The tattered remains of her bed hung in ashy strings against the metal bed frame, the mattress having burnt down to wiry metal coils. Still, she managed to lay sprawled upon the uncomfortable frame, feeling the coils dent in to her back. She sighed, trying to find sleep. Of course she could not. Everything was in ruin around her. The crates that once served as walls to her parlor room were in disarray, some outright smashed in her efforts to put out the fire that had overtaken her home. The chest that contained her treasures still sat, askew of its usual spot, the kept hearts having been boiled in their own chemical concoctions because of the disaster. The rank odor of burning flesh could not be rid of, even with the lid closed. It hurt to see her precious work undone, and despite it all, she could not stop staring at the mahogany chest now burnt black.
What tore at her mind the most was that she could not remember how the fire started.
In fact, her head would begin to burn at the slightest will to try to remember what had happened before the moment she’d waken up to see the Captain’s face above her, trying to haul her out of the Slaughtered Lamb’s cellar lest she burn as well. She would have scalded her hands gladly in order to save the treasure chest if Captain Wolf had let her, but like most wolves, he had been irritatingly stubborn and had a grip that would let go for nothing. Despite her weariness, she again tried to put her thoughts together, piecing the events in the order that they happened over the course of the terrible day.
Anisse groaned at the thought of the obscenely large man that payed off Jarel to take her fishing in Lakeshire earlier in the day, and she let go of his name as easily as she had avoided his hidden intentions. What did stick was the incessant feeling of being drenched in water, long after she’d fallen in the lake. There were the violent wolf-men that had completely wrecked the jovial bartender’s mood with their idiotic fighting. At least the chunk of wood torn out of the doorway had been appropriately reimbursed, which was more than Anisse could say for her parlor room. It would take time, gold, and possibly a few gently used furniture pieces for the space to feel like home again.
The coils of the ruined mattress creaked as she turned on her side, trying to ignore the pain of their digging into her body. Had she burned down the room? And why? The Captain certainly thought that’s what had happened, and a sour backtaste developed at the back of her throat as she began to see it as the only explanation. She hadn’t known what she was thinking, dragging him with her in order to restock the Lamb’s supply of meat, but the little animals of the forest provided little comfort with their offering, their hearts meager contributions to the beginnings of her collection. Her gaze slid up to the ruined vanity, where the iced container sat, housing the fresh organs. A sigh, and she rose off the remains of the bed, the buzzing, stinging pain of her head denying her sleep.
There were new jars to be filled, after all.
Jarel’s voice sounded as if it were slow, and muddled, calling to her from underwater, his nags lost to her in her lack of sleep as she climbed up to the tavern. There was only one concern she had at the moment, and answering his questions was not one of them. Perhaps the matter of the cellar could be explained later. A wayward candle, or a misfired spell by one of the neonate warlocks….there were many excuses to use. It was near daylight, the dark skies over Stormwind already touched with yellows at the horizon.
Her feet were walking of their own volition, restless, though her mind had not made up where to go. The soft boots she wore were drawing her eyes, hardly making a sound through the even softer grass. Not that she was trying to be sneaky--she was not exactly skilled at such things, but the simplicity of the fact that she could walk so quietly was admittedly, surprising. When she finally pulled herself out of those idle thoughts, she’d realized she was walking around the entire perimeter of the Mage Quarter, around and around. How many circuits had she made until just now?
Shaking her mind free of her dazed fog, Anisse stopped herself right before the Blue Recluse tavern, considering walking in to look at their own menu, in realization that she’d never done so before. Her gaze swept over the dining tables decorating the entrance of the tavern, and then her feet came to a stop as she noticed a figure sitting on one of the chairs, his features shadowed by the overhanging trees. He was staring at her. She knew it. Wordless, but staring at her expectantly, as so many patrons of the Lamb would do. As if she were to know what drink was wanted, what meal he wanted, that demeaning stare that questioned her faculties and her dependability as a waitress.
It was driving her mad.
“Stop looking at me like that! I don’t even work here…!” she growled out in a whisper, coming around the ramp to confront the figure. He had already been served by the look of things, even! “….stop staring at me…”
The corpse had no eyes to stare at her with.
Anisse grew unnervingly quiet when she realized his eyeballs were actually impaled upon an exposed rib, the torso opened down to the pelvis. It was an immaculately clean corpse, drained of blood, and relieved of all its inner organs. The sightless head hung low upon the chest, not staring as she thought it had been. Not at her, at least.
It seemed to be staring at the heart within its own cavity, only hanging by a thread of viscera.
Just as she thought she was hallucinating, her eyes connected to the serving plate before the seated body. There lay the rest of his organs, artfully poised to deliver a message:
YOUR TURN
A shiver ran up her spine of both dread and excitement, her fingers trembling with anticipation as she reached for the hanging heart and plucked it like fruit from a tree. Somehow, she knew this was all for her.
Someone was waiting for her to play.
