W is for Wretched

((The first bit is a tribute to a real Mana Tombs group I had earlier.))

He climbed up the mile or so of steps, a stiff dry breeze from nearby Terokkar brushing across his cheek.  He took one look around before entering the ruins.  He already knew this was a bad, bad idea, but the small group of adventurers following behind him trusted him to lead them.  And so he and four others crept down the dark hallway leading to the mana tombs.  He held up a fist to stop them and leaned around the last corner.  The brilliance was dazzling.

All sorts of Nexus stalkers and elementals patrolled the hallway. Veins of what looked like pure mana pipelines lined the walls, glowing enticingly.  Saviero took a deep breath and pressed up against the wall, naked sword clenched tightly in his gloved hand. Inside the padded plate, his fingers were sweaty.

Footsteps approaching.

His clenched fist barely quivered as he waited for the moment. He would know when to ambush the patrol.  One of the trolls behind him snorted in anticipation. He shot him a look that said, "Don't move in until my command."

The troll's eyes were bloodshot; he had obviously been smoking something earlier. His thick trio of fingers clenched and unclenched once, the only clue that he was about to unleash a spell. With a roar, he ran ahead of the group, straight for the patrol. They were startled into immediate movement and charged at him, glowing fists pummeling his robed form into a semi-daze.

Saviero muttered an expletive under his breath and charged in, swinging his left arm back and hurling his shield towards the pair of nexus stalkers. The heavy metal shield struck one of them in what might have been considered the throat, causing it to reel in shock. He swung his sword at the other attacking stalker's legs.  Sharp metal sliced through rags but no flesh; he expected more resistance and it threw him off balance, but he stepped forward on his left foot to regain it, and ducked a returning blow from the attacking duo.

He didn't have time to shout "Attack!" before the others were upon the enemies in a cacophany of hooves and booted feet. The fight ended shortly as the skilled group dispached the two stalkers. Saviero stood over their corpses, regaining his breath but his chest heaved with anger more than anything. He thrust his sword into the sheath at his hip and turned on the troll.

"What the hell was that? Since when do you rush in before the tank? I make the decisions here!" Saviero snarled, grabbed a fistful of cloth at the troll's throat even though the hunched mage stood a good foot above him. The troll's bloodshot eyes betrayed a look of rebellion as he spat at Saviero's feet.

"Hands off, mon. I do dat all de time," he growled in baritone.

"Do it again and you're fucking gone, you hear me?  I make the calls. I lead, you follow." Saviero glared into the troll's red eyes until he made sure the mage understood, then loosened his grip and roughly beckoned the others.

"Move out," he ordered, equipping his sword and shield again and stomping down the hallway.

They had been fighting for a good half hour and managed to clear most of the tomb. Sweat stung Saviero's eyes and obscured his vision. "Break time," he said, and removed his gloves to rub his hands over his eyes. He looked around the cavernous room once he was able to see; strange devices powered by magic, ethereal rifts that looked like volcanic plumes, pumping ether into the air. A nagging thought whispered in the back of his mind that he could possibly gather some for later, somehow. Maybe he could find where these guys kept all their stores of potions, or mana gems. Find out how they gathered and used these strange substances. But that was knowledge the Consortium was after, and he was just a paid lackey.

His boot scuffed against something hard and metallic buried underneath a pile of trash. He nudged the object with his boot and as the rags and assorted garbage fell away, he noticed a faint purple glow coming from the object. Bending over, he reached out for it. Upon his fingertips contacting the well-made hilt, a sudden electric jolt went through him and a feeling of warmth followed. He drew back his hand and looked at his fingers to make sure they were uninjured.

They were fine. Odd.

He pulled the blade from the refuse and held it up to examine it. A wickedly curved blade, made of some smooth metal and exceptionally light. He tested the weight; balanced pretty nicely. The metal glowed, but he wasn't certain why. All he knew was he felt comfortable holding it. Meanwhile, something inside him stirred to life.

He should have left it alone.

During the course of the expedition, he felt the craving become an urge within him. And the second and third tombs the group plundered nurtured the urge into a compulsion. He had to have mana. It was all around him.  No. Don't touch it.

I know what I am becoming. I shouldn't have come in here.

Yes, I should. I don't even have to share. I can come back when no one is here.

No! I will not give in!

His hands shook, betraying the inner debate that was taking place inside him.  One of his companions noticed. When they were finally done, he could barely hold his sword steady as his hands and arms shook, weakened by the continual resistance he was putting up against the mana. He refused to absorb it. The mana fumes danced around his nose and crept into his nostrils without his knowledge. When he looked down, he noticed he was standing on a small rift.

"Damn it," he muttered, feeling light-headed. This whole place was mana infused. There was no way he could take any more of this! "I need to get outta here. Now," he said, clutching his hearthstone and saying his goodbyes.

That was twelve hours ago.