The tattered remains of her bed hung in ashy strings against the metal bed frame, the mattress having burnt down to wiry metal coils. Still, she managed to lay sprawled upon the uncomfortable frame, feeling the coils dent in to her back. She sighed, trying to find sleep. Of course she could not. Everything was in ruin around her. The crates that once served as walls to her parlor room were in disarray, some outright smashed in her efforts to put out the fire that had overtaken her home. The chest that contained her treasures still sat, askew of its usual spot, the kept hearts having been boiled in their own chemical concoctions because of the disaster. The rank odor of burning flesh could not be rid of, even with the lid closed. It hurt to see her precious work undone, and despite it all, she could not stop staring at the mahogany chest now burnt black.
What tore at her mind the most was that she could not remember how the fire started.
In fact, her head would begin to burn at the slightest will to try to remember what had happened before the moment she’d waken up to see the Captain’s face above her, trying to haul her out of the Slaughtered Lamb’s cellar lest she burn as well. She would have scalded her hands gladly in order to save the treasure chest if Captain Wolf had let her, but like most wolves, he had been irritatingly stubborn and had a grip that would let go for nothing. Despite her weariness, she again tried to put her thoughts together, piecing the events in the order that they happened over the course of the terrible day.
Anisse groaned at the thought of the obscenely large man that payed off Jarel to take her fishing in Lakeshire earlier in the day, and she let go of his name as easily as she had avoided his hidden intentions. What did stick was the incessant feeling of being drenched in water, long after she’d fallen in the lake. There were the violent wolf-men that had completely wrecked the jovial bartender’s mood with their idiotic fighting. At least the chunk of wood torn out of the doorway had been appropriately reimbursed, which was more than Anisse could say for her parlor room. It would take time, gold, and possibly a few gently used furniture pieces for the space to feel like home again.
The coils of the ruined mattress creaked as she turned on her side, trying to ignore the pain of their digging into her body. Had she burned down the room? And why? The Captain certainly thought that’s what had happened, and a sour backtaste developed at the back of her throat as she began to see it as the only explanation. She hadn’t known what she was thinking, dragging him with her in order to restock the Lamb’s supply of meat, but the little animals of the forest provided little comfort with their offering, their hearts meager contributions to the beginnings of her collection. Her gaze slid up to the ruined vanity, where the iced container sat, housing the fresh organs. A sigh, and she rose off the remains of the bed, the buzzing, stinging pain of her head denying her sleep.
There were new jars to be filled, after all.
Jarel’s voice sounded as if it were slow, and muddled, calling to her from underwater, his nags lost to her in her lack of sleep as she climbed up to the tavern. There was only one concern she had at the moment, and answering his questions was not one of them. Perhaps the matter of the cellar could be explained later. A wayward candle, or a misfired spell by one of the neonate warlocks….there were many excuses to use. It was near daylight, the dark skies over Stormwind already touched with yellows at the horizon.
Her feet were walking of their own volition, restless, though her mind had not made up where to go. The soft boots she wore were drawing her eyes, hardly making a sound through the even softer grass. Not that she was trying to be sneaky--she was not exactly skilled at such things, but the simplicity of the fact that she could walk so quietly was admittedly, surprising. When she finally pulled herself out of those idle thoughts, she’d realized she was walking around the entire perimeter of the Mage Quarter, around and around. How many circuits had she made until just now?
Shaking her mind free of her dazed fog, Anisse stopped herself right before the Blue Recluse tavern, considering walking in to look at their own menu, in realization that she’d never done so before. Her gaze swept over the dining tables decorating the entrance of the tavern, and then her feet came to a stop as she noticed a figure sitting on one of the chairs, his features shadowed by the overhanging trees. He was staring at her. She knew it. Wordless, but staring at her expectantly, as so many patrons of the Lamb would do. As if she were to know what drink was wanted, what meal he wanted, that demeaning stare that questioned her faculties and her dependability as a waitress.
It was driving her mad.
“Stop looking at me like that! I don’t even work here…!” she growled out in a whisper, coming around the ramp to confront the figure. He had already been served by the look of things, even! “….stop staring at me…”
The corpse had no eyes to stare at her with.
Anisse grew unnervingly quiet when she realized his eyeballs were actually impaled upon an exposed rib, the torso opened down to the pelvis. It was an immaculately clean corpse, drained of blood, and relieved of all its inner organs. The sightless head hung low upon the chest, not staring as she thought it had been. Not at her, at least.
It seemed to be staring at the heart within its own cavity, only hanging by a thread of viscera.
Just as she thought she was hallucinating, her eyes connected to the serving plate before the seated body. There lay the rest of his organs, artfully poised to deliver a message:
YOUR TURN
A shiver ran up her spine of both dread and excitement, her fingers trembling with anticipation as she reached for the hanging heart and plucked it like fruit from a tree. Somehow, she knew this was all for her.
Someone was waiting for her to play.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)